Heart of the Outback (56 page)

Les’s hand shot out of his pocket, the index finger prodding Steve’s chest. “You stupid cop.” His heavy breathing mixed with an escalating anger became lost in the vastness of the land around them. “If I did what you said, do you think I’d be stupid enough to leave a trail for someone like you to follow?”

“Probably not,” Steve conceded. Christ, he hoped Erin was recording all this, including his own increased heartbeat. “You’re smart, Westcott, I’ll give
you that. Your plan almost succeeded. If it wasn’t for me all you had to do was bide your time, be nice to Francey. She might have married you eventually.” He repeated, “You’re smart, no doubt about it. I’ll bet you’ve got away with murder too. Natalie’s. How did it happen?” His tone turned conspiratorial. “Did she come to your cottage and tell you she’d changed her mind about marrying you or …”

Out of nowhere a thought came to Steve. “Maybe she came to ask you to help her kill Francey. We’ve assumed that she wanted to because Francey stood in the way of her total inheritance. There was a fight and you lost control. Is that how it happened, Les?” He didn’t take his eyes off Les’ face. He watched a shiftiness come into his eyes and saw his mouth tighten with anger. The needling was starting to get to him. Good.

The policeman’s goading and the self-satisfied smile on his face made Les’ anger rise another notch, to near boiling point. Suddenly he recognised his immediate problem — Parrish! On no account was this cop going to ruin his plans, his dreams, when they were so close to fruition. Frustration and blind, uncontrollable rage churned together. He couldn’t let that happen, not when he’d worked so damned hard. He deserved his reward — CJ’s millions — for the years of servitude and kowtowing.

“Yes, damn you,” Les yelled, in an explosion of unexpected emotion. He furtively scanned their surroundings, no-one was in sight. He knew what he had to do now. “You’re not as dumb as I thought you were,” he admitted in a mercurial reversal to momentary calmness.

“Natalie came to me. She looked a mess, eyes half glazed, probably doped up, features twitching. Said I had to help her take care of Francey and if I did we’d split CJ’s fortune between us. Then, in a crazy, disjointed speech, she told me that she’d caused Richard’s death, that she’d killed him because CJ was going to leave him everything and she didn’t think that was fair.” He shook his head and then continued. “The woman was certifiable, almost foaming at the mouth. She thought she was clever though, that no-one would discover the real cause of the stampede.” He paused again to study Steve’s face. “You found those cartridges and started an investigation because she was too damned lazy to get off her horse and pick them up. She never could attend to detail,” he added with a disdainful curl of his lip.

A strange gleam came into Les’ eyes. “I got very angry when she told me about Richard. You see, I loved him; he was my one true friend. He didn’t deserve to be trampled to death.” He stopped talking, reliving the scene in his mind.

“So …” Steve prompted, unable to believe how well the interrogation was proceeding. He’d managed to push the right buttons and Les was blurting it all out almost as if he was at confession. “That’s when you killed Natalie. You got so angry you lost your temper?”

For several seconds Les stared owlishly at the policeman, and blinked as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “Oh, I knew what I was doing. I considered it a community service. I saved the courts the problem of dealing with Natalie. I
smacked her across the face and she went crazy. Came at me with her fingers curved like talons. I hit her again and this time my fist connected with her jaw. She fell to the ground and just lay there.” His smile reflected pure pleasure. “Then I knelt down, put my hands around her neck and squeezed every scrap of life out of her.”

“After which you carried her to the pool and rolled her in,” Steve said helpfully, for the recording device’s benefit.

Les’ eyes narrowed as in his mind he went back to the night it had happened. Reliving it was giving him the same sense of satisfaction, of rightness. He nodded and stared momentarily at the plastic bag in Steve’s hand. “That’s when the buttons must have come off her shirt. When I dragged her across the verandah and down the steps.”

“I guess you were the one who placed Mike Hunter’s Swiss army knife near the pool to incriminate him.”

He nodded. “And I encouraged CJ to confess to the crime to save Francey. That was easy — he wanted to protect her.”

Steve hoped Erin had got every word. They had him. A wave of satisfaction raced through him. He’d mentally agonised whether he had the balls to pull the interrogation off and it had gone so damned well — almost to textbook. The weight of the past, his failure to close, began to lift off him … at last. He’d known that Westcott’s temper would get the better of him one day and now the man’s powder-keg fuse had finally betrayed him. With difficulty he controlled the elation and instead began to feel something else, a vague sense of discomfort.
Westcott was too smart and had confessed to the crime too easily, as if it didn’t matter. As if he wasn’t worried about being arrested by him. Then came the words …

“Now I have one last person to deal with,” Les’ tone was soft, menacing. “You.”

B
efore Steve could block the move Les swung his attache case in an arc and struck Steve in a blow to the side of the head with enough force to knock him off his feet and onto his back. Instantly Les fell on top of him and used his knees to press Steve’s forearms to his body, preventing him from moving. He unlatched Steve’s gun, took it out of its holster and pointed it in his face. Then he rolled off him and stood up.

“Get up.”

“So you’ve got my gun, what do you plan to do? Shoot me, here?”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t like to,” Les snarled. Too late he realised that his lapse of self-control had almost brought him undone.

“Do you think I came alone?” That should make Neil and Erin run to the hangar at full pace. How long would it take them to reach it? Three, maybe
four minutes.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I? Two officers are at the homestead waiting for me. I said I’d be about twenty minutes. They’ll come looking for me soon.” He had no intention of revealing that he was wired. That might tip Westcott’s temper over the edge again, something he didn’t want to do because he had control of the gun.

Francey, back at the homestead and standing by the open police van, gave a squeal of alarm as she realised what had happened. For the last five minutes she’d stood in a state of shock listening to the conversation between the man she loved and Les Westcott, occasionally shaking her head in amazement as the truth of Natalie’s and Richard’s murders were revealed. Thank God, CJ wasn’t there, he’d be devastated.

Erin looked at Neil. “Steve’s in trouble. Westcott’s got his firearm.”

Neil nodded as he stepped out of the van, away from the recording. He looked at Francey. “Can you monitor this for us?”

She nodded. She’d become used to various pieces of electronic equipment on the property and in the Learjet. “Please, go,” she said, her tone urgent. She watched the two sprint off in the direction of the hangar, her heartbeat thudding in her chest. Please, God, she silently prayed, don’t let Les hurt him.

“I don’t believe you,” Les scoffed.

Steve shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He was busy watching Westcott’s every move, hoping for a
weakness, a lapse in concentration. Anything that might allow him to snatch back the gun and the advantage.

Les tried to think clearly. Could Steve’s words be another bluff, like his reconciliation with Francey, or was Parrish telling the truth? A wave of heat suffused his body and his stomach muscles rippled, knotting hard. What were his options? Kill Parrish. Yes. God, he wanted to, so much. The policeman had made him lose control, got him to admit to Natalie’s murder, so he had no choice. But, he could save the situation; he could win, providing he got rid of Parrish and no-one knew about it.

Les motioned Steve forward with the gun. “Walk in front of me, to the plane.”

“Going for a plane ride, are we?” Steve spoke the words casually but inside he was anything but. Hell, where were “the troops”? A sense of déjà vu washed over him as he stumbled unenthusiastically towards the Learjet. Him, a professional had allowed himself to be caught off guard. Shit! Hadn’t he been down this road before, a couple of times? His brain went into mental replay: with Karrin in Newtown and then in that liquor shop. He remembered clearly what had been whispered behind his back. Parrish hasn’t got what it takes. Parrish can’t finalise a situation. Parrish can’t function under stress.

Maybe they’d been right. Westcott certainly had the upper hand at the moment and if Neil and Erin didn’t come in time … The man was a criminal, a murderer. Now he was about to make his getaway and he was powerless to stop him.

“You’ll never get away with it, you know.”

“Oh, no? Once we’re on that plane I can go wherever I want to. Did you think I wouldn’t have a contingency plan?” He prodded Steve in the back with the gun’s barrel. “How do you feel about a free-fall at six thousand metres — minus a parachute — over some remote outback area? Quite possibly your body will never be found, and it’ll look as if you’ve just disappeared. The authorities won’t know where to look for you.”

Steve didn’t care to answer the question about free-falling, so he remained silent.

“Westcott!”

A shot rang over their heads and lodged in the plane’s fuselage.

Les pushed Steve forward then swivelled around to see two police officers sprinting towards them, their guns drawn. Damn! Parrish hadn’t been bluffing. He hesitated for a second, unsure of the distance and an unfamiliar gun. He took aim and fired two rounds, and whooped with satisfaction as the male officer dropped to his knees, hit in the thigh. The other officer knelt to render assistance.

Les began to shudder with repressed rage. All his plans and his dreams had been undone by this dumb copper. Escape was now his only option even though his confession to Steve would be just his word against the policeman’s. Damn Parrish. The man was smarter than he looked.
Kill him
, a voice inside his head encouraged. His eyes narrowed in speculation. There’d be witnesses — the two cops — and he knew how the police worked, they never gave up if you killed one of their own.

Les’ preoccupation with Neil and Erin was the diversion Steve needed. Ducking at the waist as he turned, he lunged at Les and caught him around the legs. All those tackles in the police rugby league team hadn’t been in vain, he thought as the rangy man toppled to the ground expelling a grunt of pain and dropping the gun. They rolled around on the dusty earth, each trying to land telling blows. Steve’s fist made contact with Les nose, hard enough to cause a trail of blood to run down his cheek. Then Westcott’s elbow caught him in the diaphragm. Winded, he fought for breath but managed to get another fist onto Les’ jaw before his opponent brought his right fist up in a powerful uppercut.

Steve saw stars and shook his head, trying to stop the spinning sensation. His muscles began to dissolve and he could feel his body going limp as he fought against the enveloping darkness.

As Les scrambled to his feet he swore under his breath. Forget Parrish, he had to get away. He glanced back at the two officers. The man lay on the ground but the female continued to approach, cautiously, her gun at shoulder level in front of her. Further back he saw Francey running towards the action. He stared at Parrish, the man was on all fours, trying to reach for the gun. Shit, he’d got his hand around the butt. No more time, he decided.

Another shot buzzed close to Les, spitting up particles of red earth. He saw that the policewoman had dropped to her knee and was taking deliberate aim.

“Stop Westcott!” Erin’s yell carried on the afternoon breeze. “I’ll shoot.”

Survival, the most primitive instinct came to the
fore.

Les straightened up and raced towards the plane. He leapt up the steps two at a time but as he was about to disappear inside another shot rang out — so close the noise almost deafened him. Searing pain ripped through his left shoulder. His hand went up to investigate and came away wet. For all of two seconds he stared at his bloodied hand. Then he groaned as the pain accelerated through his shoulder, his back and down his arm. Parrish had shot him, the bastard. Grimacing he pulled the Learjet’s door shut and stumbled to the cockpit. Within seconds the jet’s twin motors roared into life, and the plane started to taxi onto the airstrip.

Steve struggled to his feet and shook his head in an attempt to stop the ringing in his ears. Westcott’s blow had almost rendered him unconscious. He saw the plane moving along the tarmac and heard the engine building to full throttle. How far could a .38 bullet travel, he wondered? Maybe a thousand metres. Hell, he couldn’t remember for sure. With legs apart, arms out in front of him and raised to shoulder height he fired, aiming for the wings because he’d heard somewhere that that was where the fuel tanks were situated. He emptied every round into the plane.

Erin, breathless, reached his side. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Steve’s tone was brusque. “The bastard’s getting away though.” Like the other times. A future vision of his colleagues whispering that he’d failed again drove him to the point of fury. “Give me your gun!” He grabbed it and emptied the remaining
bullets into the jet as it picked up speed along the strip. “Shit, he’s going to make it.” Gritting his teeth he closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the reality of Westcott’s escape.
Another failure.
His shoulders slumped in defeat and for the life of him he couldn’t think of a word to say. Almost against his will his eyes opened and he watched the jet reach maximum speed, take off and ascend in a straight line towards the horizon.

“We got everything on tape, Steve. His confession. Francey heard it too.” She patted him on the arm. “No-one could have done better, you know. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.” And then, ever the efficient cop, she added, “We should contact Interpol as soon as we get back to the homestead.”