No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  They walked into the big room. Drummond switched on a couple of lamps, gave the fire a boost and threw on another log. They sat comfortably either side of the fire.

  ‘How exactly did you find this little piece of metal?’ enquired Maud.

  Drummond recounted his actions explaining how the fragment remained unseen until he was about to leave. ‘It was a strange thing Tony. The storm had just passed and was followed by a short period of coppery gold sunlight. I was cleaning up a fallen branch and chucked the last piece in towards the fence when this flash of ruby coloured light appeared. It was tiny but brilliant so I went to look. When I saw what it was and put the bark chip back in place, the metal disappeared. What do you make of it?’ he asked his friend.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. I accept that you think it’s a fragment of detonator, but … I’m not sure. If it was the cause of the fire, why blow up such an expensive vehicle? Could there have been detonators in the load? Was the fire deliberate? Why? Could it simply have been accidental? Could someone have been after the driver because of a grudge? Was someone gunning for AWD for some reason, industrial sabotage perhaps? Could it be Aldrittsons themselves? Is this some kind of insurance scam? But perhaps the most basic question of all is: does this tiny piece of metal have anything at all to do with the truck fire? It might be entirely coincidental. I can’t rule anything in or out just yet and I’m not exactly sure which way to jump. What do you think?’

  ‘I reckon there are just too many questions right now,’ said Drummond thoughtfully, ‘and now I’m going to add to them. I’ve held back telling you this Tony because I couldn’t see any relevance, but this piece of detonator changes things, at least for me. Over the past twelve months or so, I’ve occasionally heard a large truck going up Schoolhouse Lane towards McIvor Highway, roughly between 2-3:00 a.m. Never seen it, just heard it. I know we’ve got quarries and large trucks over at Axedale but, at that hour, it’s generally too early for them. I have nothing to connect them to AWD but … I am suspicious.’ His statement hung in the air. ‘I’ve checked the company on the net and it has a pristine reputation. But I am almost bloody certain the trucks I heard sounded consistent with that one in the fire.’

  Maud gazed into the fire digesting this new information. ‘You’re right, I don’t know whether what you’ve said is a help or a hindrance. Nevertheless, I’ll check the all-night servo’s between here and Kilmore and Romsey. It’s possible our dead truckie stopped for coffee or something to eat. When you put it all together, it stinks: a truck fire, a truck off route, a truck full when it should be empty, a truck owned by a respectable waste firm carrying toxic stuff, detonators and mystery trucks in the night. This whole friggin’ thing reeks.’

  ‘What say, my good friend,’ said Drummond with a grin, ‘that I help a little. I’ve got my place in Melbourne and could spend a few days having a decko at Aldrittson’s. I’ll report back if anything looks suss and call in every couple of days to keep you up to speed.’

  Maud’s eyes twinkled. ‘I couldn’t sanction that, you might get hurt.’ He smiled,. ‘I’d be bloody shot if my boss found out. Still, we do seem to have a blue chip company involved in something shady. As you know, I can’t clobber them without evidence. A sneaky look around might be helpful. And, if that piece of detonator is relevant, the matter will be out of my hands. Homicide will deal with it. In the meantime, I don’t want AWD thinking they’re under my spotlight so I’ll cancel that semi-official poke around I’ve organised with my mate Gerry Riley. If you do happen to go to Melbourne, keep a lid on things. Okay?’

  Chapter

  NINE

  That Friday evening, Don Pescaro and Jack Aldrittson were enjoying the good food and fine wine of J’taime, a French provincial restaurant in Toorak Village. In reality, it was an excuse for business.

  ‘Jack, I want to move on legalising our black waste program. There’s an election soon and we need legislation in place before then. I know Meadows is cautious but, as a Liberal, he’s prepared to crack heads. If we present him with the full package, I think he’ll roll over quicker than a dog with fleas. It’s time Ben made things happen at his end.’

  ‘I hear you Giuseppe, and I have spoken to him about it. We feel another twelve to eighteen months would be more appropriate. The election is possibly only six months off and we don’t think we could have things in place before then. I know we have …’

  ‘Jack,’ Pescaro’s soft voice was biting. ‘We have waited a long time and worked bloody hard to pull this off. Whether you realise it or not, I have been incredibly patient. It is time to act. There are new pressures I am dealing with and I can’t afford to be hamstrung by a change of government. If those soft bellied lefties take over they’ll clog everything with reviews, committees and consult the bloody world. In the end they’ll do just as they please and screw you in a fog of confusion. New governments are all the same, especially Labor ones and punters are backing a Labor victory. We know Meadows – how he thinks and acts. I will not wait any longer. Nardo has just told Ben to pull his finger out and bring me a plan in a few days. I don’t want you mistaking the source of that request.’

  Jack’s thoughts somersaulted. Why is Pescaro asking Santini to prod Ben? I employ Santini. What am I missing? Trying to stay calm he said, ‘Ben hasn’t said anything to me. What’s happened?’ He resented the intrusion. It was, after all, his business and his skill that had made their duplicitous activities seem lily white. He didn’t want Pescaro fucking up a major opportunity for serious wealth. ‘What have you asked Bernardo to do?’ His question was guarded.

  Pescaro’s eyes glinted in the soft light of the restaurant. ‘Nothing, other than talk to Ben.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure we have enough time …’

  ‘Jack, please, no obstacles.’ Pescaro frowned. ‘If you become part of the problem, I’ll suffer indigestion; indigestion requires medication. You understand me? Let’s just enjoy our dinner and let matters take care of themselves. You know how efficient Nardo is. For him, everything is business. Never personal, just business. You need to think that way too Jack, it causes less ulcers.’

  Alarm bells clamoured. Pescaro was disclosing an intimacy with Santini that was entirely new to him. Santini had always been the go-between for the two of them and there had never been a hint of anything more. He was a bloody ‘go-fer’ for Christ’s sake. Now Pescaro was implying other efficiencies which he understood only too well. His stomach contracted. He had to find out what the hell was going on. Why hadn’t the little shit spoken to him anyway? He decided to play along with Pescaro, finish his meal then plead another appointment. That way he could save some face. He had been anticipating a long and leisurely evening with Pescaro, maybe even a turn at the casino. Not now. He needed to talk to Ben.

  But Pescaro had other ideas. He watched Aldrittson’s inner turmoil and pressed his advantage. ‘Jack, forgive me,’ he said in his courtly, old fashioned style, ‘how long do you think you have employed Nardo?’

  ‘Jesus Giuseppe, what kind of question is that? You know he started under my Old Man, he’s been with us for bloody years.’

  ‘No Jack, Nardo works for me, he’s always worked for me. You are his paymaster. You actually came to me through him, even though you thought you cleverly set it up. Everything happening in your firm, everything between you and Ben – I know about. I have thought of removing you both many times. Ben in particular has expectations beyond his ability, but you really don’t cause me trouble. Now it’s time for Ben to learn who he really works for and to demonstrate the balls he thinks he has. Nardo will help him understand his new truth.’

  Aldrittson’s belly stopped convulsing, it had become glacier-like with fear. Occasionally he had puzzled over Santini’s relationship with Pescaro but had found nothing tying them together. Sure, there was contact through the firm, but nothing he knew of outside work. Perhaps he had not looked hard enough. With Browne’s death fresh in his mind, he dreaded what Santini had in store
for Ben. All interest in his meal disappeared. He wanted to leave. Now.

  Pescaro continued, quietly, patiently, remorselessly. ‘Santini is often called the Wraith in our circles. He moves softly, smoothly and at times, invisibly. People overlook him because he is so ordinary, because he is small, because he seems meek and because he is humble. But let me assure you, he can be as tough and callous as the worst. He is all of those things and none of those things. He is what he wants to be for any particular purpose. He was my efficient destroyer for the Market Murders in the sixties, he blew up my opposition’s amphetamine lab at Wantirna during the seventies and he has removed several troublesome painters and dockers. Most recently, some of the less savoury drug dealers in this town have been whacked by Nardo. All these things were done for me while you thought Nardo just prepared rosters and paid your staff. Like most people, he has a different life away from your firm. I’m telling you this as a friend Jack. Impress upon your beloved son not to do anything foolish, he only has to do what he’s been asked. For the moment, Ben is very healthy, but things could change. You both need to be aware of that. Loyalty is mutual only so long as you continue to give it.’

  Charles Trenet’s dulcet rendition of La Mer suddenly became sickening. To Aldrittson, the very air he breathed felt like treacle. Even sitting, he felt unbalanced. He could only stare numbly at Pescaro. He had been exposed to a perversion of Santini he could never have imagined. He was seized by a compulsion to speak with Ben, to tell him to be very careful, to just ride along because, in the end, they could all still benefit.

  ‘Jack,’ continued Pescaro smiling kindly. ‘I know you understand what I am saying. Ben is young and impulsive, he’s a politician and believes himself invincible, untouchable. I know too that your wife Nancy does not enjoy the best of health and Ben should be mindful of the effects of bad news on her. Comprende? Now, would you like to order desert and coffee?’ The mild enquiry was, to Jack, incongruous after the frightful insight he had just received about an employee he had trusted for years.

  Aldrittson rose. His limbs were shaking with fear, rage and impotence. His tongue felt too large for his mouth as he mumbled, ‘No Giuseppe, I will have a word to Ben.’

  Pescaro smiled benignly. ‘I’m sure you will Jack, I’m sure you will.’

  Chapter

  TEN

  Big Jack leaned against his car shaking. He had worked hard at staying on Pescaro’s good side because he truly feared the alternative. Now he had learned, as casually as one might swat a fly, that Pescaro had considered removing him and Ben from the business. His business. He shuddered. Aldrittson considered himself a mean bastard but he had never personally harmed anyone. Poisoning the land, creeks, rivers and lakes for thirty years with deadly compounds was business, and business was about money. That the loads he ordered carried by Browne and others might be poisoning them was not his concern

  He climbed into his BMW and punched Ben’s number into his phone.

  After three rings Ben answered, ‘Hello Dad, what’s up?’

  ‘Can’t talk about it on the phone Son, where are you? I’ll come and see you.’

  There was silence. ‘I’m up in Sydney Dad, I won’t be home till Sunday afternoon – late. You sound stressed, is Mum okay?’

  ‘Yes, your mother is fine. But we have to talk. I’ll come Sunday evening. What time do you get in?’

  ‘I should be home about seven o’clock. Why the mystery? What’s going on?’

  ‘Santini and Pescaro. That’s what’s going on. You be bloody careful up there.’

  ‘Righto Dad. See you Sunday evening.’

  At 9:30 that evening, Little and Jamieson parked their nondescript rent-a-wreck fifty metres from Santini’s home, comfortably blending into the streetscape. They had followed him from Brooklyn, watched him park in front of his house and go inside. Having reconnoitred during his absence, they knew there was no rear exit. They were confident Santini had settled in to watch Friday night football. After a quiet night, they packed it in at 5:00 a.m.

  Colin Fox watched them come and go. He knew they were covering Santini and would report to Spencer Johnson. Anything important would be relayed to him by Johnson. At fifty-two, Fox, an ex-Special Air Services warrior was superbly fit. Slim, hard, tough and poised, he regularly worked out at Johnson’s gym. He and Johnson were good mates going back years to a period when they both were in the UK and occasionally, when Johnson was overseas competing in veteran body-sculpting contests, Fox managed the gym.

  Fox had trawled past Santini’s home early Friday morning after being rung by Johnson. He had noticed the house opposite was for sale and vacant. He arranged an inspection at midday and at four o’clock that afternoon, quietly, illegally, let himself inside. He carried a sizeable airline bag with the things he needed, including food and water. The inspection revealed the partially furnished house had been on the market for eight months. Its wonky floors and cracked walls were such a disincentive that even inspections had dried up. It was a perfect base.

  He too had watched Santini enter his home and saw Little and Jamieson drive by. Fox thought Santini had chosen well, it was a good secure location. A workman’s cottage from the 1890s, it extended from one side of the narrow block to the other. In studying the house, Fox perceived his target to be a fussy bastard. Three steps led to a bull-nosed veranda mounted on shapely poles with elegant fretwork between them; ancient wisteria crawled through the fretwork. A doorway on the right suggested a main hall with all rooms off to one side while a common brick wall divided the house from its twin on the right.

  Fox could see no evidence of telephone lines to the house and wondered if, like many people today, Santini used only a mobile. That could be problematic. At 11:00 p.m. the lights went off and stillness descended. Fox settled into his chair, set his wrist alarm for 4:45, and relaxed. At 5:00 a.m., he saw Little and Jamieson quietly leave. He breakfasted on dried rations and water and waited. At 10:30 a.m. Santini emerged, got into his car and drove to Johnston Street where he turned towards the city.

  Unhurried, Fox walked to his motor bike a few doors north of Santini’s and rode after him. Santini was about a block ahead. Traffic was light, the day cool and sunny, a typical Melbourne autumn morning. Fox closed on Santini while keeping cars between them. Their destination appeared to be Carlton. Presently, Santini drove into the Wilson Car Park west of Lygon in Elgin Street. Fox followed, parking a level higher to watch him.

  Santini made his way into Lygon Street. Drifting like a tourist, Fox followed, watching him pass in and out of Italian shops and restaurants where he openly received envelopes. In a few locations short, animated conversations occurred before an envelope was given. Fox understood the pattern and calculated that as Santini made his way along first one side of Lygon Street, then the other, he had relieved around eighteen shop keepers of an unknown sum of money. At DiMattina’s, Santini stopped for coffee, cake and conversation. After about twenty-five minutes, he left and made his way back to the carpark.

  Fox gave Santini two minutes then followed. He came out of the carpark, drove to Swanston Street and then down to the Queen Victoria Market. Fox didn’t like this; too easy to lose Santini in the bustle and throng of the vibrant Saturday market. He moved to within one car of Santini as they drove through the barrier into the car park. There, his concerns were immediately allayed. The park was sluggish with long delays caused by people searching for spaces. Santini couldn’t go anywhere fast. Fox peeled right and parked in a reserve for motor cycles. He could see Santini’s car trapped in a squash of immovable vehicles. He removed his helmet, donned wrap around sunglasses and a peaked cap, took a shoulder bag from his pannier and slowly sauntered after Santini. From now on, surveillance would be easy. Suddenly, a glut of cars moved, and, like jig saw pieces, slotted into empty spaces around the market buildings. At a leisurely pace, Fox followed.

  The little man was not difficult to shadow. He was dressed snappily in a tweedy-looking soft brown cap, light tan le
ather jacket and sharply creased brown woollen trousers, his crisp shirt was the deepest of browns. All around the market buzzed. People moved, vendors called, buskers played, children laughed and chattered while the aroma of sizzling sausages and onions, incense, soaps, coffee, cheese and fresh vegetables pervaded all. Making the odd purchase here and there, Fox watched Santini visit stalls, speak to owners and receive envelopes, until he arrived at the fish market. There, a terse exchange occurred with the vendor. Fox watched Santini pat the young man on the arm to calm him but instantly, the man turned ashen and leaned in towards Santini nodding vigorously. He reached beneath the counter and gave Santini an envelope. What intrigued Fox was Santini’s disregard for the surrounding crowd.

  Fox turned and almost collided with Penny Jamieson. Shit! Where had she come from? He hadn’t noticed her before … Not good enough. Jamieson barely gave him a glance, her focus was Santini. Well, well, thought Fox to himself, full marks to you girl. You’ve obviously been on him all morning. And I thought you’d gone home! He moved past her and looked over his shoulder. Recalling his movements, he realised that she had been there all morning, he had just not recognised her in DiMattina’s.

  He decided to call it quits. Walking back to his bike, he wondered how much and how often Santini milked the shop owners and stall holders. He figured Santini was taking hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.

  Chapter

  ELEVEN

  At 6:00 p.m. Ben Aldrittson landed at Tullamarine. He had been in Sydney to steal business from the New South Wales Government and enjoy a raunchy weekend. Jakob Kindler, Managing Director of Hart Lite, a sophisticated and fast growing solar energy company had seen to that. Aldrittson had, for some time, been trying to convince Kindler that moving to Melbourne would be more lucrative and less frustrating than endlessly skirmishing with the New South Wales Government. He told Kindler that because of federal reforms, taking his technology south would benefit Hart Lite. Aldrittson also boasted that since the Victorian and Federal Governments were Liberal, there was delicious irony in taking a prize from the New South Wales Labor state.