hishaunches beside the larger man. “Don’t like coming to this place no more.” Dark eyes studied the waterhole and surrounding land. “Bad spirits here now, since …”
“I understand, mate. We both know what the coroner’s findings were but I just want to go over it again —”
“Did that with Constable Smith. Twice,” Billy said matter-of-factly with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I know. I’ll feel happier about closing Richard’s file if we go over it one last time. Where was the campfire? Could you show me?”
Billy squinted. He stood up and took a good look around. “Not much left to see. Cattle ran over everything. Almost got me too, the buggers.” He walked around for a while kicking at stones, moving the earth with his booted foot. “Here,” he dropped to one knee. “Charred tree branch. Been moved by the stampede though. Reckon the fire was about here.” He moved again, closer to the waterhole and planted the charred stick in the red earth.
Steve Parrish followed him, reading from the notebook. “Richard got on his horse first, right?”
“I didn’t have time to saddle mine. Just had the bridle. Got on and took off around the far side of the mob. Might have been able to stop ’em if it wasn’t for the third shot. That made ’em all crazy.”
“Did you see Richard go down?”
“No. Could hardly see anything for the dust. I knew something bad had happened when there was no sign the cattle had turned away from the water. Had to scramble out of the way, up the rise on the hill, or I’d been a goner too.”
Steve Parrish made a note in his own book and then chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pen. Obviously, the catalyst for the stampede had been the rifle shots but exhaustive questioning around town and on adjoining properties had proved fruitless. No-one had seen or heard of any strangers or tourists on hunting trips.
“Can you recall the timing of the shots? How far apart they were?”
“You kidding me, aren’t you?” Billy’s dark features expressed his derision at the question. “Richard and I were scrambling to turn the mob, then just to stay alive. No bloody way I can remember how far apart the shots came.”
Steve smiled. It had been a dumb question but he’d had to ask it in an attempt to satisfy his own curiosity. “Okay. The direction of the shots? North, south, east, west?”
Billy shook his head in exasperation. “Jeez, you’re asking a lot of a bloke’s memory.” Then he went very still. He closed his eyes and his right hand came up to stroke his forehead. For maybe half a minute he stood like a sentinel, unaware of the man near him, oblivious to the insects buzzing around his face. “West. Maybe south-west.”
“You sure?”
“As sure as a bloke who was scared shitless could be,” he quipped back with a grin. “What you want to know all this for? The young boss is gone, the old boss is getting used to him not being around. You not gonna stir up trouble, are you?”
“Just doing my job, Billy, that’s all.”
Steve could feel the hairs on the back of his neckrising and knew it had nothing to do with the weather. Something didn’t feel right. He pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through black, neatly cut hair. Was he being overly suspicious for no logical reason? Circumstances and the coroner’s report pointed to the stampede and Richard’s death being an unfortunate accident. And who — if one took the opposite point of view that it was planned — would want Richard Ambrose dead? As far as he knew the young man hadn’t had an enemy in the world.
Steve Parrish had thirteen years police training and experience behind him. Ten years in the NSW Police Service during which time he’d risen to the rank of detective sergeant and served in a variety of squads, including homicide, narcotics, vice and police rescue. He’d transferred to Queensland and had worked for three years at Mt Isa, where he was now one of the station’s most senior
“I understand, mate. We both know what the coroner’s findings were but I just want to go over it again —”
“Did that with Constable Smith. Twice,” Billy said matter-of-factly with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I know. I’ll feel happier about closing Richard’s file if we go over it one last time. Where was the campfire? Could you show me?”
Billy squinted. He stood up and took a good look around. “Not much left to see. Cattle ran over everything. Almost got me too, the buggers.” He walked around for a while kicking at stones, moving the earth with his booted foot. “Here,” he dropped to one knee. “Charred tree branch. Been moved by the stampede though. Reckon the fire was about here.” He moved again, closer to the waterhole and planted the charred stick in the red earth.
Steve Parrish followed him, reading from the notebook. “Richard got on his horse first, right?”
“I didn’t have time to saddle mine. Just had the bridle. Got on and took off around the far side of the mob. Might have been able to stop ’em if it wasn’t for the third shot. That made ’em all crazy.”
“Did you see Richard go down?”
“No. Could hardly see anything for the dust. I knew something bad had happened when there was no sign the cattle had turned away from the water. Had to scramble out of the way, up the rise on the hill, or I’d been a goner too.”
Steve Parrish made a note in his own book and then chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pen. Obviously, the catalyst for the stampede had been the rifle shots but exhaustive questioning around town and on adjoining properties had proved fruitless. No-one had seen or heard of any strangers or tourists on hunting trips.
“Can you recall the timing of the shots? How far apart they were?”
“You kidding me, aren’t you?” Billy’s dark features expressed his derision at the question. “Richard and I were scrambling to turn the mob, then just to stay alive. No bloody way I can remember how far apart the shots came.”
Steve smiled. It had been a dumb question but he’d had to ask it in an attempt to satisfy his own curiosity. “Okay. The direction of the shots? North, south, east, west?”
Billy shook his head in exasperation. “Jeez, you’re asking a lot of a bloke’s memory.” Then he went very still. He closed his eyes and his right hand came up to stroke his forehead. For maybe half a minute he stood like a sentinel, unaware of the man near him, oblivious to the insects buzzing around his face. “West. Maybe south-west.”
“You sure?”
“As sure as a bloke who was scared shitless could be,” he quipped back with a grin. “What you want to know all this for? The young boss is gone, the old boss is getting used to him not being around. You not gonna stir up trouble, are you?”
“Just doing my job, Billy, that’s all.”
Steve could feel the hairs on the back of his neckrising and knew it had nothing to do with the weather. Something didn’t feel right. He pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through black, neatly cut hair. Was he being overly suspicious for no logical reason? Circumstances and the coroner’s report pointed to the stampede and Richard’s death being an unfortunate accident. And who — if one took the opposite point of view that it was planned — would want Richard Ambrose dead? As far as he knew the young man hadn’t had an enemy in the world.
Steve Parrish had thirteen years police training and experience behind him. Ten years in the NSW Police Service during which time he’d risen to the rank of detective sergeant and served in a variety of squads, including homicide, narcotics, vice and police rescue. He’d transferred to Queensland and had worked for three years at Mt Isa, where he was now one of the station’s most senior
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