This was the first spark of interest in anything from CJ for weeks. He recognised the particular gleam in his eyes. Thank God, he was coming out of his grief.
“No. I want to do some additions to the main house but I’m thinking of building a mini conference centre here, complete with accommodation. Top inclusions, state of the art electronic technology. That sort of thing. Then I can have interstate and international business people come to me. We’ve got the Lear jet and the airstrip to fly them in and, after the business is done, we’ll show them some outback hospitality. I reckon they’ll eat it up and,” his features turned crafty, “we’ll clinch the business side of things faster.”
“Build it. Where?” Natalie asked, her eyebrow arching at what she considered an odd idea. Aconference centre at Murrundi Downs. CJ was losing it, for sure.
“We’ve plenty of land. About two hundred and fifty thousand square kilometres of it.” He turned to Les. “When we’re in Cairns I want you to check out a few architects there, and Brisbane too. We’ll fly them up and they can give us a design and a price.”
Les beamed. “I’ll get right on it.”
Shellie smoothed her lightweight frock over her stomach and didn’t say anything, but she thought about her brother’s new project. To her all it meant was more work. Jesus Christ, wasn’t there a limit?
The man tipped the brim of his hat forward to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun while he waited. A liberal coating of insect repellent on his face and arms kept most of the annoying buggers at bay. Resting on his haunches in the shade afforded by the police department’s four-wheel drive, Sergeant Steve Parrish took a notebook out of his shirt pocket. He opened it and read again what had been taken down by Constable Smith on 28 February, 1996, the date of Richard Ambrose’s death.
Accidental death had been the coroner’s finding but as he read the constable’s notes, taken in a rush, his imagination filled in the gaps. Trampled to death. What a bloody awful way to die. God knows, during his time in the force, first in NSW and now in Queensland, he’d seen more variations on ways to die than one would have thought possible. He could even feel a glimmer of pity for CJ Ambrose, but felt far more for his son with whom he’d had a passing acquaintanceship.
Brown eyes studied the harsh country around him. A line of short gums and scrubby bushes grew around the edge of the waterhole and along the flat where the water went underground. He’d heard that if one was desperate one could dig down, maybe a metre or two and find running water. He hoped he’d never have to. When he’d first been appointed to the Mt Isa station, the country and the weather had been difficult to get used to. Policing here was a world removed from the homicide and narcotics squad in Sydney. But the realities — death — were just as harsh.
For the umpteenth time that day his left hand reached into his back pocket for the packet of cigarettes usually there, only to remember that last week he had decided to quit. Damn, he ached for a bloody cigarette, something to do to pass the time. He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket. Nothing to do but wait.
In the distance a horse and rider approached. Steve glanced down at his watch. Ten to three. Right on time. He shook his head in silent admiration. How did the blacks do it? Billy Wontow said he’d be here at three o’clock and he would be. He figured that the man didn’t wear a watch or listen to a radio but he could tell what time it was, with precision, from the movement of the sun across the sky. A neat trick, that was for sure.
“How’s it going, Steve?” Billy called as he reined in next to the four-wheel drive.
“Bloody hot, even if it is winter.”
Billy grinned at him. “Pretty nice if you ask me.” He dismounted, threw the horse’s reins loosely over the vehicle’s bull bars and rested on
“No. I want to do some additions to the main house but I’m thinking of building a mini conference centre here, complete with accommodation. Top inclusions, state of the art electronic technology. That sort of thing. Then I can have interstate and international business people come to me. We’ve got the Lear jet and the airstrip to fly them in and, after the business is done, we’ll show them some outback hospitality. I reckon they’ll eat it up and,” his features turned crafty, “we’ll clinch the business side of things faster.”
“Build it. Where?” Natalie asked, her eyebrow arching at what she considered an odd idea. Aconference centre at Murrundi Downs. CJ was losing it, for sure.
“We’ve plenty of land. About two hundred and fifty thousand square kilometres of it.” He turned to Les. “When we’re in Cairns I want you to check out a few architects there, and Brisbane too. We’ll fly them up and they can give us a design and a price.”
Les beamed. “I’ll get right on it.”
Shellie smoothed her lightweight frock over her stomach and didn’t say anything, but she thought about her brother’s new project. To her all it meant was more work. Jesus Christ, wasn’t there a limit?
The man tipped the brim of his hat forward to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun while he waited. A liberal coating of insect repellent on his face and arms kept most of the annoying buggers at bay. Resting on his haunches in the shade afforded by the police department’s four-wheel drive, Sergeant Steve Parrish took a notebook out of his shirt pocket. He opened it and read again what had been taken down by Constable Smith on 28 February, 1996, the date of Richard Ambrose’s death.
Accidental death had been the coroner’s finding but as he read the constable’s notes, taken in a rush, his imagination filled in the gaps. Trampled to death. What a bloody awful way to die. God knows, during his time in the force, first in NSW and now in Queensland, he’d seen more variations on ways to die than one would have thought possible. He could even feel a glimmer of pity for CJ Ambrose, but felt far more for his son with whom he’d had a passing acquaintanceship.
Brown eyes studied the harsh country around him. A line of short gums and scrubby bushes grew around the edge of the waterhole and along the flat where the water went underground. He’d heard that if one was desperate one could dig down, maybe a metre or two and find running water. He hoped he’d never have to. When he’d first been appointed to the Mt Isa station, the country and the weather had been difficult to get used to. Policing here was a world removed from the homicide and narcotics squad in Sydney. But the realities — death — were just as harsh.
For the umpteenth time that day his left hand reached into his back pocket for the packet of cigarettes usually there, only to remember that last week he had decided to quit. Damn, he ached for a bloody cigarette, something to do to pass the time. He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket. Nothing to do but wait.
In the distance a horse and rider approached. Steve glanced down at his watch. Ten to three. Right on time. He shook his head in silent admiration. How did the blacks do it? Billy Wontow said he’d be here at three o’clock and he would be. He figured that the man didn’t wear a watch or listen to a radio but he could tell what time it was, with precision, from the movement of the sun across the sky. A neat trick, that was for sure.
“How’s it going, Steve?” Billy called as he reined in next to the four-wheel drive.
“Bloody hot, even if it is winter.”
Billy grinned at him. “Pretty nice if you ask me.” He dismounted, threw the horse’s reins loosely over the vehicle’s bull bars and rested on
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