No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  No Witness,

  No Case

  Bill Robertson

  Published by Brolga Publishing Pty Ltd

  ABN 46 063 962 443

  PO Box 12544

  A’Beckett St

  Melbourne, VIC, 8006

  Australia

  email: markzocchi@brolgapublishing.com.au

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission from the publisher.

  Copyright © 2013 Bill Robertson

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Author: Robertson, Bill

  Title: No witness, no case / Bill Robertson.

  ISBN: 9781922175489 (ebook)

  Subjects: Organized crime--Fiction.

  Refuse and refuse disposal--Fiction.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  Cover design by Chameleon Print Design

  Typeset by Wanissa Somsuphangsri

  For Molly

  my mother-in-law.

  A great lady who proudly listened and always encouraged as each chapter unfolded.

  And Graham

  whose honest and humourous input kept me grounded.

  “ … human courage and dignity are always

  the most potent weapons against corruption.”

  - Robert Payne

  1975

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  Chapter TWENTY-SIX

  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chapter TWENTY-NINE

  Chapter THIRTY

  Chapter THIRTY-ONE

  Chapter THIRTY-TWO

  Chapter THIRTY-THREE

  Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

  Chapter THIRTY-SIX

  Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN

  Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT

  Chapter THIRTY-NINE

  Chapter FORTY

  Chapter FORTY-ONE

  Chapter FORTY-TWO

  Chapter FORTY-THREE

  Chapter FORTY-FOUR

  Chapter FORTY-FIVE

  Chapter FORTY-SIX

  Chapter FORTY-SEVEN

  Chapter FORTY-EIGHT

  Chapter FORTY-NINE

  Chapter FIFTY

  Chapter FIFTY-ONE

  Chapter FIFTY-TWO

  Chapter FIFTY-THREE

  Chapter FIFTY-FOUR

  Chapter FIFTY-FIVE

  Chapter FIFTY-SIX

  Chapter FIFTY-SEVEN

  Chapter FIFTY-EIGHT

  Chapter FIFTY-NINE

  Chapter SIXTY

  Chapter SIXTY-ONE

  Chapter SIXTY-TWO

  Chapter SIXTY-THREE

  Chapter SIXTY-FOUR

  Chapter SIXTY-FIVE

  Chapter SIXTY-SIX

  Chapter SIXTY-SEVEN

  Chapter SIXTY-EIGHT

  Chapter SIXTY-NINE

  Chapter SEVENTY

  Chapter SEVENTY-ONE

  Chapter SEVENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgement

  PROLOGUE

  Autumn, 2012

  Powerscourt Gardens, laid out by Daniel Robertson in 1831, had become a favourite retreat for Sinaid and Finn O’Donnell. Fingers entwined, they strolled through shafts of sunlight slanting between moss covered elms and oaks. In autumn, the gardens were magical. Ahead, five-year-old son Patrick happily pointed out swans to his younger brother, Thomas. The elegantly sculpted landscape was mellow and harmonious – markedly different from Australia’s blue green eucalypts, azure skies and strident red, brown and yellow soils.

  The O’Donnells had moved from Australia to Ireland in 2007, and after five years in County Wicklow, marvelled at the rich and blessed lives they had created.

  On this mild afternoon, traces of wood smoke brought a wistful, yet deep solace to the grounds. Tomorrow, the O’Donnells would meet Australian friends they had not seen for six years. They looked forward to their reunion and to showing off their two boys.

  Finn gave Sinaid’s hand a squeeze as little Thomas came trotting back, his chubby hand clutching the silvery grey pinion feather of a red-footed falcon.

  ‘Look, look,’ he squealed, ‘I’ve got a lucky fevver. Look Mummy, a lucky fevver.’

  ‘Ah little man,’ murmured Finn, ‘that is indeed lucky because for us it means freedom and safety and one day, when you are old enough, we’ll tell you why.’

  Chapter ONE

  May, 2005

  Danny Browne was worried. For weeks he had secretly visited the doctor about his rapid weight loss, night sweats and sleeplessness. He told Alice, his wife, that a big activity spike at work was responsible, but he now knew it was a virulent form of cancer.

  At 3:00 a.m. he was pushing the huge Kenworth tanker at a steady ninety-five clicks along the Northern Highway towards Heathcote, Central Victoria. In the padded cabin, instruments glinted from the bird’s eye maple bulkhead and Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red caressed the rich sound system. Here it was warm and relatively quiet above the big motor. Twin halogen beams lanced a brilliant white tunnel through the blackness, hunting the road-edge for kangaroos.

  Yet the cancer and distress it would cause his family was not all that worried Danny; it was also the highly toxic chemicals he was about to dump near Knowsley. He had been doing this work for nigh on twenty years yet only recently had connected the poisonous concoctions with his cancer. And it was this, that for the first time, made him think seriously about his past activities.

  Danny had worked at Aldrittson’s waste business for twenty-five years. At the beginning, after five years of reliable effort, the boss, Big Jack Aldrittson, had asked him whether he would like to double his income. With a young family and new mortgage he had jumped at the chance. Now he winced recalling that long gone discussion.

  ‘What’s the catch?’ he had asked, intrigued.

  Big Jack had smilingly replied, ‘No catches Danny, but if I tell you how things work, your life will never be the same. How you deal with that is your problem. Take some time before you answer. Whether you accept or reject my offer, once you know what it is you’re mine forever.’ Given his time with the firm already, Danny could not imagine anything that would so change his life and accepted. Sworn to secrecy, the conditions were simple: if ever he revealed what he knew, serious harm would visit his family. As Big Jack explained this, his quiet voice was laced with menace. It was impossible for Danny to misunderstand his new situation.

  And so began a secret life – covertly dumping toxic waste across the Australian countryside in return for lucrative underhand cash. The more noxious the load, the bigger the bonus. He had marvelled at this but well understood that Big Jack believed totally in nurturing his business.

  He had not worried about what he did back then. The family prospered, enjoyed a cosy well-appointed h
ome and two cars, and soon his children would enter university. Alice loved him and his kids were a joy. None suspected the true source of their wealth. But declining health forced him to consider the possibility of a link to his unlawful activities. Quietly, at home, he surfed the net looking for information about the various chemicals he hauled. To his horror, there were clear connections between different types of cancer and some of the chemicals he had been dumping.

  A month ago, his general nausea changed to regular vomiting and diarrhoea. He had deflected Alice’s pestering to see their doctor by saying he had caught a touch of dysentery from a workmate who had holidayed in Thailand. He exaggerated his workload and blamed his tiredness on a new waste contract. Finally, he gently diverted Alice’s attention by talking of their forthcoming Canadian holiday.

  Secretly, he had taken medical tests and learned of his invasive blood cancer known as hairy cell leukaemia. The link between this disease and benzene was clear, and benzene was regularly on his black inventory. Even tiny amounts of the stuff on skin could induce harmful results but if ingested, a mere drop in forty-four gallons of water was enough to kill. Over the years, he had been splashed by benzene more times than he could remember.

  His spirits lifted as he thought of the Canadian break. Tapping to the beat of Don’t Pay the Ferryman, he carefully nosed into Schoolhouse Lane, a gravel road leading to the dump site. As quickly as his mood soared it plummeted, anchored in worry. He knew only too well this scam was concealed inside an old and highly respected waste disposal business. Of the sixty or so employees he thought maybe only ten undertook black work. Yet he wasn’t even sure about that. Jack had implied he was the only one involved. Nevertheless he suspected there were others, just like him, who had been hand-picked.

  He wondered if any of them had cancer. Last week the media was screaming about poisons dumped on public land and demanding answers. And, not long ago, the Environment Protection Authority (EPA) had reported noxious chemicals in the water supply of the small town of Walwa. He was thankful this site was not on his dump list but wondered who had released the stuff.

  With these sombre concerns in mind he went to his foreman, Bernardo Santini. Santini scheduled disposals for all forms of waste. The normally easy-going Santini had been unusually caustic and probing over Danny’s questions about the press and EPA. He had not mentioned his illness yet mulling over their encounter, he felt Santini’s abruptness barely stopped short of an accusation. Something malicious and unknown to him. Now, reflecting on that conversation he made a sudden decision: Well fuck you Santini, and double fuck you Aldrittson. I’ve got nothing to lose now. I’m takin’ this lot to the EPA.

  A sense of peace swept through him. After crossing Derrinal-Crosbie Road and feeling a new sense of purpose, he pitched violently forward as the tanker erupted into a giant ball of flame, smoke and blistering heat. It was Danny Browne’s last thought as air whooshed from the cabin and his body was engulfed in searing white flames. It was 3:20 a.m., Thursday, May 20, 2005.

  Chapter

  TWO

  Andy Drummond woke instantly to the whump of Browne’s exploding truck. Years as a military policeman had honed his reflexes to the sharpness of a Ghurkha’s kukri.

  What the hell was that? Alert, he lay still … listening. The silence of his thick-walled, straw-bale house was dense and comforting. He was accustomed to the muffled thump of artillery from the army base at Puckapunyal, but that was north east of his farm. This noise was from the west.

  Sliding out of bed Drummond, a thirty-nine year old tall, sinewy, ex-soldier often ribbed about his “Robert Redford” looks, padded along the hall and out to the north verandah. To his left, a red glow pulsed in Schoolhouse Lane. Another explosion rippled through the crisp night air, more subdued, he thought, than the first noise. Running inside, he pulled on a track suit and work boots and dashed to his ute. He flew down the curving driveway to Schoolhouse Lane, chattered over the cattle grid then speared left.

  At Derrinal-Crosbie Road Drummond was greeted by a roaring, leaping inferno – the rapidly emerging skeleton of a blazing truck. Branches from overhanging gums burned fiercely. He jumped from his ute and peered into the flames looking for the driver. Shielding his eyes from the heat and glare, he walked forward. At thirty metres it was impossible to get closer. Wild, malevolent, fiery tongues crackled and spat from a gaudy palette of colours.

  Christ, he thought, if the poor bastard driving this didn’t get out he’s buggered. Bobbing and ducking from the debris of constant small explosions, he circled searching for the driver. Finding nothing, he phoned his friend and local police sergeant, Tony Maud.

  ‘Tony, sorry to wake you, it’s Andy. I’m at Schoolhouse and Derrinal. A bloody great truck fire.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’ Tony yawned.

  ‘Not sure. I can’t find anyone and I’ve been around the truck. I don’t know who’s involved or what happened. Can’t get close enough to find out. I can’t even tell you what kind of truck it is apart from a tanker of some kind. I’m actually watching the metal frame burn as we speak. The flames are all multi- coloured. I reckon it’s a load of chemicals.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks cobber. Keep an eye on it, I’ll raise the cavalry and be there ASAP.’

  At 4:00 a.m., Tony Maud and Senior Constable Ian Patching arrived in the police four-by-four. Hot on their heels a local Country Fire Authority truck pulled up with a half dozen volunteers.

  Maud was a big man, better than two metres tall and carrying a large gut. His moon-like face sported a healthy moustache and at this early hour, a robust stubble. Now fifty-two, he had arrived in Heathcote ten years earlier. He and his wife Mary had fallen in love with the clean fresh Heathcote air, hot summers and cold, starlit winter nights. He circled the blaze and made his way to Drummond. ‘What’s the go Andy?’

  ‘I was asleep and got woken by what sounded like an explosion. At first I thought it was night-firing at Pucka, but when I went outside, I could see a funny kind of light down Schoolhouse. That’s when I heard another explosion. I belted up here and found this. I’ve been around the truck a couple of times but haven’t found anyone.’

  ‘I don’t like the feel of this.’ Maud frowned. ‘Like you said, looks like chemicals. Jesus! Cop that!’ He pointed to three fire fighters thwarted from getting foam onto the fire and retreating under the protection of a misting spray. ‘Those sprays are bloody good cover. If they can’t …’

  A crashing detonation sent an enormous column of ink-black smoke spiralling skywards. It was accompanied by a spectacular shower of glimmering sparks and a fusillade of hissing, whistling missiles. At the same time, one of the heavier burning branches crashed to the road in flames.

  Patching ran up saying, ‘Boss, I’ve just had word from Tommy Harrigan. We’ve gotta go, fumes are poisoning the air. He’s instructed his men to wear breathing apparatus and he hasn’t got enough for us.’

  Maud turned to his friend. ‘I reckon now’s a good time for you to nick off mate. I’ll get some troops from Bendigo. I might even call on forensics too. Depends what we find. I’ll come by in a day or two for a statement.’

  Andy drove home thoughtfully. What had caused the fire? Where was the poor bastard who had driven the rig? Nothing suggested a loss of control or crash with another vehicle. As he drove he recalled hearing large vehicles on Schoolhouse Lane several times over the past twelve to eighteen months, usually between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. He had never seen them, only heard them. There had been no consistent pattern to their presence and nothing recently until the explosion tonight. He wondered if this was the truck he had heard in the past. Where in the hell was it going? And what on earth was it carrying? When the police activity died down, he would sniff around for himself.

  Chapter

  THREE

  Bernardo Santini was pleased. He was, as usual, at the Aldrittson Waste Depot early. On his way he had listened expectantly to the 5:30 a.m. ABC news bulletin and heard brief reference to a truck fire near
Bendigo. There was no mention of the driver or truck identification. He was satisfied with that. It wouldn’t be long before those issues were raised and he was well prepared for when that happened.

  Opening up his computer Santini hummed tunelessly as he checked the daily manifests. As foreman, this was one of his tasks. To many of Aldrittson’s workers he was the cheerful roster clerk who worked out the hours, days, drivers and job lots. He enjoyed the computer because it made life easy. At sixty years of age, he had glided into the cyber world like an eagle on a summer thermal. He could plan work for the forty drivers comfortably, cover for illness, breakdowns, maintenance schedules, high and low demand, country and metropolitan jobs and, after all that, meet his manifests with ease. As with most aspects of his life, Santini was adaptable and meticulous.

  Born in Sicily during the sunset of German power in 1944, he had arrived in Australia with his parents in August 1954 on the S. S. Neptunia: a wiry, energetic, inquisitive ten-year-old. Today, he recalled little of Enna, his mountain top birthplace. To the contrary, he professed small interest in its rich and turbulent history; a city said to have been continuously settled since 1200 BC. He was grateful his parents had chosen Australia as their new home. While settling in had been a challenge, language came easily to him and he had garnered authority over his parents as their translator. Thus, at an early age, he tasted and revelled in the exhilaration of power and decision making.

  In the Snowy Mountains where his father worked, the young Santini blended in. As one of many children from a host of countries who had arrived in similar circumstances he mastered the art of becoming unseen among people, a skill he could seemingly invoke at will.

  And so it was at Aldrittson’s. When Santini joined the firm he had quietly blended in and none suspected his real power. Old Thomas Aldrittson, founder of the company, was still running the show then. At the end of World War 1, the Old Man had seen opportunity in scrap metals, repatriated war equipment, glass and, much later, worn-out car batteries. He had been careful and selective in business, loyal to his men and scrupulously honest. Like most, he was hit hard by the Great Depression of the thirties but took little from the company, managed to retain his tiny workforce, paid them frugally and nurtured them all through it.