No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  Slowly, Santini leaned across the table, his mouth wore a smile but his eyes were chilling. ‘I do work for your father,’ he said, ‘but I also work for others and those others feel you are slacking. They want to see some action.’

  His hand snaked out catching Aldrittson’s wrist, fingers clamping with surprising strength, middle finger, stiff as a bridge spike, lancing the nerve at the base of the wrist. Aldrittson paled from the searing pain and gagged, his arm immobilised. ‘Ben, I shall not speak of this again. This is an exercise of compliance, your compliance. We’ll meet ten days from now and you will bring a plan outlining your argument to the Premier and your method for convincing the Greens and Nationals of the benefits of this project. You will also have an outline of the media strategy. And you will explain to me how you will make everything happen. And don’t crap me off about it being impossible. I’ve watched you for years and know exactly what you can do. Remember this, in the next six months there has to be an election. You will have every necessary thing in place before then. Now, get on with it.’ He paused before continuing. ‘One more thing – I know how corrupt you are and I am happy to share that information with your Premier if necessary.’ Santini’s voice, barely above a whisper was frightening.

  He released Aldrittson. The exchange had lasted barely ten seconds and to any casual observer, Santini’s grasp may have appeared a simple act of friendship. But it was far from that. Aldrittson was stunned by Santini’s change of mood and character. He had scared the shit out of him. Uncertain of his next move, Aldrittson remained mute.

  Santini rose, pushed his chair under the table and smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing you in ten days Ben.’ With that, he slipped into the lunchtime crowd and out onto rainy Lygon Street.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  Aldrittson sat in pain, rubbing his wrist and thinking furiously. What the fuck had come over Santini? Christ, he had been with the company since his grandfather’s days and Aldrittson had known him since he was a toddler. He had never seen Santini change so quickly, become so ominous. And what was that frogshit about his father wanting to crank up the waste disposal concept? It was ridiculous to even think his father would have Santini asking him for plans. His father only had to phone him. Who was Santini working for? Who were these ‘others?’ Something didn’t add up. And just what did he mean when he said he was happy to share his ‘corruption’ with the Premier? What did the bastard know?

  He rose abruptly and went to order a second coffee. As he massaged his wrist he perceived depths to Santini he had never suspected. Santini had to be considered a threat, a man who was dangerous and evidently fearless. Before today he had always known him as a mild, hard working, loyal, trustworthy friend of his father’s. Never as volcanic, maverick or violent.

  Should he tell his father? No, or … at least, not yet. Aldrittson had been in politics long enough to suspect that what, or whoever motivated Santini would be subterranean and the matter was unlikely to be resolved through his father. Besides, he guessed his father would be ignorant of Santini’s demand. What he had to do was find out who was pushing Santini’s buttons.

  The prick had made three things clear. He wanted a plan to overcome political opposition to their waste scheme, he wanted to view the underpinning legislative framework and, most difficult of all, he wanted that legislation in place before Parliament prorogued for the election. Unfortunately, Aldrittson was like everybody else, he didn’t know the election date. That was the Premier’s secret. Santini was making a huge and ridiculous ask. Aldrittson knew he could produce a strategy plan, that was simple. Christ, he had talked about it with his father for years. Getting the scheme accepted by Premier Meadows at short notice would be difficult enough, but having underpinning legislation in place before the election was impossible. He had to find out what was behind Santini’s demand. When he knew that, then he would decide whether Santini should be taught a lesson.

  Aldrittson had the power to deal with Santini his own way. Make him disappear for instance. Given his threat to leak to the Premier, that was not a bad idea. A scary thought suddenly nagged. What if Santini was connected to the Mafia? His father had been dealing with Don Pescaro for years and crossing the Don would arouse a viper’s nest. In all the years he had known Santini, he had never seen or heard anything personally linking him to the Mafia. He knew Santini carried out the odd job for his father which involved Pescaro, but being a member of the Mob? That was something else. Grappling with Pescaro would create risks for his father’s firm, particularly the black waste scheme.

  Santini controlled daily activities and, as far as he knew, no one else, apart from his father was involved in that. The volume of toxic waste disposal had become so large he couldn’t afford to create hiccups that would bring the system to a standstill. Moreover, the customer base continued to grow. Danny Browne’s death was already causing pressure and if Santini went, Jack would have to resume daily management. Logistically and strategically, that could cause a whole bunch of new problems.

  With a score of issues on his mind, Aldrittson drove from the underground car park into belting rain and joined the slow drifting river of cars. Arriving at the Sunset Fitness Club at Toorak and Darling Roads he drove under the building to his reserved space, parked and went upstairs.

  Tanya Taylor, a trim, attractive marathon runner was at reception.

  ‘Hello Tanya, is Spencer in today?’

  ‘Yes Mr Aldrittson, down the back office. Can I get him for you?’ She rose in readiness to leave her desk.

  ‘No, no.’ Aldrittson switched on a dazzling smile. ‘I’ll go surprise him.’

  Spencer Johnson was Aldrittson’s most useful asset. An exfederal policeman, he knew people who could get things done, organising others so they never knew who he was organising for.

  Aldrittson knocked briefly on a door at the end of the corridor and entered. The small office was a veritable museum to Spencer’s history as a young body builder. These days he belonged to the Grand Master category and was not quite so successful. Pictures, plaques, certificates and trophies adorned the shelves and every other available flat space. The exception was the immediate work area on the desk in front of him where he was developing a program for a client. At fifty-five, Johnson preferred to run his gym, occasionally enter some of the Natural Body Building Association’s competitions overseas, devise his programs and “organise” a few things for special friends like Ben Aldrittson. The last activity earned him big dollars.

  ‘Yo Benny, good to see you. Pull up a chair. Come for a work-out today?’ The huge, brawny man with a marine buzz-cut grinned and waved a thick arm at the chair opposite his desk. ‘Can I get you a drink – juice, mineral water?’

  ‘No thanks Spence.’ Aldrittson hung his coat on a hook behind the door. ‘Mind if I shut this? I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Sure thing Benny. Just a minute.’ He flicked the intercom on his desk: ‘Tanya, are you there pet?’

  ‘Yes Spencer, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Hold all calls and visitors till I say will you pet? I’ll let you know when we’re through.’ Without waiting for a response, he flicked the switch off. ‘Okay, let her rip Benny.’

  ‘I need information about a man called Bernardo Santini. I may have mentioned him from time to time, he works for my father. He was born in Sicily and started working at the firm under my grandfather. My Old Man kept him on and I reckon he’s been there about twenty years; that should tell you something about his ability. He lives at 205A Nicholson Street, Collingwood and drives a white ‘99 Magna – I can’t remember the number. Santini has just given me a ten day ultimatum on something – I don’t bloody like it. The prick also paralysed my arm in some weird kind of hold I didn’t even see coming. And, he did it all in front of scores of people. Jesus Spence, I’ve known him since I was a kid but I’ve never known him like this! I want to know what he does when he’s not at work, where he goes, who he sees, who he sleeps with. Anyth
ing and everything. Someone has wound him up and I want to know who and why. He said he was there on behalf of my Old Man, but that’s bullshit. He’s got to be working for somebody else.’

  The ex-federal policeman regarded Aldrittson quizzically. ‘And then what? After you have the information?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I get it Spence. Just remember, insulate me from the drones. Santini is sharp. I know what he’s accomplished at the Depot over the years. Don’t underestimate him.’

  ‘Righto Benny, anything else?’

  ‘For the moment, no.’

  ‘Okay. Usual fee – $25,000 in used notes. Ten for me, fifteen for the workers. I’ll be in touch in a few days, well before your deadline. If you have to follow up with anything, there will be plenty of time.’

  Taking his coat, Aldrittson nodded and retraced his steps. He was mildly disappointed to find Tanya missing, he enjoyed perving on her small tight tits.

  True to his word, Spencer Johnson got straight to work. He rang Sergeant Brendan Little at the Victoria Police Bureau of Criminal Intelligence. After giving him details it was agreed that he and a colleague, Penny Jamieson, would build a three day, “out of hours” surveillance program around Santini and check out Victorian and interstate police data-bases. Aldrittson’s warning about Santini was passed on.

  In half an hour, Little rang Johnson. They had an unconfirmed and obscure link between Mafia boss Giuseppe Pescaro and Bernardo Santini which meant they would plan their task carefully. Johnson told Little to set aside a day during the following week when he would meet them both for “lunch”.

  Settling back into his chair, Johnson closed his eyes. It was none of his business, he just organised things. Why the hell was Aldrittson wanting to apply grief to a possible Mafia type? Did he know Santini might be Mafia? Perhaps he didn’t. Maybe that was why he was so cagey about what he would or would not do. Aldrittson was a shifty bastard. In any event, Johnson inferred that whatever Aldrittson decided to do would fall to him anyway. In which case, that meant mobilising a particular set of skills. He had better check out Fox’s availability and have answers for Aldrittson next time they spoke.

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  Drummond warmed himself before the log fire and gazed across the farm to the south west. It was three o’clock Thursday afternoon. Heavy rain had fallen for an hour, hammering on the iron roof. Roiling black clouds bludgeoned the sky, further darkening the gloomy light. The choppy wind had intensified and small branches were snapping through the air. About to walk to a window seat, Drummond heard a tremendous crash at the southern end of the house. He scooted to the laundry. A huge branch had splintered from one of the towering ironbarks in the back garden and smashed to the ground. Bugger, he thought, nothing worse than the old trees losing shape – a chainsaw job for tomorrow.

  Returning to the big room he snugged into a window seat with his newest Henning Mankell novel. It was the perfect afternoon for a break and even better for reading. But he couldn’t get started, Tony Maud’s lunch time phone call nagged at him. Maud had received a positive ID on the corpse from the truck fire. Dental comparisons confirmed it was a Danny Browne, a driver from Aldrittson Waste Disposals or AWD as Tony referred to them. Additionally, traces of benzene, paint stripper, used engine oil and other noxious compounds had been found on the truck which suggested a load of toxic waste. Enquiries with AWD had drawn a blank. Browne was supposed to have been driving an empty truck to Mildura. AWD could not explain the toxic load or Browne’s route: both were contrary to their manifest. Since the journey was scheduled a week in advance, they could only suggest Browne was moonlighting. Additionally, they had already reported him missing to police.

  Aldrittson’s explanation was convincing and there was nothing to contradict it. Drummond had scoured the fire scene after the officials and in spite of his best efforts, found nothing. The cause of the fire was unknown and Browne’s presence in Schoolhouse Lane remained a mystery. Maud was now arranging for one of his detective mates in Melbourne to poke around AWD to try to scrounge a look at their books and natter to staff. Although this wasn’t absolutely kosher, he had done it before with good effect.

  Drummond still had not mentioned the late night trucks to Maud because he thought their link to the fire too tenuous. But, if these trucks and the fire were connected, then it was plausible for AWD to somehow be involved, and that implied someone was lying about Browne. Yet given their Brooklyn base, it made little sense for one of their trucks, supposedly travelling to Mildura, to be here in Knowsley.

  He checked the Aldrittson company on the internet and found they had a long history in waste management, returned high profits, were leaders in workplace safety, and, according to the Financial Review and Business Review Weekly, had a blue chip record for effective management and integrity. With such a fine reputation, they would be crazy to be messing with toxic stuff. Yet his gut instinct suggested otherwise.

  By 3:45 p.m. the wind was slumbering and the rain had eased to a mist. Gradually, the sky began to lighten and Drummond decided to inspect Schoolhouse Lane for fallen branches. Fierce winds would often bring farmers out to check for tree falls. Walking into the cold damp air Drummond savoured the fresh smell of rain on earth mixed with the unmistakable tang of wet, summer-dried grasses. Overhead, from north to south, the sky was a lumpy purple-black canopy. To the west, crouched barely above the horizon as though the huge stormy dome had been prized open, a sliver of clear sky allowed a flush of red-gold light to gild the world in mellow coppery tones. As he looked about, Drummond felt his heart swell at the power of such unbridled beauty.

  In the carport, he slung his chainsaw and parts box into the ute and drove to the Lane. After a clear run to Derrinal-Crosbie Road he was stopped by a heavy branch across the road at the site of the earlier truck fire. Severely burned, the limb had snapped in the strong wind. He cut it into pieces and threw the bits into the verge. Finishing, he picked up a leafy branch and broomed the last of the debris from the road.

  As he pitched the branch towards the freshly cut billets, a brief ruby-like glint flashed near the bottom of a tree a few metres off the road. Drummond stood still and moved his head until the gleam re-appeared. Stepping into the rough to investigate, he found embedded in the tree about seventy centimetres above the ground, a small, bright piece of metal. Squatting, he peered at the tiny piece which had sliced through the bark and flattened against the wood of the trunk. Past experience told him he was looking at a detonator remnant. Knowing the site had been almost vacuumed by the forensics team he understood why this tiny morsel had been missed by them. Were it not for one of the logs he had thrown gouging a chunk from the tree, it would have escaped detection probably forever.

  He found the bark chip and carefully fitted it to the tree. The metal fragment vanished. He rose and studied the tree from several locations. The fragment and cut-scar were concealed completely beneath the rough shaggy bark. Sheer fluke had revealed this prize. He smiled to himself. Sometimes luck just happens, he thought.

  ‘Tony? Andy here mate. I’m out at the fire scene. I’ve found something you need to see in situ. If it is what I think it is, your fire might just have become a crime scene. Bring a camera and a couple of strong torches, it’s getting dark out here. I’ll hang about to show you.’

  ‘Thanks, see you in twenty. Want to tell me what it is?’

  ‘No old son, I’d rather keep you in suspense.’

  Maud arrived twenty-five minutes later. Alighting from his four wheel drive he threw a torch to Drummond. ‘Righto show me what you’ve got. Are we going far? I need to keep an ear on the radio.’

  ‘No Tony. It’s just here. First though, I want you to look at that tree by the fence.’ Drummond pointed to the one he meant. ‘Look near the base and tell me what you see.’

  Tony peered into the rapidly dimming light. ‘Can’t see anything unusual. Should I be able to?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. Come up here.’

&n
bsp; They stopped about two paces from the tree.

  ‘Shine your torch on the trunk, about a half metre from the ground. What about now?’

  Maud played the beam over the base of the tree. ‘I can only see a bit of a dent where one of those cut logs hit the tree. I assume you did that, right? Otherwise, nothing.’

  ‘Good,’ said Drummond, ‘that’s exactly why the forensic blokes didn’t find anything either, nothing looks out of place. Let me show you.’

  They went to the tree where Drummond carefully peeled away the bark chip he had replaced.

  ‘Tony, I am 99.9 per cent certain this little scrap of metal is from a detonator. If you look at this bark chip which, incidentally, I did knock off, you will see a small clean cut across the bottom of it. Because it’s still green and unhealed, I’d say this cut is recent. I reckon this piece of det. flew into the tree not long ago. If you look back to the road you’ll see we are to the east and some metres behind the fire site.’

  ‘So, what are you thinking,’ queried Maud, ‘that the truck was blown up?’

  ‘I am. So far, you don’t have a cause for the fire. This detonator cap could be the explanation. A botanist or someone might be able to determine how old the bark cut is. I don’t know. But if they could say, for instance, the cut is between seven and nine days old, you’ve got a timeframe consistent with the fire.’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll get a few pics and remove it. Tell you what, why don’t you shoot off home and boil the billy? I’ll finish off here and call in for a quick cuppa. I’ll come back for some daylight shots tomorrow but now we’ve got this little treasure, I want it safe and sound.’

  Thirty minutes later, Maud rapped on Drummond’s kitchen window and walked into the warm house. Drummond filled a teapot from the boiler on the stove.

  ‘I cut a wedge from the tree with the fragment in place after I photographed the scene. Who knows … we might learn something from the depth of penetration about velocity and size of charge. I’ll leave that to the experts. The wedge is the next best thing to sending them the whole tree.’ He grinned at the image he had just conjured.