Heart of the Outback

by Lynne Wilding

  “What about Francey Spinetti, Steve? Will you bring her in for questioning?”

  Damn it, he didn’t have a choice and he knew it. “I guess we’d better,” he said, somehow disguising his reluctance. “Erin, ring Murrundi and arrange it. CJ may insist on her having legal representation for the interview.”

  “Do you want me to collect her?”

  “Yes. As soon as possible.”

  “What’s this all about, Steve?” Francey, dressed in blue jeans, a pink angora sweater and an accompanying frown which marred the smoothness of her forehead, asked as she sat on the proffered chair opposite him.

  Steve shrugged to hide his nervousness. He also noted that Francey, in her typical upfront manner, had declined the opportunity to have a solicitor present. Maybe that wasn’t smart. “Are you sure you don’t want a brief here to advise you?”

  Her eyebrows shot upwards. “Why? Will I need one?”

  “Francey, this is an official investigation into Natalie deWitt-Ambrose’s homicide,” he said formally. “Recent investigation has lead me to believe you may have had some involvement.” He stared at Erin who had just turned the video camera on. “Constable, read Miss Spinetti her rights.”

  Francey’s gaze jumped from Steve to Erin as the young woman read the official sounding words. What was going on? Steve looked so … uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here, opposite her. And Natalie’s death? The mental query rushed through her, why did they think she knew anything about it? It was very confusing. Still, exposure over the last twenty months to CJ’s tactics had taught her the value of playing things cool, and about timing. She would wait, see which way this interview went before hitting the panic button. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to. Even so, she was nervous, she couldn’t help it and the inside of her mouth was going dry, her blue-green eyes unconsciously widening in anticipation.

  “We have evidence that a struggle took place before Natalie’s death. There was bruising on her body, her clothes were torn. She obviously put up a fight.”

  Francey didn’t like the mental picture she got — Natalie fighting her attacker then being overcome. It was too horrible to think about. Then another thought struck her. “Are you accusing me of murdering Natalie?”

  “I want you to explain a few things, that’s all.” His tone was stern, uncompromising. He hated himself for it but he had to be that way, especially with the eager Erin watching both himself and Francey. He couldn’t be seen to play favourites.

  Seconds ticked by into a minute with Francey’s thoughts in a whirl. Steve thought she’d killed Natalie — that was plainly evident. Though not versed in legal matters she had enough commonsense to realise that she was set to benefit most from Natalie’s death and therefore, logically that made her the prime suspect.

  “Did you see Natalie the night of the murder?”

  Francey’s dark tresses shook emphatically. “No.”

  “When was the last time you saw her alive?”

  His brusqueness flustered her, made it hard to think straight. When had she seen her last? “Perhaps some time that day, probably at lunch.”

  “Miss Spinetti,” Erin spoke for the first time. “We have a witness who says that you and the deceased argued the night before she died. Do you deny that you threatened Miss deWitt-Ambrose?”

  Francey turned puzzled eyes on the young woman. “Threatened her? I don’t know, I don’t recall anything …”

  Erin flipped open her notebook. “On the third of September Mrs Kirkby claimed that you and Miss deWitt-Ambrose argued. You accused her of initiating a defamatory article about you in New Idea. You said, quote: ‘Don’t think this is finished yet, Natalie. There’ll be another time, another place’. Did you utter such a statement, Miss Spinetti?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.” Francey’s mind harked back to the fight she and Natalie had had in the conservatory. Had she threatened her? She smiled nervously at Steve. “We did row. It got rather heated. Natalie tried to scratch me.”

  “So you admit to the argument?” Erin pressed.

  Francey frowned, then stared at the woman. “Yes, haven’t I just said so?” Her gaze darted to Steve. “Is that a problem?”

  Steve shuffled about in his chair. “I have to tell you, Francey, it doesn’t look good. From a legal point of view you had opportunity, means and motive.”

  “But I…” She shook her head. “Explain what you mean, I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Opportunity. You were at a Murrundi so you had access to Natalie either in her bedroom or elsewhere. Means. We know about your prowess in karate, we checked it out. It’s conceivable that someone with such skills may have been able to overpower Natalie — stun her then strangle her. Motive. You argued with Natalie before her death. You were heard to threaten her and you would gain the most from her death,” Steve said.

  “Gain, how would I gain?” She asked the question even though she knew what his answer would be.

  “By inheriting CJ Ambrose’s entire estate. Some might consider that alone a powerful motive for murder. As well, you have no corroborating alibi for the night of the murder. You said you were working alone in your office on some plans for CJ, but you can’t conclusively prove it, can you?”

  Francey couldn’t believe she had heard him right. Steve thought she had killed Natalie, he had all but said it out loud. How could he think such a thing? That she could be capable of killing anyone. What had happened to the love, the trust they’d once shared? She looked at him surreptitiously and saw the real Steve Parrish for the first time. He was a cold, calculating policeman doing his job to the best of his ability. Oh, yes, and he was able. More than able. Inside she felt crushed, vulnerable, all her emotions laid bare by his accusations. She wanted to crawl away somewhere and hide. Lick her wounds, regroup her thoughts, devise a defence. Later, much later, would come anger and outrage.

  “I see,” Francey murmured slowly. She was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then, her chin lifting and with her normally tanned skin paling, she asked, “Am I under arrest?”

  Steve had enough to hold her and he knew that she knew it but a sense of reluctance surfaced and stopped him from saying yes. The last thing he wanted to do was to arrest Francey for Natalie’s murder. For one thing, in his heart and despite the evidence, he didn’t believe she’d done it. As well, he could imagine CJ’s wrath: it would be extreme and ferocious. He’d hire the best solicitor in the state, in the country for that matter. The press would have a field day too. There would be a bloody three-ring circus so if he could avoid that for a while he considered himself duty-bound to do so.

  “No. However, I formally advise you to seek legal representation. I’ll make our evidence available to your solicitor on demand. Constable Cooper will escort you back to Murrundi where you will hand over your passport to her for safekeeping with the police department. Also, until advised otherwise you are not to travel outside the state of Queensland. Do you understand everything I’ve said?”

  “Yes.” She was too stunned to say more, to question, to argue. Steve’s formality and the sudden realisation of the seriousness of the matter hit her like the proverbial sledgehammer, defusing her normally volatile nature and sense of fair play.

  “But…” Erin looked at her superior as if he’d gone crazy. “Are you sure, Sergeant?”

  Steve stared back at her, one eyebrow raised. “Are you questioning my judgement, Constable?”

  Erin backed down. “No, sir.”

  Inside, deep inside, Francey felt numb. Thankfully, the young policewoman didn’t bother with polite conversation as they drove back to Murrundi and left her with her thoughts. She was a murder suspect. The prime suspect! Oh, God … maybe this was a dream and sometime soon she would wake up. But no, she knew it wasn’t a dream, Steve’s interrogation had been chillingly real. His aloofness, his cool professionalism had been real too. That hurt more than the accusations.

  In the privacy of her bedroom she sat on the bed, folded h
er hands in her lap and closed her eyes. Natalie, you bitch, wherever you are I bet you’re laughing. As she had listened to Steve explain the legal reasoning back at the station all the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. They thought they had the evidence and, in black and white, she appeared to be as guilty as hell. All neat and tidy, according to Steve and the young constable. But … she hadn’t done it. How many times had she said so? But it didn’t seem to matter, her word meant nothing, not even to Steve.

  She didn’t know which made her feel worse: that they thought she’d killed Natalie or Steve being so good at his job that he’d done his utmost to prove her guilt. That hurt, more than she could bear. She still loved him and that hurt too, even though she’d acknowledged that the feeling was a wasted emotion. If he’d cared for her at all, he’d have tried harder to find the real guilty person rather than happily wanting to pin it on her.

  Damn. What was she going to do?

  Steve Parrish sat on the front verandah of his home in the darkness, a glass of whisky in one hand, the half empty bottle at his feet.

  Inside there was this empty chasm, he felt drained of everything other than a sense of guilt and hopelessness. Usually, when he trailed a criminal, a killer, a burglar, anyone who’d broken the law, he’d feel exultation as he closed in for the arrest. His team had done a good job on all the suspects. He’d forced himself to congratulate each of them for their efforts. He shook his head remembering young Erin’s expression as he’d said Francey could go. She’d probably had to bite her tongue not to argue the point with him.

  He closed his eyes and the vision of Francey’s strained, white face drifted into view. The way she’d looked at him before she’d walked out the door — like he was the lowest thing on two legs. God Almighty, that’s how he felt right now — lower than a snake’s belly.

  It was no comfort at all that he’d just been doing his job. He wouldn’t get too many thanks from the local people either. Francey Spinetti had become popular around the Isa and what could he expect from CJ? Most likely an all-out war!

  Steve downed the rest of the whisky and poured another. A good night to get quietly, profoundly drunk. As he sloshed some whisky onto the floorboards he knew he was already halfway there. Great!

  Distantly, he heard the phone ring. His massive shoulders shrugged and he muttered into the darkness. “Whoever you are, piss off.”

  The phone kept ringing. Every ten minutes it rang for about a minute then stopped. Eventually the repeated calls began annoying him so much that he stomped inside and snatched the receiver the next time it rang.

  “Parrish? CJ.”

  “I’m off-duty, CJ,” Steve slurred.

  “Yeah, that’s what they told me at the station,” CJ’s voice thundered down the line. “Look, get your backside out to Murrundi first thing tomorrow morning, and bring another officer with you.”

  Steve scratched his head and tried to concentrate. “Why?”

  “Just bloody well do it. First thing. Right?”

  CJ’s receiver crunched down and the sound jarred his eardrums enough to make Steve utter an expletive, “Shit.” The old man had a flea in his ear about something. Of course! Francey had no doubt told him of her interview at the station.

  A crushing wave of sadness worked its way through his limbs into every region of his heart and then his body and soul. Jesus, where’d he left the bottle?

  CJ Ambrose sat bolt upright, propped up by five pillows that the nurse fussed over in an attempt to make him more comfortable. He hated being dependent on others, hated it to the depths of his being but circumstances had decreed that he employ a round-the-clock crew of specialist nurses to care for him. Until a week ago the women at Murrundi — Shellie, Alison Wontow, Lisa and Francey — had taken turns at nursing duties. The experience of caring for someone terminally ill had taken its toll on them, especially Francey and Shellie. On the day his legs gave up on him completely and his eyesight got so bad he couldn’t read anything he’d deemed it time to call in the professionals.

  An oxygen machine, a medication tray on his bedside table and other equipment about which he knew or understood little made his masculine bedroom resemble a pseudo hospital room. He clucked his tongue in disgust at what he’d been reduced to.

  “That’ll do, Rose,” he bit back the gruffness, “I’m fine.”

  “How are you feeling? Do you need some medication?”

  “It’s bearable. No thanks.” Whatever Barry Ryan had prescribed for him either made him woozy or knocked him right out. He expected Steve Parrish soon and he knew that he’d need all his faculties working at their best for what he proposed to tell him.

  “I’ll go get a cuppa then. Buzz me if you need anything.” After a final assessment of her patient, Rose Welling, the morning nurse left the room.

  CJ let out a sigh. Peace. The fussing drove him almost as crazy as the tumour which was slowly causing a deterioration of his body and mind. And lately, as well as everything else, he’d begun to forget things, important things. He knew she and Pearl and Marta were only doing their jobs, and being paid handsomely for it too, but sometimes it became a bit too much.

  He leant his head back against the linen pillowslip and peered blurrily at the bedside clock as he closed his eyes. Parrish should be here soon, until then he had some time to think …

  CJ studied the policeman who stood at the end of the bed watching him. He reckoned he’d come to know Parrish reasonably well over the past twelve months or so. With his inclination to analyse he thought he knew what made the man tick, what he’d accept, what he wouldn’t. Knew too that Steve had fallen head over heels in love with his daughter and had walked away from the relationship because he couldn’t handle the idea that one day Francey would be a multimillionairess. Damn fool. He was straight as a die though and whip smart in every other way, and before his race was run he hoped he’d see the light about Francey too — that they were meant for each other. CJ’d fought the idea at first but now he knew it to be right for both of them.

  The other policeman, Neil Smith, obviously uncomfortable, tried to look inconspicuous as he stood like a sentinel just inside the bedroom door.

  “Take a seat, Steve.” CJ pointed to a straight — backed chair near the bed.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine standing, CJ.”

  CJ frowned furiously at the younger man. “Take the bloody chair, will you. I don’t like you towering over me.”

  Steve shrugged and the movement woke up his hangover headache. He groaned silently as the erratic throbbing began around his temples. Moving the chair close to the bed he sat and waited. CJ had summoned him and the way he felt he had no inclination to indulge in polite conversation, even with a dying man.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I asked you to drop by?”

  “I’m sure you’ll get around to telling me,” Steve replied. He had a fair idea that it had something to do with Francey’s interview at the station. He wasn’t looking forward to being the recipient of CJ’s ire.

  “Okay.” CJ took a deep breath and his gaze locked onto Steve’s. “I wanted you here because … I’ve a confession to make regarding my stepdaughter, Natalie …”

  The way CJ said the words made Steve focus his attention on the older man. What was he getting at? A confession. What kind of confession?

  CJ took a deep breath. “You see, I killed her. I’m the one you’re looking for.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Steve jerked to an upright position in the chair. “What? Say that again?”

  “I murdered Natalie. The rotten little bitch killed my son. I found out about it and I wanted to make her pay, the same way Richard paid — with his life.”

  Steve glanced at Neil and indicated that he should take notes on what was being said. “You sure you know what you’re saying, CJ? What you’re admitting to?”

  “You mean do I have all my faculties because of this tumour growing inside my brain? Hell yes. I might be dying but I’m not non co
mpos mentis, yet. I know what I’m saying, know what I’m confessing to and, no, I don’t want a lawyer. Not yet.”

  Steve made a low whistling sound through his teeth and leant forward. “Tell me what happened? All of it.”

  “All of it…” CJ lay back against the pillows and wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “Well, it started when I overheard Natalie on the phone in her bedroom — she’d left the door slightly ajar — talking to someone, probably that Trish Pentano. She said she had to get rid of Francey because she threatened her inheritance and that it wouldn’t be hard … like it hadn’t been difficult to get rid of Richard. That’s when it hit me. It was her. She had fired the shots and caused the stampede. I’m not sure why, I guess we’ll never know for sure, but maybe she resented the fact that not long after my wife’s death, I rewrote my will leaving the bulk of my estate to Richard. I organised a trust fund, a generous one, for Natalie — she’d be comfortable for the rest of her life.”

  CJ shrugged his shoulders. “Obviously Natalie didn’t think I was going to leave her enough. She secretly resented the will and decided she wanted all of it. To get it,” his voice caught emotionally, “she had to get rid of my boy. You know, she could easily have ridden out unnoticed and returned looking as if she’d just come from her routine early morning ride. She knew where they’d be camping too because she’s familiar with the stock routes. The scheming, rotten bitch. I got so angry. I wanted to go in and confront her straightaway, but I didn’t. I needed time to think about it.”

  He gave Steve a meaningful look. “God, you’ve no idea how hard it was to be civil to her once I knew what she’d done. After her death your finding the rifle and her fingerprints on it confirmed to me that she’d been responsible for Richard’s death.