With cries of ‘hear hear’ ringing in his ears, Aldrittson sat down smiling. He had run his speech by the Premier before delivery and had his blessing. They had all had a gutful of the various federal/ state conflicts, energy and climate change being just one of them. Moreover, from the subdued Opposition, Aldrittson knew he had them thinking.
Only Candy shouted, ‘You don’t fool me Aldrittson! You’ve got as much depth as a pane of glass. This is merely teflon politics and a pathetic attempt at electioneering.’
Unerringly, but unknowingly, Simon Candy was right on the money. Aldrittson’s environmental commitment was phoney. Although willing to be a conduit for environmental matters, his real target was the sales potential of Kindler’s product, a target he believed would deliver him millions of dollars. It was this possibility that cloaked his speech with a veneer of sincerity.
Chapter
FIFTEEN
At 9:15 p.m., Tony Maud rang Drummond, he was brisk and business-like. ‘I’ve got that address Andy but I can’t talk. I’ve got a prang to get to – bloody kangaroos! 205A Nicholson Street, Collingwood is the one you want. Call me in the morning and tell me what you found.’ He hung up.
Drummond didn’t write the address down, it was engraved in his mind. He showered and was in bed by 9:30, his mental alarm set for 1:00 a.m.
At 9:45 p.m., Colin Fox entered the house opposite Santini. Hopefully, it would be his last visit – Santini’s elimination had been requested. He stood inside the front door listening – all quiet. He retrieved the recorder which kept him abreast of Santini’s doings. Tonight he was interested in the previous hour.
Commencing the playback he heard the last minutes of a phone call between Pescaro and Santini. He rewound the reel. Santini was saying, ‘Have you got anything yet on Drummond?’
‘No, but Mario is working on it.’ Conversation from Pescaro’s end petered out. Santini often moved around when using his mobile and sometimes that caused signal problems.
‘Okay,’ Santini had said, ‘but I tell you, this Drummond bastard feels like a copper to me. I know he said he was ex-army and his driving quals. seemed to be from the army, but I’m not convinced.’
Although this was news to Fox, the information was irrelevant. He had decided Santini’s fate. The event would be spectacular and although he would do his best to minimise collateral damage, he couldn’t guarantee it. The insurance companies would be shitty, but hell, their business was risk. Scrupulously, he began checking and cleaning the house he had made his base. By 11:30 p.m. he was satisfied that all traces of his presence were gone, including, after a swift dash across the street, the bugs at Santini’s house.
At 1:00 a.m. heavy rain began to flail the front window. Fox smiled grimly. That’ll keep the bastards inside, he thought. Half an hour later, dressed in black from head to foot, he stood on the step of the vacant house, eyes adjusting to the night. It was still raining and the wind gusted boisterously. A small pouch was strapped to his waist and his black airline bag carried the items he had brought to the house. He surveyed the street once more – empty.
Santini’s home was dark. Apart from the wind and rain, the neighbourhood was silent. He locked the door and moved to the gate – a shadow. He hooked the airline bag on the gatepost – inside the fence, out of sight but accessible.
Fluidly he crossed the road and lay prone beneath Santini’s car – invisible. From his belt pouch he took a small powerful magnet and remote controlled explosive device. It would simply and elegantly remove the wheel from the car. He placed the magnet on the backing plate of the right front disk brake. The exercise had taken less than ten seconds. He was about to leave when a set of headlights glistened on the wet road. He closed his eyes and waited for the car to pass.
Taking in as much detail as possible, Drummond slowed the hired van as he passed Santini’s home just after 1:30 a.m. He couldn’t stop and didn’t want to be seen moving too slowly. About sixty metres south of Santini’s, he parked at the eastern kerb. Even though the street was deserted, he opened and closed the driver’s door for effect then scrambled into the back of the van without stepping outside.
From the rear window, he surveyed the street and Santini’s home. A white Magna was parked out front and he wondered if it was Santini’s. He lifted his night vision glasses. There was nothing outstanding about the house or the car both looked well cared for. He noted the registration number for Tony, ,just in case. Rain began to bucket down. Inside the van, Drummond had the feeling of being trapped inside a kettle drum. He cursed as the cold window misted from his breath and lowered his glasses to clean it.
Fox watched the van pass and the driver’s fancy little manoeuvre with the door. Ah huh, he thought, someone else has joined the picnic. He lay quietly. Rain coursed off the road crown and streamed into the gutters. Although saturated, Fox was unmoved by it. Patiently he waited. The rain continued, whipped by the unruly wind into misty spectres. Time to go. Ignoring the van, he slid from beneath the car, ran across the road, collected his bag and loped off towards Johnston Street.
To his surprise, Drummond saw a black shadow slip from under Santini’s car, stand, then glide to the opposite side of the street. He threw his glasses up in time to see a man in black carrying a shoulder bag jog towards Johnston Street. He swore loudly. The rain and parked cars obscured his vision. It had all happened so quickly and at just the wrong moment!
He sensed that what he had seen was sinister. He decided to follow the man but ring Maud first. He punched the number into his mobile and got the message bank. Leaving a brief message he drove after the man.
At Stafford Street, Fox turned right as the road curved north to meet Johnston Street. He headed towards a gated factory lane to his parked motor bike. He jogged into the lane, pulled his leathers from a pannier bag and slipped them over his wet body suit. Zipped up tight he would achieve a wet suit effect and regain some body warmth.
Fox waited under an awning for fifteen minutes. He didn’t know who had been watching Santini but he would tell Spencer about it later. As he anticipated, the Hertz van drove slowly past the lane entrance. He decided to stay, reasoning that if the driver had seen the lane, he would probably return to investigate. He moved into the rain behind a large industrial waste bin opposite his bike and hung his bag on its hinge. Five minutes later, the small van crept into the alley, illuminating the end of the cul de sac created by a large, spiked factory gate. Fox stepped onto the ridge seam between the bottom and side of the bin and gripped the hinge firmly. Anyone looking under the bin would not see his feet.
Drummond was wary of his location, a closed factory lane. He thought the big black bike could be a get-away vehicle. On the other hand, parked under the awning with a helmet strapped to the seat, it might simply belong to some factory hand out for the night. He wanted its number and to know if it had been recently used. He got out of the van and checked. Rain pinged off the cowling and petrol tank; the motor was stone cold. Obviously it had been there for some time. He had no idea where the man on foot had gone or even if he was connected to the bike – he had simply vanished near Johnston Street. He flicked his torch beam over the bin on the other side of the lane then ducked down to look under its wheeled base. Nothing. He returned to his van with the number QR 742 fixed in his mind. Slowly, he reversed down the lane and drove home.
Fox waited another fifteen minutes, confident his tracker would not return but careful anyway. He thought about Santini’s earlier comment to Pescaro: ‘Looked like a copper but said he was ex-army.’ Whoever he was had been prepared, all blacked up and armed with a collapsible baton. Fox thought he moved well and looked fit. He grinned broadly in the dark. He had seen how tough the MPs could be in his early days in Queensland. He didn’t feel threatened by his pursuer, he had always had the upper hand – surprise. If nothing else, Fox never doubted his ability in combat – ever! He was resourceful, skilled and deadly.
It was 2:30 a.m. and Fox was not yet done. He rode into L
ygon Street, Carlton and found himself an all night café. Ravenous, he ordered spaghetti bolognese and super hot coffee. His wet leathers were uncomfortable but he could put up with it. As he ate his meal, he thought about the task ahead. In watching Santini he had discovered he was a man of habit and today, those habits would cost him his life.
Santini would leave home shortly before 5:30 a.m. and travel the same route to arrive at work around 6:00 a.m. Fox planned to pick him up in Flinders Street. After his meal and another coffee, Fox left the café at 5:30.a.m. At Flinders Street he waited at the kerb between Elizabeth and Queen Streets. The rain had diminished to light showers, roads were still slippery and the wind had strengthened. These conditions would reduce speed limits on the Westgate Bridge, an irritation to Fox. Nevertheless, he had a day to spare so if today did not work, tomorrow had to.
Santini’s Magna cruised past on the way to Westgate Bridge. Fox eased into the traffic. As usual, it was medium to heavy with a lot of trucks on the go.
Entering the bridge approach, Fox positioned himself in the lane closest to its western edge. The bridge’s advisory speed sign warned that travel was limited to sixty kilometres per hour. But, as often happened, many transports ignored the warning and hurtled along ten to fifteen kilometres above the limit, their tyres spinning dancing ropes of mist. Ever cautious, Santini took the middle lane, doggedly sitting on sixty while others passed. Fox was three vehicles behind Santini – about thirty metres away – in the lane immediately on his left. Watching his rear view mirror closely, Fox saw what he wanted: a heavily laden ‘B’ double transport speeding along the lane to Santini’s right. As Santini neared the crest of the bridge, the ‘B’ double began to overtake him. Fox allowed the truck cabin to pass the front of Santini’s car then hit the detonating switch taped to his handle bar.
The Magna dropped heavily on its right front side as the wheel blew off, spearing the stub axle and wishbone into the bridge deck. The forward motion of the car continued, causing it to veer right, then pivot in a lazy clockwise circle on the glassy surface. The rear of Santini’s car slewed under the second trailer of the ‘B’ double between the fore and aft bogies. The Magna was dragged forward under the trailer amid a shower of sparks and rending metal. The rear bogey of the truck rode up and over the car, crushing the cabin flat, the windscreen exploding like diamonds flung into the sky. Parts of the car disintegrated and flew across the road.
Having pulverized the Magna, the driver of the rig was fighting to regain control and slowly, began to brake and resume command. Unfortunately for Santini, the ‘B’ double was followed by an empty cement truck whose driver had also ignored the speed limit. Its broad, deep, bull-bar pushed the Magna straight ahead and into the rear end of the rapidly slowing ‘B’ double. Sparks, squealing metal and rubber rent the air as pieces of Santini’s car were chewed up by the second impact. Then, with an awesome crunch, the Magna was crushed into the rear end of the ‘B’ double as surely as if it had been placed in a vice.
Fox’s mind recorded the action in slow motion while, in real time, he fought to maintain equilibrium on his motor bike. Cars and trucks all around him had begun braking and skidding as soon as the Magna lost control. The wet conditions and speed caused many vehicles to skate across the road and collide with one another while Santini’s car ruptured into chunks and peppered the carriageway. Sound from sliding, slewing, slamming vehicles tortured the air. And through the crunches and crashes, Fox gunned his bike and shot down the bridge and away.
Back up on the bridge deck, the growing peak hour traffic convulsed as cars and trucks began to slow, then stop, trapped by the enormous spaghetti-like entanglement at the top of the bridge.
Fox got home tired after his night’s work. He gave Johnson a brief account of the previous twelve hours and went to bed. At 7:00 a.m., Johnson rang Ben Aldrittson and told him to watch the morning news program. At 8:00 a.m., Jack Aldrittson rang Ben to say that, most unusually, Santini had not arrived for work and was not answering his mobile. He was aware that the mother of all pile-ups had occurred on the Westgate Bridge and could Ben use his connections to find out whether Santini had been involved in the bridge collision?
Chapter
SIXTEEN
The day after his address to the House about Hart Lite, Ben Aldrittson was in the office of Lance Baker, Minister for Environment. They were discussing Kindler’s Project. Baker, although supportive, was not interested in helping to fund it. A short, nuggetty, pugnacious man of abundant energy with an inflated opinion of himself, he was a hardworking, earnest politician. Married to a shy but wealthy woman from an old Melbourne family, he had two small daughters and lived among the “smart set” of Brighton. Proudly, Baker claimed a direct lineal connection to Major George Druitt, Chief Engineer of the Colonial Establishment of New South Wales during Governor Macquarie’s time. As a Government Minister he saw himself as an extension of Druitt and his good works. And right now, Baker was feisty. Aldrittson, contrary to what he had told Kindler, wanted Baker to supply all the infrastructure budget for Hart Lite. The two men were in conflict over the impasse.
‘Listen Ben,’ Baker growled, ‘I’ve got a lot of things on the go right now and I haven’t got extra funds for your schemes. Get used to it!’ Aldrittson remained placid.
‘You don’t think you’re being short sighted do you Lance? I mean, with the election coming up, your support for this will be seen as extremely positive. It is, after all, as much a project for the environment as it is for business and trade.’
‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t need a bloody lecture from you on my own portfolio, I know it’s a good project. It’s because of the bloody election there aren’t spare funds,’ he barked. Baker paced his office. ‘I’ve got investigators working under the radar with a New South Wales Environment Services team looking at that shocking toxic dump near Walwa. We believe Walwa, and other places, have been used for this kind of dumping before. New South Wales have identified at least six locations. Piece by piece we’re building a shadowy pattern of toxic dumping along the east coast. Not much to go on, whispers here and there, the odd sighting or two. I want to announce something positive about it during the election. If you want more money, go screw it out of the Treasurer!’
Aldrittson, only recently aware of Baker’s covert enquiry, wanted it stopped. To achieve this he had decided to use information that would, if brought to public notice, permanently disable Baker.
‘Before you make a final decision Lance, you should know I talked to a reporter friend of mine the other day about matters of interest to you. Seems she’s been working on an undercover story too – about paedophiles. She’s got solid information that a prominent Victorian politician is involved in a nasty little paedophile ring, right here in Melbourne.’
Baker stopped pacing, straightened and turned to glare at Aldrittson. ‘What are you implying, you slimy little shit?’ He was bristling with hostility, a biting edge to his voice.
Aldrittson continued, unruffled. ‘Yes, it seems this politician uses a non-de-plume which is not very original, or careful. Calls himself “The Major”. Can you imagine it? Seems he’s the main procurer of boys and girls used by this sick group.’
If Baker was intimidated, he didn’t show it. ‘Is there a point to this? If not, get out of my office!’ He scowled savagely.
‘Well the point is this. I made enquiries of my own and confirmed the politician’s involvement, along with a Judge, a couple of lawyers, some doctors, police and one or two others. All of them occupy positions of influence and some have real power. I imagine exposure would be immensely damaging.’
Baker advanced on Aldrittson, he was pale and trembling. Aldrittson was uncertain if Baker’s reaction was one of fear or rage.
‘Listen Aldrittson, I don’t know what you are raving about and I resent your insinuation. Get out of my office arsehole.’
‘Language Lance, language! I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. You see, I know the real iden
tity of The Major. I have the number for what he believes is a secure mobile phone. I‘ve also acquired the phone records of that number for the last six months and they do make for interesting reading. Would you like me to ring the number to see what happens?’
Aldrittson stopped talking. Baker had come face to face with him. He was ashen but unbowed by the implied threat. ‘Listen prick,‘ he hissed, ‘put up or shut up. Either way, know that I am going to have the living shit beaten out of you. How dare you threaten me!’
Aldrittson laughed scornfully. ‘I think not you grubby little pretender. You can delude yourself all you like by poncing around in public. I might even keep your odious little secret but, it will cost, so you listen up, prick,’ Aldrittson snarled. ‘I have all the documentary and film evidence I need to bury you and your band of cockroaches forever. So think about it.’
In their parliamentary lives, Baker and Aldrittson had clashed many times; the score was roughly even. This time, whether he admitted Aldrittson’s accusation or not, Baker was vanquished. Aldrittson intended keeping it that way. It had taken considerable effort and a lot of money for Spencer Johnson’s network to find this information. Aldrittson wanted Baker to squirm with shame, drop the waste investigation and pay the start-up costs for Kindler’s Project.
Baker was breathing raggedly but admitting nothing. Shaking, he pointed to the door. ‘Get out you piece of scum, you’ll get nothing from me,’ he ground in a low voice.
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