Heart of the Outback

by Lynne Wilding

  Over lunch, CJ growled to Francey and Les, “Well, what do you two think? Can we get it all together within a three and a half year time frame?”

  “No way,” Les shook his head.

  “If you can compromise to four, it might be possible, and in a way Nikko’s plan has several good points. The return on the investment would come in earlier, which would lessen our borrowing costs,” Francey offered.

  “Damn Nikko, always wanting things his way. There are other backers I could approach …” CJ muttered, thoroughly disgruntled.

  “Why?” Francey queried, “You’ve put the hard yards in with Yakismoto. I don’t think he’s being unreasonable. Let me have twenty minutes before we reconvene to do some more calculations.”

  “Okay, go for it, girl.”

  Francey let the hot shower wash the travails of the day away. It had taken until 6 p.m. that day to finalise the building schedule, get the contract signed and confirm borrowing details and an approximate starting date, depending on council approval and environmental studies being satisfactorily completed.

  She smiled as she towelled herself dry. Goodness knows what the outcome might have been had she not been there. CJ had been his usual hard-headed self, wanting his own way, initially unwilling to see the positive side of Yakismoto’s plan. Her and Les’ commonsense approach and preparedness to compromise had saved the day, and possibly the project.

  She had watched CJ’s rage bubble and boil within as Nikko tried to exert control over the proceedings, which made her wonder why CJ bothered to do business with someone who obviously irked him. She knew her employer had enough business clout to attract any number of investors to such a project. In the end she guessed CJ chose Nikko despite the negatives between them because of his extraordinary financial and political connections in Japan.

  Nikko had wanted her to be the project manager but thankfully CJ had stood firm on that and had said no. The thought of being based in Cooktown for several years, or having to commute regularly backwards and forwards from there to Mt Isa, and being away from Steve, had not been a pleasant one.

  Once again she grinned, this time with self-satisfaction. Her baptism of fire, her first dealing in the exalted business world to which CJ belonged had gone exceedingly well. She was pleased with herself and she sensed that CJ and Les had been pleased with the way she had operated. Opening the wardrobe door she peered at the contents. Tonight CJ said they’d celebrate a successful deal so, which outfit would she choose?

  Billy Wontow casually mounted the steps of the Mt Isa police station and went up to the front desk.

  “Hello, Neil,” he said to the station’s senior constable. “Is Steve in?”

  Neil Smith, a nuggetty, ruddy-faced man of about thirty with a thatch of ginger hair and a face covered in freckles shook his head negatively. “You’ve missed him by half an hour, he’ll be away for the rest of the day. Is it important, Billy? Can I help you?”

  Billy shrugged. “Maybe.” He lifted what had been trailing in his right hand, carefully placing a long thin item wrapped in a sugar bag on the counter top. “When I was doin’ a bit of a clean up I found this behind a box in the tack room attached to Murrundi’s stables. It could have somethin’ to do with Richard Ambrose’s death. Might be what Steve’s been lookin’ for.”

  “A rifle?”

  “Yep. A Stinger. Dunno how it came to be in the tack room or who it belongs to though. All the rifles are kept locked up at the homestead, except for one Mike Hunter has, and he keeps his under lock and key. I reckoned Steve might wanta take a look at this.”

  “Did you handle it, Billy?”

  Billy looked askance at the senior constable. “‘Course not, I know about fingerprints and all that stuff. Soon as I recognised it I bundled it into the sack and brought it straight in. Didn’t even tell CJ about it.”

  “Good man.”

  “Reckon I’ll leave it and you can pass it on to Steve.”

  Neil Smith nodded approvingly. “Will do, Billy. As soon as Steve returns.”

  With an upward flick of his finger, denoting the conversation was over, the laconic Billy left the station.

  “Comfortable?” Les asked.

  “Mmm, and exhausted,” Francey replied as she sank deeper into the first class seat on Qantas flight Q212 returning to Sydney.

  “It has been hectic,” Les agreed. “Trips with CJ are like that. The man doesn’t know the meaning of the phrase, ‘take the time to smell the roses’.”

  Francey chuckled. “You’re right.”

  “You handled it all well, you know, considering …”

  Francey managed to disguise the yawn with her hand. “You think so? I’m glad.” She pressed a button and the seat reclined. “Wake me when we reach Sydney, but not before, for anything. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Les’ head turned to look down at her. With her eyes closed he had the luxury of being able to study her without impunity. Miss Francey Spinetti, daughter of Italian migrants had been a hit wherever they’d gone. In Singapore her commonsense and CJ’s respect for her intellect had helped secure the Cooktown project without a toe-to-toe fight with Nikko Yakismoto and it had been named the Jasmine International Condominium and Hotel Resort. Then, in Hong Kong, she had sat for hours and absorbed details of CJ’s investments there and accompanied them on all the inspection tours.

  In London, CJ had given her some time off to explore the sights and architectural delights. She’d been off at first light till late in the afternoon, independently finding her way around one of the largest cities in the world, absorbing it all and coming back to the hotel with enthusiastic accounts of where she’d been and what she’d seen. They’d gone out every night for dinner and to a show or nightclub. She’d been delighted by the opera La Boheme at Covent Garden and the live theatre show of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Boulevarde — for which he’d managed to get seats at an obscene price. And she had of course loved the several cocktail parties they’d attended at the residences of businesspeople who lived in Belgrave Square and Knightsbridge.

  He had enjoyed watching her. She was like a big kid, her enthusiasm for new experiences knew no bounds and he soon realised that CJ was getting as big a kick out of her enjoying herself as she was. Not for the first time Les wondered whether the old man was falling in love with the lovely Australian-Italian woman. He knew CJ had been angered by Yakismoto’s attentions towards Francey and since they’d departed Sydney he had pondered the question about CJ’s depth of interest in her without securing a satisfactory answer.

  Then there’d been more rounds of business in London, and Francey had had to go and buy warm clothes to survive the cool English spring. After a week at the Ritz they’d gone to visit CJ’s friends, Freddie and Marcia Beauvois, The Earl and Countess of Rankilawr, who had a rambling but well-preserved manor house in Kent.

  For him that had been the most enjoyable time. For a while he had had Francey all to himself. They’d explored hedged narrow country lanes together, lunched in quiet, picturesque pubs, rode across the English countryside on horses from the earl’s stables and visited the odd castle or two. He recalled how she’d been taken with the old moated keep of Bodiam Castle. And later, her blue-green eyes had sparkled with pleasure when they’d had afternoon tea with the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk who at the time happened to be in residence at Arundel Castle.

  Les continued to study her features in repose. The mass of curls, the lips, full and kissable, the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept convinced him that she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He believed that he could make her happy, given the chance … if Parrish wasn’t around. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the policeman, his competition. Was there a way to take him out of the picture? In business he was good at removing obstacles which stood in the way of success — CJ had taught him well. Removing Parrish, the obstacle, from the scene could be regarded in much the same way. He knew the Queensland police minister personally so maybe he c
ould arrange a transfer for Parrish and, once out of sight and out of mind, he’d have a better chance of wooing this interesting, independent woman beside him.

  He relaxed back in the seat and closed his eyes. Not to sleep, but to think and to scheme …

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CJ watched the expressions as Shellie, Doctor Barry Ryan, Natalie and her friend Trish, the Dupres and Mt Isa’s mayor, Darren Turk, were given the grand tour of the now finished mini conference centre by Francey and Les.

  He especially noted his sister’s reaction, not to the building, but to her doctor friend. Shellie had always shown her feelings — as opposed to him being the other way inclined — and it was obvious that she was in love with the quietly spoken medical man. He could foresee no problems with that because Barry clearly reciprocated, and he silently agreed that she deserved some happiness in her life. At fifty-five, it was overdue, and remarkably, her new found happiness had effected a turnaround in her drinking habits; she didn’t need the crutch of alcohol any more and he was glad.

  As Natalie moved about the mini conference centre, mentally noting the attention to detail, the quality of workmanship and the innovative yet functional design, her hatred for Francey rose to new heights. Like it or not Francey was good, better than good, a very talented architect. She had never been a reverent person but over the last few months she had prayed in her own peculiar way that CJ’s pet would fall flat on her face on this project and in turn CJ would become disenchanted and send her packing. That hadn’t happened and didn’t show signs of happening. The woman was slowly but surely worming her way deep into CJ’s business structure and his trust. Suddenly, her resolve hardened. She had to get rid of her. Permanently.

  “Francey, I like the way you’ve done this garden,” Trish commented innocently, unaware of her lover’s ire. Perhaps she could organise some type of article in an architectural magazine. She would ask CJ before the day was out.

  Francey studied the courtyard garden of tranquillity which stood as a centrepiece inside the complex. Subtle landscaping, a Japanese style trickling pool and stream, weathered stones and a variety of ferns and rainforest plants gave an aura of lushness to the space. “Thanks, I thought it would enhance the guest’s enjoyment of the centre.”

  “I’m sure it will, but…” Natalie quipped as she threaded an arm through Trish’s. “I don’t know how CJ’s going to make effective use of this place.” Grudgingly she complimented the person she saw as her rival for CJ’s attention. “It looks great and I bet it cost a bundle, but from my point of view return on those dollars could be relatively slim.”

  “I disagree,” Les, who’d overheard Natalie’s criticisms, put in smoothly. “This complex will show investors we mean business, that we have what it takes to pull off any type of commercial development anywhere in Australia or, for that matter anywhere in the world. Also, after the formal opening ceremony next week, which will be conducted by the state’s attorney-general, we’ve scheduled our first conference for the following week and will have another two over the next two months.” He looked at the mayor. “Mr Turk, Darren, is keen to use the place for select business investment seminars directed at Mt Isa, and will pay a handsome rental fee for the privilege. Right, mayor?”

  Darren Turk agreed with a nod of his head. “My only regret is that the centre wasn’t built in the township, but I understand and commend CJ’s reasons for it becoming a part of Murrundi.”

  Pouting, Natalie turned away. Clearly everyone was against her. Hadn’t it always been so? From a young age she’d sensed that people didn’t like her or find her attractive. But she had got even as she’d grown up. She smiled a little smile to herself, remembering. Everyone who’d hurt or slighted her had eventually paid the price. But, the cliché came to her, she would have the last laugh, by God she would.

  Quietly observing the exchange, CJ was hard-pressed controling the urge to smile as he saw his stepdaughter’s petulance. Her behaviour made him frown. What was the matter with Natalie? She had been irritable and irrational for months now. Each time she returned to Murrundi she had a chip on her shoulder. Why? Her moodiness wasn’t caused by business worries. They shared the same accountancy firm and he had it on good authority that business-wise, Natalie was doing very well indeed. So what continued to upset her? She had been a difficult teenager, having temper tantrums that only Brenda could control but by now she should have outgrown them.

  The next instant he dismissed Natalie’s grumpy behaviour from his mind. Regrettably, but he couldn’t help it, he had little fondness for his stepdaughter. Something about her, whether it be her manner or her personality, had precluded real affection ever growing. “Let’s adjourn to the homestead,” he bellowed paternally, “Alison has prepared a superb lunch for us all.”

  Steve Parrish read the Brisbane’s ballistics department’s report on the Stinger rifle Billy Wontow had left at the station. He growled deep in his throat with frustration and then threw the single sheet of paper back onto the desk. The rifle didn’t match the bullet he’d found near the stampede site. He’d hoped, been so sure … The trail of finding Richard Ambrose’s killer had been stone-dead for a good month or two and his hopes had risen when the rifle was handed in. He stroked his jaw reflectively as he rethought what he’d been doing. Every avenue of investigation, the minutest detail, had been checked and rechecked. Nothing. His only human lead, Paul Andronicus, had disappeared into thin air and so it seemed, had the offending rifle.

  He shrugged his shoulders as he put the report inside the Ambrose file. This didn’t mean he was giving up but he’d run out of places and people to talk to. He studied the rifle resting atop his in-tray. It should be returned to Murrundi. A slow smile creased his serious features. At least while he was there he’d have the opportunity to see Francey for a few minutes. Old CJ sure kept her busy these days and with him working shifts, they had precious little time together.

  Francey looked over the crowd of people standing in the reception foyer of the mini conference centre partaking of hors d’oeuvres, pate and top-dollar French champagne. Her gaze caught CJ’s. He winked and gave her a triumphant smile. Then he raised his glass to her in a silent salute.

  She smiled back. Their first conference had been a resounding success. The delegates — business investors who’d come from Indonesia, Hawaii and Hong Kong — had been impressed with their three day stay at Murrundi. They had listened to a range of projects on offer: the development of a cattle station on the Gulf for the Middle East trade and two resort projects. One was near Katoomba in the Blue Mountains of NSW, the other was planned for the outskirts of Byron Bay, also in NSW. The next step was to take the proposals back to their relevant home offices and discuss them further with a view to investing, initially, in the resort project near Byron Bay.

  Always honest with herself, she admitted that her head was in something of a whirl at just how successful the three days had been. The centre’s accommodation and facilities had been a real hit. Lisa Dupre had done a marvellous job organising the catering and staff and she was sure each investment company delegate would take a very positive message back home.

  Tomorrow afternoon she was booked on a commercial flight to Sydney to check up on how CJ’s Kirribilli mansion was shaping up. Council approval of her building plan had been received so now Brett could organise the demolition of the original building prior to a concrete slab for the new house being poured. Her pulse rose a notch or two at the thought of seeing Steve. Just a lightning visit before she caught her flight. In Sydney there’d be time to catch up with her parents and friends — as CJ had promised her in his job offer. Hectic was how she described her life at the moment. CJ was involved in so many things. He even wanted her to learn to fly the Learjet so she could get to and from places quicker but she had vetoed that plan for the present. It would be fun to learn how to fly but only when she had the time for flying lessons!

  Les sidled up to her and said quietly, “The delegates are in raptur
es about this place. They’ve never had such a good time, privately as well as business-wise, and they’ve enjoyed seeing the ins and outs of a working cattle station.”

  Francey nodded. “That’s the message I’m getting too.”

  “You’re going to be in Sydney for a week, aren’t you?”

  “That’s the plan. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason other than I’ll be away for a couple of days myself. Mike Hunter’s doing a muster of the north-west plateau and I thought I’d give him a hand using the helicopter to herd the strays.”

  A glow of admiration warmed CJ’s insides as he watched Les talking animatedly with Francey. She had come up trumps, this little architect, his little architect. He sure knew how to pick a winner. He took a sip from his champagne flute then looked towards Francey again.

  Without warning his vision blurred, then doubled. He gave his head a slight shake and he could see properly again. He quickly shrugged the sensation off. Must be tired, all this pushing himself to reel in the deals and the dollars. Jesus Christ, it wasn’t as if he needed the money, he had enough to last several lifetimes. Sometimes he wondered why he had this drive inside him. Why didn’t he start taking things easy, let Les run the show? His protege was itching to. And now, between Les and Francey he knew they’d do an excellent job running his business interests.

  But he couldn’t settle back and relax, retire, and he knew it. He couldn’t stop because doing deals and making money was as natural to him as breathing.

  Darren Turk patted CJ on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old son. Another success.”

  “Thanks, Darren.” He tried to ignore the growing, curious numbness that had crept into the fingers of his right hand but his glass slipped out of his grasp and smashed on the marble tiled floor. Within seconds a waiter was at his side sweeping up the shards. CJ tried to flex his fingers but could feel nothing. He hastily hid his hand in his trouser pocket.