No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  Ben laughed. Sauntering to the door he said, ‘Your choice, but do think about it Lance. I’ll call you tomorrow when you’ve had time to consider all the implications.’ He paused, casually withdrew his mobile and punched the hot key. Closing the door he heard his call ring in Baker’s office.

  That same morning, Andy Drummond was in the kitchen of his small Balwyn unit. Idly, he had half an ear to the radio as he pottered about. The ABC announcer was saying: Westgate Bridge remains closed and police have confirmed that one man has died in an extraordinary multiple collision on the bridge at 5:55 this morning. Police sources have confirmed a total of thirty-five vehicles were involved in the spectacular smash. It appears to have occurred after a north bound car veered beneath the wheels of a ‘B’ double transport travelling beside it. The car was dragged forward by the truck for some distance. Eyewitnesses have said that the car appeared to experience a blow out then spin under the truck. An unladen cement truck travelling behind the transport ploughed into the wreckage of the car crushing it into the rear of the ‘B’ double. Miraculously, only three other people received minor injuries. Police have not yet released the name of the deceased person and the cause of the collision has not been confirmed. Anyone who may have witnessed the collision is asked to contact police through Crime Stoppers. The bridge is expected to be open by three o’clock this afternoon.

  Although the item registered, Drummond was more interested in trying to work out the meaning of someone getting under Santini’s car. As he sat down to lunch, the phone rang.

  ‘Jesus!’ he growled aloud, ‘a man can’t even eat lunch in peace.’ When he answered, Tony Maud said quietly, ‘Did you say yesterday that Santini’s car number was HGF 001?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Did you also say you saw someone crawl from under Santini’s car?’

  ‘You know I bloody did. What’s going on?’

  ‘Did you hear about the pile up on the Westgate this morning?’

  ‘As a matter of fact it was on the news a couple of minutes ago. I think someone was killed. Why?’

  ‘Andy, that someone looks a lot like Bernardo Santini and you have just become a witness again. Santini’s death changes the complexion of the truck fire up here altogether. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. Stay there and John Oliver from Major Collisions will come and talk to you. Tell him everything you can remember. Christ, how could a job interview lead to this?’

  ‘I don’t know whether my interview has any bearing on things, but okay, I’ll jot down some notes for this Oliver bloke. How do you want me to play this? Your involvement I mean?’

  Maud was brusque and unhesitating. ‘Straight down the middle cobber, no other way. This investigation has just bumped up a couple of levels and we don’t need any funny business mucking it up.’

  After Maud hung up, Drummond contemplated this new twist. He was in no doubt that the man he had seen in the rain last night was connected to Santini’s death. But how did that tie in with the truck fire? Clearly, the Aldrittson company was common to both events. Maybe the truck fire had more riding on it than appeared on the surface, especially since toxic waste was somehow involved. Aldrittson’s owned a waste disposal firm, perhaps waste was the key.

  Chapter

  SEVENTEEN

  At midday, Teresa Marchese brought Pescaro a simple lunch of cheese, pesto, olives, ham, crisp bread and coffee. He took it in his study.

  ‘Thank you Teresa. Sit with me a while.’ Pescaro was sombre, the invitation to stay unusual. Generally he ate alone. ‘I’ve had some bad news this morning,’ he said softly. ‘Nardo Santini is dead. I’m still waiting for details but a police source has confirmed that Nardo died on the Westgate Bridge this morning.’ Teresa sat very still, watching Pescaro whose focus was far away.

  ‘I’m told Nardo’s tyre blew out causing him to veer into a truck beside him.’ He sighed and slowly shook his head. ‘Such a fate is unexpected. Nardo was so careful on the road … and with his car. But, I’ll know more later.’

  Teresa was amazed by Pescaro’s announcement. She had been too busy for news bulletins today. Personally, she disliked Santini – found him unnerving and cold. Given his position however, she had always shown respect and attempted to keep her feelings hidden.

  She spoke gently. ‘I am sorry to hear this Giuseppe. I know Bernardo has been a lifelong friend and confidante to you. Can I do anything?’ Teresa knew others would fill Santini’s shoes and expected a request to arrange their attendance.

  Instead, Pescaro astonished her. ‘For the moment, I want you to take his place as my Consigliere. I know this is unusual and some will disagree, however, most of the capos will support you, especially when they see what you’re made of. Whether you realise it or not, you have prepared all your life for this and fate now delivers opportunity. Your role will be different from others. Yes there will be mediations and negotiations still, but your most important role will be caring for our legitimate businesses, expanding, diversifying and laundering money through them. This is the way of the future.’ Pescaro spoke thoughtfully. This decision, Teresa could see, was not lightly made. Her feelings were tumultuous; never had she anticipated being a Consigliere. Indeed, she knew immediately she had no peer among her kind.

  Pescaro observed her as the gravity of his decision sank in. Then, briskly, he said, ‘There are things to be done, starting now. First, you need to know that Nardo recently warned me about Ben Aldrittson. Nothing more than intuition but he believed Aldrittson is more dangerous than we think. You know all about the waste project and the Aldrittsons responsibilities in that. On Thursday he was to give Nardo copies of documents prepared for the Premier, explanatory and strategy papers for easing our project into parliament. You will meet Aldrittson and get those documents. However, be careful. The timing of Nardo’s death after his meeting with Aldrittson causes me to think his death is not accidental.’

  Pescaro handed Teresa some keys. ‘Take these, I want you to get into Ben Aldrittson’s unit and look around.’ Teresa’s eyes widened as she took the keys. How did he come by these? He continued on, seeming not to notice her surpise. ‘If you find anything that links him to Nardo’s death bring it to me. Getting in shouldn’t be difficult, any day now he’ll be on the campaign trail for this election. Next, I want you to dig up everything you can on a man called Andy Drummond. He comes from Heathcote, near Bendigo. Yesterday he applied for a driver’s job at Aldrittson’s firm. Nardo said he looked and smelt like a cop even though Drummond said he was ex-army. He mentioned Browne’s truck fire and I’m not sure whether that was very clever or just coincidence. Find out if there is any link between Aldrittson and Drummond. Lastly, I want you to organise Nardo’s funeral at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in East Melbourne. Spare no expense and invite the other Families. Comprendé?’

  Teresa nodded. ‘Yes Giuseppe. I’ll start with that first.’

  ‘Thank you Teresa. You will make a good replacement for Nardo, in fact, he and I discussed it some time ago. Expect to be overwhelmed at times but talk to me when you need. Now, bring me the cigar box please.’ Pescaro had ignored his lunch.

  Teresa rose, walked to the book shelves and removed an ornately carved rosewood box sitting in its own space. It was of great age and beauty. She took it to Pescaro.

  ‘There is something pressing you must attend to right away.’ He opened the box and removed three keys on a ring and passed them to her. ‘These belong to Nardo’s house. You know where it is. The large key opens the front and back doors. In his yard there is a barbecue, it is Nardo’s secret place. Remove the firewood and you’ll find a door which the small brass key will open. Bring me the security box. Make sure you put things back. And, look around. If there’s anything the cops shouldn’t find, bring it here. We talked of this day – he will be prepared. Go now because the cops will already be sniffing about.’

  Driving to Santini’s Teresa grappled with all Pescaro had said, especially her ‘promotion’. It was h
ard to imagine Santini talking of her as his replacement. She suspected he knew she didn’t like him. In fact, she could scarcely bring herself to use his name, mostly she had called him Mister, or nothing at all.

  She listened to the midday news drone on about Iraqi insurgents, world crude oil price rises and slow progress at the International Whaling Commission conference. The bulletin concluded with an update of the Westgate Bridge crash. The deceased driver’s name was still not available. That was good, Santini’s neighbours wouldn’t be unduly inquisitive. Still, no room for complacency. She had brought a large shoulder bag for Santini’s security box and fervently hoped there was nothing else to carry.

  She parked in Johnston Street and walked down Nicholson Street towards 205A, pulling her coat closer and turning up the collar as she went. A beanie hid most of her hair and plain spectacles altered her looks. The wind was strong and the sky a heavy, slate grey. Being so cold, her woollen gloves were not out of place.

  Teresa knocked on Santini’s front door and waited. No one seemed interested in her. She entered and closed the door. The old house had undergone substantial renovation. It was tasteful in a masculine way and clean. Nothing looked at all out of the ordinary. A large leather recliner was close to the front window, the prime TV spot. An empty mobile phone cradle, charger and answering machine sat on glass coffee table beneath the window. Teresa hit the play button and heard Jack Aldrittson calling at 7:10 a.m. asking why Santini was not at work; he sounded annoyed. At 7:50 a.m. he had left a similar message. She left both on the tape.

  She went out back to retrieve the security box. Stepping into Santini’s yard was a surprise. She had only ever heard him disavow his Sicilian origins yet this small, neat, backyard could have been transplanted from the Old Country. Terra cotta paving, neatly pruned vines, a small fountain and a healthy garden overflowing with vegetables. What an enigma he was.

  She went to the barbecue – a brick and marble affair – unpacked the sawn logs and found the metal door. Unlocking the door she removed the security box and after re-stacking the wood and sweeping up some bark she took it to the kitchen.

  Following Pescaro’s instructions, she began her search. Opening the spacious pantry she poked and pried but found nothing unusual. She moved on to the well stocked fridge. It contained a variety of frozen meats and vegetables which she lifted and checked. The tub of ice cream was too heavy for its size. She took it to the sink and searched until she found a skewer: something was concealed in the tub.

  Taking a bowl from the pantry she removed the ice cream to reveal a firearm wrapped in plastic. After rinsing the package in warm water she wrapped it in another plastic bag. She tipped the icecream back into its tub and returned it to the freezer.

  Quickly, but thoroughly, she searched the rest of the house. Finding a battered, leather bound photo album in a wardrobe, she took it to the kitchen for examination. It was full of small sepia and black and white photographs, many from overseas. Not knowing their importance, she decided to take it with her. As she closed the album, a loose black and white photograph fell from the back pages. Three people she recognised smiled at her from a beach; her parents and a young Giuseppe Pescaro. She didn’t know the fourth person, a woman. Turning the photograph over she read: Sorrento, 1973, Bon Voyage! Giuseppe, Angelina, Alfredo and Adriana. She looked at the photograph again. She hadn’t known of any friendship between her parents, Pescaro and … his wife? It was the first time she had even considered that Pescaro might have been married. Why would Santini have this photograph? A cold finger of dread lanced her stomach. She slipped it into her coat pocket and packed the album, security box and firearm into her shoulder bag.

  After a last look around, she rinsed and dried the bowl and sink of ice cream. Out in the street, drizzly rain was falling. She stepped through the front gate and looked casually right and left, noting the ‘For Sale’ sign on the house opposite and its drawn curtains. She turned left and walked back to her car. The whole operation at Santini’s had taken fifty minutes. She had been thorough but was more tense than she realised.

  She sat in her car as cold misty rain fell quietly in Johnston Street. After a few moments, she started the motor and turned the heater up to high. Waiting for the warmth, she opened the photo album. On the fly leaf, in beautiful handwriting, a simple inscription in Italian read: Our journey through life, 1942. Bernardo and Simonetta Santini.

  The initial pages contained many small photos of the young Bernardo Santini – Nardo’s father. He was photographed at various ages from childhood to manhood in different parts of the Sicilian countryside. Next came a similar series of Simonetta Rossini and her family. All the snaps reflected a time before, during and after World War Two. Following Simonetta’s early life were photographs of a simple country wedding in 1942. From the past, the young Bernardo and Simonetta beamed their love for each other.

  Teresa thumbed the pages noting the appearance of baby Nardo, the ravages of war around Rome, S. S.Neptunia, life at sea, various ports and images of the scowling, smiling or laughing ten year old Nardo. Then came Princes Pier, Bonegilla, the wild, wide Snowy Mountains, work camps at the Snowy scheme, picnics, school and the growing boy. All the pictures spoke eloquently of the young Santini family and their unfolding lives.

  She removed the picture from her pocket and peered again at the group of happy people on holiday. Teresa’s insatiable curiosity was piqued. There was nothing at Pescaro’s home to suggest a wife or children. She re-examined the photograph: Pescaro and Angelina were wearing matching wedding rings. She had never seen any ring on his hand. Inexplicably, her mouth was dry, fear wormed into her belly. Thoughts of the harsh Mafia culture blossomed in her mind.

  With mounting apprehension, she opened Santini’s box. It was filled with money: neatly ordered bundles of used $50 and $100 notes secured by rubber bands. She didn’t know how much was there but it had to be thousands. She lifted the bundles aside, burrowing to the bottom. Nestling between two packets of notes were about a dozen letters bound in a slim white ribbon. Keepsakes from Santini’s parents? She opened the first envelope to find a beautiful letter that quivered with passion and tenderness. Written by Angelina Pescaro, she was shocked to see it addressed to her father. Dazed, she rushed through the bundle: some were from her father, others from Angelina. All were ardent testaments to a deep and powerful love between them.

  Immediately, her mind conjured the inevitable outcome of this relationship. Infidelity between mafia husbands and wives or unmarried mafia couples was not tolerated. A bullet to the back of the head was preceded by torture, the hacked off penis stuffed into the man’s mouth, and finally, a graceless discovery of two naked bodies in a car boot somewhere. It was degrading, humiliating and ruthless. Teresa’s belly somersaulted. She felt sick and wound the window down. Rain spattered softly on her face as a gush of cold air blew in.

  She had always believed she was orphaned by a boating accident. Nobody had even whispered of a relationship between Angelina Pescaro and her father. Her heart contracted. And what of her mother? What pain had she endured? What was the truth of her death? In seconds, a life she had believed and was comfortable with, had shattered. Suddenly she was gasping for air, tears coursed down her cheeks. Her pain was crushing. She glimpsed her grey waxy face in the rear view mirror. What sense could she make of this? Why did Santini have the photograph and letters? Was he the assassin? Her dislike of Santini convinced her she was right.

  Her world had suddenly fragmented and the new life offered by Pescaro would have to be seriously re-considered. She lay back, breathing slowly and deeply. Gradually, she regained control. Whatever might have been was finished. Now, there could only be a search for truth, and possibly, revenge.

  Driving back to the Villa, she looked for a service station offering photocopying. Stopping in Bridge Road she copied the thirteen letters, re-ordered the originals in their ribbon girdle and returned them to Santini’s box. The copies lay like lead in her coat pocket alongs
ide the Sorrento photograph, a dreadful and malevolent secret.

  Starting with her parents, she reviewed her life as she drove. Her feelings for them were always warm and tender. She could remember little other than a happy home. The drama of their deaths was only vaguely recalled and she had always believed they died water skiing when their boat hit a rock. What she had been told was that the impact killed her father and a piece of the boat’s timber struck her mother causing her to drown. She had understood all this as the lore of her life and would now have to prove whether it was fact or fable.

  Alfredo and Adriana Marchese had migrated from Rome to Melbourne in 1970 after which Teresa was born. With her parents dead, at the age five Teresa went to live at Sylvan with the Benedetti family. Life with Benedetti’s had been as loving as any family could be and Teresa had never felt alone or unwanted. Her addition to the five Benedetti children was seamless and unconditional. She loved the family and their market garden and found school a place of mystery and satisfaction. She proved to be quick, intelligent, energetic and enthusiastic. In her final year at primary school it was suggested she sit for a scholarship at Genazzano College, in Kew. To no one’s surprise, she won easily.

  In 1982, aged twelve, she went to Deepdene and lived with the Bellini family, friends of Benedettis. Genazzano was short tram ride away. At fourteen, in Year 9, she became a term boarder and returned to Sylvan during holidays. Later still, she spent less holiday time at Sylvan and more with different school friends. Possessing an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, her outstanding scholastic results were matched only by her driving curiosity. She was a natural at rowing and swimming, but in her more senior years, slipped easily into the martial arts.

  In Year 11 her life changed after a six month exchange visit to Italy. There, she discovered her Italian roots, polished her language skills and enjoyed the Italian lifestyle. Back at Genazzano, she felt that another facet had been grafted to her personality. She continued to study hard and entered Monash University. She was just under eighteen.