No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  ‘Before coming here I put out some feelers. So far, only the local bloke is involved. While I won’t be complacent, in my experience most country coppers are slack. I don’t think this guy Maud from Heathcote will be any different but, we’ll watch him.’ Santini smiled again.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Teresa Marchese entered and deposited a cappuccino on Santini’s side table. ‘Anything more Giuseppe?’ she enquired.

  ‘No Teresa, but keep on with that property analysis, I’d like to know by 4:00 p.m. if we have to pressure Blanchard’s family.’ She nodded and left the room, her perfume lingering in the cigar smoke.

  ‘Nardo, Teresa’s finalising the last property acquisition for our waste treatment scheme. I believe it’s time to lean on our politician … get him softened up.’ He paused before continuing. ‘I am hearing certain things which disturb me, things that suggest it’s time to accelerate our scheme. I’ll be speaking to Jack but he doesn’t need to know just yet that you’re talking to Ben. Get it happening will you.’

  ‘Don Pescaro, I have been buried in this firm a long time. Neither of the Aldrittsons actually know I work for you. If I lean on Ben that will compromise my role there.’ The oblique query was polite but valid.

  ‘I doubt that is a risk of much substance Nardo. I have been investigating Ben recently and he is a very corrupt man. Indeed, it surprises me that those around him don’t suspect him of wrongdoing. I want this waste scheme in place and I want him to understand that what he does, he now does for me. I want him to feel my power. Your talk with him will make that clear. He works for me.’

  ‘I understand. He will be clear about how things stand.’

  ‘Nardo, this Browne thing could be trouble. I want our scheme legitimised as soon as possible. The capacity of this project will not only manage Victoria’s crap, but can handle the other states too. No one really wants to deal with toxic shit. Who knows, with the technology we’ve got lined up, we might even get a licence to destroy overseas stuff – maybe even nuclear waste. That would bring mega dollars. And there you have the difference between me and the Genovese mob. They were too impatient, thought too small and had no vision for the future. We can learn from that. So, be clear. I want things on the rails and smooth.’

  Chapter

  FIVE

  Three days after the truck fire, Drummond was hauling logs to a growing pile in the paddock. The fresh autumn morning was crisp and clear and the low sun pale. When a police car turned into the drive from Schoolhouse Lane he stopped the tractor, released the haul-chain and burbled uphill to the house. Tony Maud was leaning against a veranda post when he got there.

  ‘G’day Tony, how are you?’

  ‘Good cobber. What are you playing at down there? You rich bloody retirees. Why couldn’t you do something useful!’ Drummond grinned. Banter between them was constant since they forged their friendship at a tree planting project several years earlier. Maud was older than Drummond who had quit the army a year after he and his wife Susan won the lottery.

  ‘Quit ya bitchin’ and come inside. You can give me the drum on the truck fire.’

  They entered the house and walked through the lounge-dining room, the hub of Drummond’s home. He called it “the big room” since it was the size of a decent shed. At its western end was a three seater divan and several cavernous club chairs around a low messmate coffee table. Behind the table, a fieldstone fire place. With its abundant space, soft buttery coloured walls, paintings, family artefacts and thick straw-bale outer walls, the room possessed a charming cosiness. Drummond loved it. Especially during winter when the fire blazed.

  They went into the kitchen, a compact space backing onto the dining area. There, an ancient slow combustion Aga found at a clearing sale filled the room with gentle warmth. On its firebox sat an ancient, blackened, cast iron boiler with a bright brass tap. Boiling water was ever ready.

  ‘Grab a stool mate, tea’ll be ready in a jiff. Do you want something to eat? I’ve got some of Gaffney’s wholemeal fruit and honey loaf.’

  ‘Dish her up cobber,’ said Maud smiling, ‘I was in Tooborac at sparrow fart this morning. Some silly bastard tried to rumba with a ‘roo. Trouble was, the ‘roo was sober and he was pissed and now his car’s a write-off. Breakfast was a century ago.’

  Propping at the counter, Maud continued, ‘I guess you’ve seen all the guff on telly about the fire. Well, I’ll need your statement for an inquest. When we finally got the bloody fire out we found the driver’s remains in the cabin. Poor bastard. He was just a charred, black twist. At the time I didn’t understand why the fire was so bloody intense. The engine block was a fused heap of crap, nothing left of the tyres and most of the truck frame had disintegrated. Anyway, our forensic guys spent two full days at the scene and their findings indicate the truck was full to the bloody brim with chemicals. It became its own bloody furnace. I’m still waiting on them to find out what chemicals were involved and maybe, what caused the fire.’

  ‘What about the driver?’ enquired Drummond, ‘do you know who he was?’

  ‘No, nothing. No information about where the truck came from either. Although, coincidentally, a firm in Brooklyn called Aldrittson Waste Disposals reported a driver overdue. Supposedly, he was on his way to Mildura for a load of asbestos sludge. Trouble is, we can’t yet say if this body was their man. All the usual identification markers, number plates, chassis and engine numbers, don’t exist anymore. And, if he was their man, he was in the wrong place. In other words, nowhere near here. But, if he is their man, there’s another inconsistency, the truck should have been empty. So … bit of a mystery at the minute. Anything you can help with will be good.’

  As Drummond listened he considered telling his friend of the early morning trucks in Schoolhouse Lane. For the moment though, he decided against it. He had nothing of substance to give him. As a military policeman trained by the Victoria Police Detective Training school, reputedly the toughest in Australia (the bastards even set the pass mark at seventy-five per cent) he was confident he knew enough not to blur the boundaries for Tony.

  They finished their tea and Maud took Drummond’s statement on his laptop. It was little more than he had already said the night of the fire. After packing up, the two men went out to look at Drummond’s latest project, a terraced area he was paving between the house and dam. As he explained, with such great views and later, a pergola covered in wisteria, it would be the perfect spot for a cold beer on a hot night.

  ‘Righto mate,’ said Maud, ‘I’ll leave a copy in your post box in town. I’m off to the scene again. The lane’ll be closed a couple more days while we continue scouting for evidence.’

  Back on his tractor Drummond dissected the new information; waste disposal company, dead driver, chemical fire, how did all this fit together? Naturally, the police would be thorough in their examination of the scene and if local stickybeaks had tromped around there too, precious little was likely to be left to learn from it. Nevertheless, he was keener than ever to look at things for himself. He would have to be patient a few more days.

  Chapter

  SIX

  The Speaker’s gavel thumped the bench resoundingly, underlining the terseness of his bellow. ‘Would the Honourable Member for Melbourne Ports resume his seat and stop interjecting. The Minister for Business and Trade has the floor!’

  Suave, urbane Ben Aldrittson, Minister for Business and Trade, was answering a back bencher’s question about payments to the giant American multi-national computer company, Phoenix. ‘Mr Speaker,’ resumed Aldrittson smoothly, ‘Phoenix’s presence in Victoria will increase our competition with Japan’s miniaturised computer components, consolidate our rising position as a quality software manufacturer and enable us to aggressively pursue trade in competition with the growing Chinese computer market. Above all, Phoenix will create job opportunities for Victorians.’

  Simon Candy, Member for Melbourne Ports, had been trying, unsuccessfully, to emphasise his point th
at Phoenix was internationally renowned for its hardline management and exploitative work practices, a style that would cause workers to suffer. He was arguing that companies like Phoenix were unwelcome in Victoria. ‘Local industry returns might be slower, but the benefits to Victorians will be greater, especially if those industries receive the same kinds of generous grants and tax perks being offered to Phoenix.’ Frustrated, he smacked his fist into his palm and yelled, ‘Furthermore, there will be no need to seize public parkland and profits will stay here.’

  Aldrittson had sneeringly replied that Candy would be better off examining his backside for enlightenment rather than denigrate international friends and allies, a remark that had caused the Chamber to dissolve into uproar.

  Opposition jeering was directed not only at Aldrittson’s insensitive remark but also to his consistent refusal to acknowledge the small, expanding local company, Scintilla. Three months earlier, Scintilla had won a major international science prize for its unique application of nano-technology to computers. Labor had been pressing hard arguing that, as usual, the Americans were being fattened by huge taxpayer dollars to the detriment of local enterprise. It was furious too that the government had re-zoned public land to enable Phoenix to build its factory.

  Amid the hullabaloo, the Speaker hammered the bench furiously. When finally he secured order, Aldrittson was instructed to withdraw his offensive remarks. Smirking, he rose calmly, acknowledged the instruction then swiftly moved that land identified for use by the software manufacturer Phoenix be excised from Northern Memorial Park. He further moved that tax breaks, financial and other venture capital incentives be granted to secure the company’s presence in Victoria. Amid continuing catcalls, Aldrittson’s motion predictably passed on Party lines.

  Later that evening Aldrittson knocked discreetly at the door of an exquisitely appointed villa unit at Crown Casino. When the door opened, Chuck J. Taylor, Managing Director of Phoenix welcomed him with a lazy drawl.

  ‘Well, how are you Ben.’ After taking a quick look up and down the corridor, the thin, bronzed, two metre Texan beamed down and ushered him inside. They shook hands.

  ‘I take it nobody saw you coming here?’ Taylor nodded towards the corridor. Without waiting for a response he went on. ‘I’m having a mineral water. What can I get you Ben?’

  ‘A whisky and ice will be fine thanks Chuck. And no, I was bloody careful as usual,’ a trace of annoyance in his tone.

  Taylor shrugged and fixed the drink. They sat. Taylor studied Aldrittson a few moments before speaking, a shrewd and calculating look in in his eye. ‘So … How did the vote go today? Did we get what we wanted?’

  ‘Yeah, no problems Chuck. As I told you at the beginning, the tricky part was convincing my side. The Opposition didn’t have the numbers and the Independents don’t know which way is up. A bit noisy, but it got through without real difficulty. The Foreign Investment Review Board has almost become a paper tiger since the Free Trade Agreement with your country so I reckon that within three months, you’ll be turning soil at your new site.’

  ‘Well done Ben, a darn fine site it is too, out there on the cusp of the Northern Ring Road and Hume Highway. You’ve done well. Now, let’s conclude business before we get down to some serious eating. At six o’clock tomorrow morning, your time, 1.5 million will go to your account in Banque Suisse, Switzerland. Okay? I know it’s a tad more than we agreed, but you’ve done better than we hoped. And just to make it clear, you do understand we intend crushing Scintilla don’t you?’

  ‘Sure Chuck, that’s business.’

  At 1:00 p.m. the following day, Santini sipped his coffee beneath the Nova Cinema in Carlton. He was waiting for Ben Aldrittson. People were flowing in and out of Border’s, meeting and greeting for lunch, browsing for books or queuing for film tickets. Still others were spread around the plaza dining. It was a wet, cold day and a damp muskiness permeated the air. Outside, in Lygon Street, cars and buses churned past, tyres fizzing in the wet.

  Santini had chosen this spot because it was unassuming in its bustle and clutter of people, a prosaic place suited to his low key style. It was also familiar territory.

  At 1:10 p.m. Aldrittson arrived draped inconspicuously in a long, dark, woollen coat, a black beanie covering his thick blond hair. He walked towards Santini who marked his presence by a slight incline of his head. Sitting at the table he enquired, ‘How goes it Bernardo?’

  ‘Well Ben. Thanks for coming. I’ve already ordered a long black for you.’ Santini turned and, catching the eye of the Asian girl behind the counter, raised a finger, nodded and pointed to Aldrittson. She smiled and nodded back.

  ‘Read about Phoenix in The Age this morning Ben. You’re still kicking goals then?’

  ‘Yep. In the long run it will be good for Victoria. A few whingeing bastards will get their noses out of joint but … hey. So what’s up?’

  As usual, Aldrittson came bluntly to the point. He was something of a chameleon and, in some ways, resembled Santini whom he had known all his life. A handsome man, he was the charming politician when it suited, a tough and canny deal broker, a narcissistic man contemptuous of fools. Like his father, he loved money. But, he idolised power and influence more and had found these qualities enabled money making to take care of itself.

  Santini, intimately familiar with Aldrittson’s character, believed that while he had numerous strengths, he also possessed a streak of weakness. In his opinion, Aldrittson had never been properly tested and now he was about to do just that.

  At school Aldrittson had been very bright and, with effort, an accomplished sportsman. He had cruised through his final year at St. Andrews as school captain, enjoyed a punishing year in athletics, the school musical and inter-school debating team. After final exam honours he had entered Melbourne University for a double degree in law and commerce, joined the Young Liberals and graduated with distinction. At the young age of thirty-two, he had beome Secretary of the State Liberal Party. From this position he began his run for a parliamentary career. He quickly established a prodigious work ethic, was a clever mediator and not afraid to step on toes when pursuing his goals. Easing into politics, he found his father’s enormous wealth an excellent salve for sore spots in need of some occasional “healing.”

  He developed his bribery skills to an art form by identifying, exploiting, manipulating, compromising and corrupting individuals and public officials across many fields common to his interests and was able to reach into a multitude of government departments, local government areas, large corporations and the media. To his continuing annoyance he had been unable to infiltrate the Australian Broadcasting Commission. Ben Aldrittson was a consummate and dangerous politician driven by power and wealth, a man who took pleasure watching others squirm from his manipulation.

  ‘Ben,’ murmured Santini, ‘your father has suggested we ramp up activities on the black waste project. As you are probably aware, I’ve known about it for years and he now wants me to take a proactive interest. I thought we should compare notes to ensure we are in sync.’

  Aldrittson was curious. His own role in this scheme was important and he believed it was presently on hold. He was immediately suspicious of Santini’s motives. Instead, he said neutrally, ‘Okay, tell me how it looks from your side.’

  Santini hunched forward, speaking succinctly and softly. ‘As you know, we’ve quietly been buying land for the last ten years. Our last property came on stream today. We own about twenty square kilometres around Nanneella and Timmering between Rochester and Kyabram. It’s shitty farming land, but okay for our needs. We’ve secretly had the world’s best environmental and waste management experts develop eco-friendly methods for handling toxic and other waste, including the mining of toxic waste. That is, recovering and refining stuff to distil original chemicals, minerals and fluids. Our plans for buildings, equipment and earthworks are all done. This whole scheme is a world first. Now it’s time for the next phase: legitimising the illegitimate. It’s time t
o create the legislation to make it all happen. And that’s your job.’

  Aldrittson listened impassively, his eyes never leaving Santini’s face. He was intimately aware of these events as much of the progress had been down to him: calling in favours, leaning on officials, bribing others and slicing red tape with his Ministerial razor.

  ‘I grant you it’s an excellent start,’ he said ‘but there’s a hell of a long way to go. Unfortunately, the political scene is still not right. For instance, the National Party will scream when they find out what’s proposed and plenty of my own lot won’t like it either. Politically, waste disposal schemes are dynamite. The Greens punch well above their weight and they’ve had a hell of an impact on this issue. A bloody lot of people take this climate change crap seriously. They keep banging on about insufficient pressure on the Feds to sign up to Kyoto and not doing enough for the countryside about water conservation, especially after this bloody drought. People see climate change and waste management as all part of one problem: stuffing up the environment. We’re not ready for this scheme yet. While you might have the land and the plan, the politics of waste is still too controversial.’

  Santini sat back and skewered Aldrittson with a bleak stare.

  ‘Ben,’ he almost whispered, ‘understand me.’ Aldrittson registered a prick of fear. ‘This discussion is not about raising obstacles, it is about compliance. We are ready to move and it is your turn to do what you have to. You are the right man in the right place with the right contacts and the right capabilities. Now, make it happen.’ The menace was unmistakable.

  Unused to being threatened, Aldrittson challenged. ‘What the hell do you mean, We are ready? You work for my father, you do as he says. When he asks me to move on it I will, but last time we spoke about this he said we were about twelve to eighteen months away from action. Don’t tell me what to do, I won’t have it.’ Although Aldrittson had not raised his voice, his tone was dismissive, his lip curled to a sneer.