Sinister Intent

by Karen M. Davis

  ‘One of the rumours going around was that Burgh was behind the theft; that he had his own little racket going on. But it could never be proved.’

  ‘So you think Hollywood was involved?’

  Josh’s head snapped up.

  ‘Not for one minute,’ he said, vehemently. ‘He was a good cop stuck with a bad partner who was his superior.’

  He took the harshness out of his voice as he looked into Lexie’s eyes.

  ‘I think he knew too much, was an unwilling witness to events he didn’t know how to handle.’

  He shook his head miserably.

  ‘He couldn’t win. If he talked, dobbed on a fellow cop – he was a dog. If he didn’t, he was dragged into the shit with him. I only regret not trying harder to get him to open up.’

  Josh studied Lexie, who was now staring at her empty glass of wine. She reached forward and poured only half for herself but topped his all the way up. He noticed her hand shook ever so slightly as she brought the glass to her lips.

  ‘One night they went out on a job that turned bad.’

  He paused, took a deep breath. It was hard to talk about even though he’d gone over the scenario so many times in his head he knew it by heart.

  ‘Burgh and Hollywood attended a routine report of an assault. They were talking to the supposed victim when, apparently,’ he enunciated the last word with a sarcastic twist, ‘the victim suddenly pulled out a gun and shot my mate straight through the heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.’

  Josh checked Lexie’s reaction to the tragic tale. It was now her turn to stare at the floor. He could tell his story was upsetting her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, go on,’ Lexie insisted, still not meeting his eyes.

  ‘Burgh shot the offender dead but not in time to save Hollywood.’

  He shook his head in disgust.

  ‘He was cleared of any blame at the inquest, of course. How could he not be? There were three people, and only one was still alive to tell the story.’

  Josh knew he sounded bitter but he couldn’t help it.

  ‘Dead men don’t tell tales.’

  Lexie seemed to struggle to keep her expression neutral.

  ‘What are you saying? Go on . . . tell me the rest.’

  Josh swallowed more wine, his eyes staring back out into the night.

  ‘I’ve always had a theory.’ He kept his words as succinct as possible. ‘A theory that unfortunately can never be proved. I think, and what Burgh knows I think, is that Hollywood was a threat. Back then you were either with Burgh, as one of his cronies, or you weren’t. I don’t know if he set the whole thing up to take Hollywood out of the picture, out of the equation, but it just seemed mighty convenient from where I was sitting. “Damage control.” When a crook was a menace or a danger to society, or to himself, Burgh would deal with them as “damage control”. I’ve heard him say it many times.’

  ‘What would happen to the crooks that Burgh dealt with?’ Lexie asked.

  ‘They were usually never seen again.’

  Looking at Lexie, he saw the unshed tears in her eyes. He felt bad. The story had clearly saddened her.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to upset you . . . you asked the question.’

  ‘I know. I’m fine.’

  She shifted around on the lounge in a show of getting comfortable but Josh sensed it was distress making her restless.

  ‘Do you really think Burgh is capable of murdering someone? A fellow officer?’

  Her voice was strained with emotion and something else; astonishment, enmity?

  ‘He didn’t pull the trigger but he didn’t prevent it. Burgh was supposed to have Hollywood’s back.’

  ‘Accidents happen, Josh. Cops have been killed in front of other cops before. Cops have killed other cops by accident before. We can’t control every situation.’

  ‘Burgh is a bad cop, he’s corrupt. I know it, some others know it. Up until now he’s just been too smart to get caught, but eventually, he’ll get complacent. He’ll stuff up, all crooks do. Hollywood was such a great bloke. He was too young to die. He was only . . .’

  ‘Twenty-nine,’ they said in unison.

  Josh stared at Lexie questioningly. A heavy feeling began to invade his bones. The police community was a small province. How stupid he hadn’t even considered she might know him.

  Lexie spoke quietly.

  ‘Your friend Hollywood. His name was Lincoln Taylor?’ It was a statement not a question.

  Surprised, Josh could only nod dumbly.

  ‘Lincoln Taylor was my brother.’

  CHAPTER 44

  Rex stared up at the starlit sky and swallowed a mad rush of panic. This was nuts, absolutely crazy. He couldn’t do this.

  Then a sudden surge of anger gave him strength as he reminded himself that the arsehole deserved everything he had coming. He’d been left with no choice. There was no other way to end this.

  He’s a killer. He deserves to die.

  Shrouded in shadows and the cover of nightfall, Rex sat astride his bike at the end of the suburban street in Maroubra. Knowing there was no such thing as the perfect plan, he’d ensured all precautions had been taken to conceal his culpability. He’d strategically parked between a maintenance van and a four-wheel drive; this obscured his position unless you walked straight past. And just in case there were any overly vigilant neighbourhood watch Nazis around, Rex had wrapped some black cloth around his rear number plate to prevent anyone taking down his registration. You could never be too careful. Once the deed was done and he was a safe distance away, he could easily rip the cloth off and be on his way.

  Instinctively he glanced around the darkness, at the empty road lit only by a distant street light and the sporadic glow of interior lights behind curtained windows. He’d been watching those windows, alert to any twitching of curtains or curious eyes peering out into the night. There had been none. It was around 10 pm and he could still smell the remnants of Chinese cooking in the warm air. His leather jacket was sticking to his clammy skin and perspiration dripped a steady beat down his back. Why was it so disconcertingly quiet, he wondered. He was only kilometres from a major city yet there was only the muted buzz of television sets filtering through open windows and the soft swish of the breeze in the trees to keep him company.

  Good. The breeze would help fan the flames.

  Twenty minutes had passed. It felt like hours. This was the second time he’d been back. Rex thought his target would have arrived home by now, but he was still a no-show, which was frustrating because he didn’t want to be here all night. He wanted to get this over and done with. Besides, the longer he hung around the more chance he had of appearing suspicious.

  Earlier, just as the sun had begun its descent, Rex had cased the joint. There had been no one around as he’d circled the perimeter of the Grub’s property. As luck would have it, his house was a freestanding, single-storey cottage, positioned on a corner block. It had three street frontages with a dimly lit laneway that ran along the back. It was perfect. But what was even better was that the entire boundary of the land was surrounded by a high brushwood fence. Man, that would go up in minutes and the sparks generated would spread rapidly.

  Feeling surprisingly calm, he’d wandered into the narrow laneway behind the cottage and peered over the fence, which, at his height, was a surprisingly easy feat. Renovations had added a modern entertainment deck with an impressive spa set up at one end. No shortage of money here, he thought contemptuously as he took in the elegant French doors and finely polished wooden window frames. He’d looked up onto the roof, and at the gutters that were overflowing with enough twigs and leaves to start a bushfire. It was kindling in the making.

  Fire fucks forensics.

  Fire might destroy forensics, however Rex would need the petrol and rags he’d stored in his backpack as an accelerant, to give the blaze an explosive launch. This, of course, would stuff the accident concept. An investigation would
determine it was arson, but there was nothing he could do about that. There was no other way to get at the Grub. Besides, it couldn’t be linked back to him. He had it all worked out. Kate and Rowdy would be his alibi. They would vouch he was home with them. It would be impossible to pinpoint the exact time the fire started so he could hightail it across town, stop in at the 7-Eleven up the road from Rowdy’s, buy some milk, and some smokes, just so he got his face on CCTV. He’d ditch the petrol can, burn his clothes in the back yard and then have a beer or ten to celebrate.

  He revised his plan for the umpteenth time. Once the Grub’s car was in the driveway and the house was in darkness, he would silently sprinkle petrol around the perimeter of the property and along the fence line. He couldn’t risk doing it earlier for fear the strong petrol fumes might give the game away. Rex expected the petrol, once lit, would explode, so to prevent going up in smoke along with the property, he’d shoot flares from a safe distance into the fence, onto the deck and into the gutters.

  For a moment he allowed himself to imagine the scene; embryonic flames spreading along the brushwood fence, slowly rising up, building heat and energy. The yellow and orange glow would flicker into the sky as sparks shot off in all directions, lighting up the darkness. He could almost smell the pungent smoke saturating the air, hear the crackle of burning timber, and the popping and explosive sounds as possessions were consumed and reduced to ashes. It had the potential to be a great bonfire and he wished he could stick around to watch the fireworks, witness the bastard’s world engulfed and destroyed. But that was not possible.

  Where was the prick? Rex considered getting something to eat while he waited. He could come back in half an hour. Hopefully, the Grub would be home by then. His mouth started to water at the thought of a juicy hamburger; maybe a double whopper? There was a Hungry Jacks not far from here, he thought. He was about to turn the ignition on his bike when a set of headlights rounded the corner and drove into the street. Concealing his face with his helmet, Rex expected the car to pull into the first driveway, but instead, it drove past the Grub’s house, cruised past him slowly, and at the end of the road performed a U-turn.

  Pretending to start his bike, Rex watched the car out of the corner of his eye. Maybe the driver had taken a wrong turn, he thought, but then his instincts prickled. In slow motion he watched the window slide down. He saw a flash of metal, a gun. His heart jumped into his throat.

  Shit, this was a hit.

  There was no time to reach for the gun in his backpack. With only a split second to move before he was splattered across the street, Rex cranked the ignition, slammed the bike into gear and took the only means of escape available. Mounting the kerb, he raced along the footpath, hoping desperately he didn’t hit any unseen obstacles and praying that the protection of parked cars lining the street would act as a shield if a bullet came his way.

  He flew off the footpath at the end of the street, becoming airborne for a harrowing moment until he hit the ground hard, skidded around the corner, and took off at full throttle. It was now he hoped his years of riding experience would come through for him. He would never normally drive at this speed at night, but right now, if he didn’t get away from the car chasing him, he was dead. Rex was riding for his life.

  Daring to check his mirrors, he saw the car coming up his rear. Fuck. All thoughts of revenge dissipated as he flew along the road, his heart hammering and his mind calculating the best route. He had to lose him. And the best way to do this, Rex decided, was to stick to main roads; that way he couldn’t be trapped in a dead end. He’d head out of the city, get on the freeway where he could take off. This was a Harley-Davidson. Not the fastest bike in the world but still, he should be able to outrun any car on this monster. He glanced in his mirrors. Shit. The set of headlights was still behind him.

  He hit the throttle. The engine roared as it picked up speed. The lights fell back a bit but were still following. He was almost on Anzac Parade. From there he could turn onto Southern Cross Drive and head south. Nothing would catch him on the open road.

  Consumed with making his escape, Rex didn’t see the car pull out from a parking space in front of him until it was too late. He slammed on the brakes and swerved to avoid contact but his back tyre hit a pothole on the road. He over-corrected and skidded out of control. Fear leapt from his stomach to his throat as the bike trembled, got the death wobbles and mounted the gutter on the other side of the road.

  The last thing Rex saw was the telegraph pole coming straight at him.

  CHAPTER 45

  Lexie knew, almost from the outset of Josh’s ‘theory’, that he was talking about her brother. It all added up; the time frame, the station, the nickname, the event. And although she couldn’t have known what he was about to say, she had tried to anticipate the sting, had sought to prepare for the impact of his words.

  It hadn’t worked. Lexie felt like she’d been punched in the face.

  Swallowing the massive lump in her throat, she struggled to consider the implications.

  Josh looked mortified at the anguish he was causing her and had turned deathly pale

  Not knowing what else to do, Lexie pushed herself off the lounge and took the photo of her brother from the wall in the hallway. A pair of brown eyes, just like her own, stared back at her, and for a split second the sense of loss and desolation was as intense as when it had first happened. Oh Lincoln, how I miss you.

  It was strange, she thought, how time blurred some memories of the dead; their physical features, their voice might become a little hazy in the mind’s eye, but the emotional pain of their departure could still remain as sharp and fresh as ever.

  Sitting down next to Josh, Lexie handed him the framed photo. He took it from her and she saw that his eyes were welling up.

  ‘I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lexie told him, finding the need to reassure him took precedence over her own feelings.

  ‘How have we not met before? How did I not know who you were?’

  He seemed angry at himself for his ignorance. ‘I was at the funeral, I don’t remember . . . I spoke to your mother and father. I don’t remember seeing you. I would remember you.’

  ‘It was two years ago and there were five or six hundred people at the funeral, Josh.’

  It had been a full police extravaganza, with a guard of honour. As a mark of respect for their fallen comrade police had lined the streets leading from the church for what seemed like miles. She remembered examining their faces. Some had tears rolling freely down their cheeks, others struggled to remain stoic, as they saluted the funeral procession when it passed by. When a cop got killed it affected them all. Although it had been incredibly sad, very surreal and overwhelming, there were moments where she’d felt exceedingly proud of the respect shown to her brother by his peers, some of whom had never even met him. If there was one thing the police department could do well, it was an impressive funeral.

  ‘I was married. We split up a year ago but I kept my married name, only because it’s easier not to go through the process of changing all the documents.’

  Josh stared at her with wide eyes, clearly surprised at this news.

  ‘Everyone knows me as Rogers now, so there’s no link there. Were you at the inquest?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. I didn’t handle Lincoln’s death well at all. I took six months’ long service leave and went overseas. It’s a character flaw, I’m afraid. When the going gets tough the not so tough take off,’ he stated flatly. ‘I wasn’t around for the inquest.’

  He stared at the picture of her brother, then glanced at Lexie.

  ‘You have the same eyes. Now I know why you looked familiar to me.’

  Lexie nodded in agreement, doing her best to hold the tears that were threatening at bay.

  There was a knock at the door. They both stared at it as though expecting it to open on its own.

  ‘It must be the takeaway I ordered,’
Lexie said, jumping off the lounge.

  She paid the courier and quickly placed the food in the kitchen.

  ‘If you’re hungry, I ordered plenty,’ she told him, coming back into the living room and sitting on the lounge opposite him.

  He didn’t reply. His eyes remained on the floor.

  Lexie reached forward, plucked her glass from the coffee table and took a large sip as she regarded Josh, who hadn’t moved. It was hard to comprehend that Burgh, a fellow cop, could have intentionally failed to prevent her brother from being shot, for his own selfish reasons. The thought that he may have set the whole thing up, orchestrated her brother’s murder . . . That was just too shocking to fully comprehend.

  Surely Josh’s dislike for the man was clouding his judgement, Lexie reasoned. Then again, anything was possible. There were plenty of ex-police rotting away in their protected cells, behind prison walls, doing time for a diversity of crimes, all unbefitting a police officer.

  Taking a deep breath, Lexie became aware of a slow burning working its way into a tight spasm in her gut. Like a vampire’s thirst for blood, an all-consuming hunger for the truth was taking form in the depths of her soul. Did this explain her aversion to Burgh? Was her gut instinct telling her something? Or, under the circumstances, was it perfectly acceptable for her to privately condemn the man who, as Lincoln’s partner, should have had his back at all times?

  She realised she was becoming lost in her own thoughts and tried to clear her mind. It was too much to process. Besides, she was getting increasingly worried about Josh, who’d looked frozen in horror since learning about Lincoln. He seemed to be almost catatonic, and it was starting to scare her. Lexie slipped from her seat and onto her knees in front of him, shaking him gently by the shoulders.