“I’ll clutch at whatever helps me prove that CJ isn’t guilty.”
“Look, Francey, I’m sympathetic, however, I need something more tangible than wild ideas. A hunch, a clue, facts, something more definable. Otherwise …”
“Oh, Steve, CJ’s going to die and I don’t want people to remember him as a self-confessed murderer. He deserves better than that.”
Steve ran a hand through his hair. Francey Spinetti was one damned stubborn woman, but he already knew that. Why couldn’t she accept the fact that CJ had confessed, rather nobly, he thought, to keep her safe. “I don’t want to argue the point with you, it’s just that I don’t have anywhere else to go with this case that doesn’t put you, instead of CJ, in jeopardy.”
Her eyes snapped with anger. “So, this is the easy way out. It’s easier, no, more comfortable, for CJ to appear guilty than to do some hard work and really find who did it?”
“That’s not fair and you know it. I’ve worked my arse off on this case.”
An uneasy silence rested in the room between them. Francey was getting nowhere and she knew it. She glanced across at him, saw his tight features, the expression unreadable. So typical. She missed the old Steve. The Steve who’d dropped his guard to her and had pulled down the emotional walls between them. The Steve who cared. Her heavy sigh was eaten up by the quiet in the room. She had wasted her time by coming here. He couldn’t be moved or changed. Accepting that she got up and put her glass on the coffee table.
“Look, what I can do is to go through all the paperwork again. Maybe we missed something,” he offered, not wanting her to go. Then he too stood up.
“Would you?” Her face brightened noticeably, her heart skipping a beat at his sudden closeness. “Thank you.” It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.
He walked her to the front door and opened it wide. They stood in silence looking at each other, neither able to bridge the gap which had risen between them. For what seemed an eternity but was in reality only several seconds they stared at each other.
As Francey turned away she whispered, “I miss you.”
Her close proximity was driving him crazy. He could hardly think straight and his muscles and nerve endings were so finely tuned he thought he would burst. He’d have to be made of solid granite not to be affected by her beauty, the sad expression in her eyes. And then, in one of those rare moments of clarity he realised that what he felt for her transcended all else, including his stupid male pride. Her expectation of great wealth and her relationship to CJ wasn’t important. What mattered was them, that they should be together. It had taken him a while to see the light, but how could he make up for the mess he’d made of their relationship through his sense of insecurity? He’d painted himself into a corner from which there looked to be no easy escape.
With a great deal of effort Steve got control of his feelings. “I didn’t quite catch that,” he said as he swallowed hard to loosen the emotional lump lodged in his throat.
She touched his cheek briefly, blinked back a tear. “Doesn’t matter, it wasn’t important.”
Steve stood silhouetted in the open doorway and watched her walk all the way to her car, get in and rev the engine. There was a singular, coherent thought which ran through his mind as she drove up the street: you never appreciate what you’ve got until it’s out of reach. So true, so bloody true!
Billy Wontow stood with half-a-dozen other stockmen on the ground below the verandah of Les Westcott’s cottage. As he listened to Les give the orders for the day his dark eyes caught a glint of something bright stuck between the floorboards of the verandah. Rays from the early morning sun were picking up a flash of light.
“Billy. That Braford bull we bought last month, Maestro, has damaged some of the stockyard fence uprights. We’ll be needing those yards at the end of the week so move him to one of the outer paddocks then fix the fencing. Then I want you to take one of the bikes and check on how that experimental herd of camels has settled in.”
Lucky sniggered. “Yeah, Billy, put on your Lawrence of Arabia cape when you do that, will you.”
Les grinned briefly. “Don’t scoff, Lucky. Camels are an up-and-coming export meat market. In a couple of years it’ll be a nice little money earner for Murrundi.”
Ignoring Lucky’s remark, Billy dipped his weather-worn hat in acknowledgement, “Right, boss.”
Other men were assigned their duties and started to amble off in several directions but Billy, characteristically curious, wondered what was caught between the floorboards. He shuffled off more slowly than usual, waiting for Les to head towards the homestead. Once Westcott was out of sight Billy headed back to the verandah and, using his penknife, dug the item out from between the boards.
Billy checked his find. A small white button with an edge of gold around it — that’s what had caught the light. Squinting, he placed the button in the palm of his hand to study it. He’d seen this type of button before. Where? His forehead puckered in a frown of concentration. He blinked several times as it came to him. On the shirt Natalie had been wearing when she’d been fished out of the pool. Two buttons had been missing, he remembered. His level of curiosity multiplied tenfold. What was the button doing here, on Les’ verandah?
He glanced about to make sure no-one was around, got down on his hands and knees and loosened a piece of lattice put there to discourage small animals from making the cooler under-space their home. He then crawled under the verandah which, in traditional Queensland fashion, was almost a metre off the ground to allow for better ventilation. For twenty minutes he grubbed around the soil and found an assortment of cigarette butts, old nails, pieces of metal and lolly wrappers that had been blown under during strong winds. Close to giving up on the second button he moved a piece of white paper and a small round object slid onto the ground. The second button!
Billy almost whooped with glee. With care he placed the two buttons in the top breast pocket of his shirt and fastened the flap. Before he emerged, he checked again that no-one loitered around the yard and then he headed for the stockyards.
Work first, he decided. Then a trip into town. Steve Parrish, he reckoned, would be mighty interested in what he’d found.
Steve sat among a pile of files scattered over the length and breadth of his desk. Funny, he mused as he sifted through the paperwork in Neil’s file on the deWitt-Ambrose case, if one eliminated, say, Francey and CJ, and applied logic of probable motive or lack of it to the other suspects, the one who appeared to have the strongest motive to get rid of Natalie was, in his opinion, Les Westcott.
He tapped his pencil on the top of a file as he thought. There was an air of smugness about the man. As if Westcott was privy to information no-one else had. That had niggled and annoyed him ever since the investigation had begun.
Neil had assembled a substantial dossier on Westcott. Some hearsay, some of it facts which dated back almost twenty years. The overall picture was that of a quietly ambitious, intelligent, very determined man. Over the years Westcott had worked his way through promotion at Murrundi into CJ’s confidence and apart from Francey, was the other most important person in CJ’s business empire. People around the Isa said he’d once been in love with and had wanted to marry Natalie. Neil’s information included the purchase of an engagement ring from a Mt Isa jeweller. And wasn’t it logical to believe that by marrying Natalie Les would assure himself a place in the Ambrose heirachy. No marriage had occurred and Neil had noted why. Natalie simply wasn’t interested in a heterosexual relationship.
More facts had emerged. According to banking information requisitioned by the police department, Westcott was a wealthy man in his own right. Steve’s eyebrows lifted in envy of the man’s healthy bank balance. No doubt judicious investments over the years, assisted by inside knowledge via CJ, had made him financially independent.
And Steve personally knew that Westcott wanted to be romantically involved with Francey.
So, if he put all the pieces together, w
hat did he have? Suppositions, possibilities and a man who coveted CJ’s business empire and, perhaps desperately, wanted it for himself. Now, the easiest way — the only way in fact — to get it was through marriage to Francey Spinetti. But how did that work as possible motivation to kill Natalie? He tapped his pencil again on the top folder, thinking through the possibilities.
Les could have perceived Natalie as a threat to his plans. The woman was emotionally unstable and getting worse. She had tried to dispose of Francey once, she might try again. Also, Natalie would inherit part of CJ’s estate on his death but if she died before CJ, the entire estate went to Francey. This would make marriage to Francey a very attractive proposition indeed.
Yes, motivation was there and like the other suspects Les didn’t have an airtight alibi for the night of the murder. He stroked his jawline, this line of investigation looked promising …
His head shot up as someone knocked on his office door.
Neil poked his head around the half open doorway. “Steve, Billy Wontow wants a moment of your time.”
“Send him in.”
Billy shuffled into the office and plonked his lanky frame down into the seat Steve pointed to.
“Good to see you, mate,” Steve welcomed him. “Want a tea or coffee?”
“Not gonna be here that long,” Billy’s reply was laconic. “Got something for you.” He fished the two buttons out of his top pocket and placed them on the desk blotter. “You recognise them?”
Steve frowned, thought for several seconds, “Natalie’s shirt, I think.”
“That’s what I reckoned too.”
“Where did you find them, Billy?”
“At Murrundi. One was stuck between the floorboards of the cottage where Les Westcott lives, the other had fallen through the verandah into the dirt.”
“You’re sure that’s where you found them, both of them?”
“Too right, mate,” Billy said with a grin. “I’ve got enough dirt on my clothes to prove it.”
Steve grinned back, elated. Maybe, just maybe … “Billy, I’ll need you to make a statement about where you found the buttons and then I want you to do me a favour.”
Billy’s dark eyes narrowed. “Sure, Steve. What do you want?”
“Keep the information about the buttons to yourself. Don’t tell anyone, not even Alison. Can you do that?”
“Sure, mate. No problem.”
An hour later Steve assembled his investigative team in one of the station house’s interrogation rooms.
“Are you serious?” Erin Cooper said boldly, “you want to reopen the case on the strength of the two buttons Wontow found?”
“We have a confession from CJ Ambrose, remember?” Glen McAlpine put in.
Steve held up both hands. “I know, I know. It’s a slim lead but it’s evidence that throws a new light on things. The whereabouts of the buttons tell us that Natalie was at Westcott’s cottage the night of the murder. Possibly that’s where she was knocked unconscious and strangled. Her body may then have been moved and dumped in the pool.”
“You think Wontow’s telling the truth about where he found the buttons?” Neil asked.
“I don’t have a reason not to believe him. Why would he lie? He’s not the sort to want to get into trouble with the police, or to simply make mischief,” Steve argued.
“One might assume that he’s fiercely loyal to CJ and Francey,” Glen supposed. “Maybe he found them somewhere else and is trying, in his own way, to protect them.”
“I don’t buy that, and neither did Inspector Clarke. He’s all for going ahead with this new line of inquiry,” Steve stated firmly. He didn’t add that both he and his superior saw the wisdom in trying to clear CJ Ambrose’s name while not incriminating Francey. Neither policeman was comfortable with either Ambrose’s seeming involvement in the murder, so checking out another possibility was well worth the effort.
“Westcott’s a pretty cool customer. He’ll say it must have happened while he was out.” Erin put in. “That was his alibi, wasn’t it, driving around in his car?”
“There’s other circumstantial evidence which puts Westcott under suspicion,” Steve said and listed them for his team.
“Okay,” Neil nodded his approval, “how do we go about it?”
“As Erin said, the evidence is pretty slim so to make it stick we’ll need to get a confession from him.” He ignored their doubtful expressions and hastened on. “The inspector suggested I wear a wire and record an interview with him. I think I can get him mad enough to admit that he killed Natalie.” Steve then added, “He and Francey are away at the moment, up in Cooktown. They’re due back this afternoon which gives us time to get organised.” He grinned confidently at them all. “I want this bastard, let’s go get him.”
Shellie sat in the same chair recently vacated by Rose, the morning nurse, watching CJ sleep. It broke her heart to see her brother go downhill like this. There was so little she could do; little that any of them could do other than make him comfortable. She smiled at nothing in particular, secretly amazed at how close they’d become over the last six weeks. Like they had been as children as they’d roamed the outback with their father while he tried to find work. Even back then, as a youngster, CJ had possessed a rare vitality and been driven to succeed at whatever he wanted to do.
The way he was handling the frustration of his situation evoked her deep admiration. The old CJ would have roared like an enraged bull, stomped about swearing and generally made everyone as tense and miserable as himself. It was almost impossible to imagine a world, her world, without CJ’s larger than life presence.
For the umpteenth time she thanked God for the strength of Barry’s love. Without it who knew where she’d be? She gave a little snort — probably up to her armpits in booze. Francey would be all right. She’d come through this dreadful time with her strength intact. She had plenty of moral and emotional strength to see her through the grief and later, the healing process.
“Shellie,” CJ’s voice was husky with sleep. “Is Francey back yet? There’s something I want to tell her.”
“In an hour or two. Les just radioed Lisa that they’ll be leaving Cooktown within the hour.”
“Sis,” CJ half whispered, “I want you to make me a promise. When I’m gone marry that doctor of yours and move away from Murrundi. You deserve your own life in your own home — you’ve spent too many years in other people’s houses. I’m sure it’s what Barry wants.”
Shellie shook her head. “Please, I can’t think about that, it’s too … too …”
“Morbid? Hell, Shellie, I have no delusions. Life will go on with or without CJ Ambrose. That’s the order of things, you know. And this damned illness, by the time it’s done with me I reckon I’ll be ready to go anywhere to escape the pain, the boredom, the isolation of it.”
“Do you need something for the pain? Shall I get Rose?”
“Not yet.” His grin was half smile, half grimace. “After I talk to Francey, then Rose can medicate me. Now I know what a damned pin cushion feels like and it isn’t good.”
Shellie’s mouth twitched despite herself. CJ’s wry humour in the face of his predicament amazed her. Just another sign of him trying not to give in to the inevitable, she supposed.
“You can do something for me if you plan to just sit there.”
“Of course. What?”
“My eyesight’s pretty bad, I can’t focus for long periods of time. Those letters on the table, would you read them to me?”
“I’d be pleased to. I’ll get my glasses.”
All CJ could make out was a blur moving towards the door and disappearing out of sight. His poor sister, how she was suffering. Everyone was, himself included. But soon he’d be free, and so would they.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The police van pulled in around the back of the homestead and parked under the long carport. Steve Parrish checked his watch as he stepped out of the van. “CJ’s plane should land in the next ten minut
es. Lisa Dupre knows about the operation, she’ll keep everyone inside. Erin, I want you to monitor the recording device.” He turned to Neil Smith. “You’ll be backup in case anything untoward happens. Take the point at the end of the drive and watch for the plane. Whistle as soon as it comes into view.”
“We’d better do another audio check, Steve.” Erin suggested. “Walk about and talk or sing while I check the levels.”
Steve did so and after he’d got the thumbs up from Erin he joined Neil.
They didn’t have to wait long for the sleek aeroplane to come into view. The jet circled over the property then lined up with the airstrip and began its descent.
“Wow! I’d sure like one of those little toys,” Neil exclaimed with envy.
“You or I couldn’t afford the annual fuel costs, let alone the leasing arrangements,” Steve quipped. “Okay, I’m off. I’ll try to catch him just outside the hangar. Westcott won’t be inclined to talk if there are witnesses around so I’ll send Francey into the house.” He mentally crossed his fingers that she would cooperate without question.
It was a reasonably paced six minute walk through the vegetable garden, around a couple of machinery sheds and by the first lot of stockyards to the airstrip. The Learjet, model 31, had just reversed into the hangar space, ready for the next take off as Steve reached the outer perimeter of the area. He could feel himself sweating and knew it wasn’t caused by the weather. He wanted to nail Westcott so bad he could taste it but since the inspector had approved the plan a sense of apprehension had been growing inside him. He couldn’t afford to screw this one up. He knew that his track record wasn’t great and so much hinged on a successful operation. His credibility, his quest to bury the past and even his future happiness were on the line.
As he watched the door open and Francey come down the steps he was close enough to see the delight mirrored in her eyes as she recognised him. She walked towards him, briefcase and, as usual, a bunch of rolled up plans under one arm. He barely had time to admire her shapely legs in the miniskirt, part of the white linen power suit she wore with the aplomb of a catwalk model, before his brain shifted into gear.
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