Her application to a double degree in law and commerce seemed effortless. In her second year, at a family celebration, the Benedettis introduced her to one of their oldest friends. For Teresa, Giuseppe Pescaro’s appearance was timely. He took an immediate interest in her and offered her work at one of his restaurants. Needing money for her course, rent and a small car, she worked hard and progressed quickly from waitress to weekend manager. Slowly, Giuseppe encouraged her into bigger and better restaurants where her responsibilities and pay increased. At the time, she had accepted these opportunities gratefully but now wondered if there had been an ulterior motive.
In her third year, yearning for deeper knowledge and experience of her parent’s birthplace, she undertook a semester in law at the Prato Centre in Italy. It was a journey substantially cushioned by Pescaro whose generosity was unlimited and whose influential ‘contacts’ seemed endless.
On completion of her degree, Teresa became a full time manager at Pescaro’s largest restaurant in St. Kilda where she earned a good livelihood. Wanting her to maximise her education Pescaro first suggested, then arranged for Teresa to work in a bank. Natural aptitude took her into the field of shares, investment, financing and overseas trade. Three years later, he organised a series of powerful and significant jobs for her overseas. The first in London, with an international investment firm, the next in Germany with one of that nation’s largest stockbrokers to concentrate on international trade and global politics. The final move was to Switzerland with one of the world’s oldest, largest and most discreet financial institutions. There she would obtain a detailed understanding of global financial systems but, more importantly, learn how their discreet and confidential services functioned. Four busy and exciting years vanished in a flash.
Friendship with Pescaro was always interesting and constantly fruitful. Teresa applied intellectual rigour, skill and energy to her work and Pescaro – without her knowledge – used his network to ease her into job and personal growth opportunities. In late 2002, whilst at home on holidays from Europe, Pescaro suggested she stay and work for him.
Her workplace would be the Villa at Glover Court. Pescaro explained the nature of his interests without revealing it was Mafia. Astonished by the size and diversity of his empire: building, finance, shipping, gambling, waste management, food and agriculture, among others, Teresa had little trouble agreeing.
Her skill and overseas experience ensured that Pescaro’s already sound “business” became even more so. Over a period of months she learned the truth about Pescaro but, by then, was enjoying the excitement of her work and excellent pay. Somehow, she was not surprised he was Mafia but initially was uncertain of her own feelings. Teresa didn’t want to be engaged in violent crime and had doubts about her future, but in the end, she succumbed to being a team player. Randomly, over time, Pescaro gave her small operational jobs to perform. Her forthcoming visit to Ben Aldrittson’s unit was one of these. Pescaro respected her and, within the confines of their personal and business interaction, bestowed freedom and trust. In short, she seemed to have become both family and friend to him even though her role officially remained that of private secretary. Now, approaching thirty-five, Teresa had worked for Pescaro for almost three years.
Although informed and well connected, Teresa didn’t know the detail of the dirty business of crime: the drugs, prostitution, torture, murder, extortion, robberies, insurance scams and other forms of serious bastardry. For his own reasons, Pescaro had shielded her from this dark side of business. For her part, Teresa revelled in taking money generated by crime, laundering it and making it grow through valid business ventures. While it was a lifestyle that enabled her to turn a blind eye to the source of her personal income, there remained always, a chip of restless conscience.
It was a unique situation. Indeed, one day after some particularly hefty gains on the futures market, Pescaro surprised her by revealing details of his long running and lucrative insider trading scam at the stock exchange. ‘Crime,’ he had explained, ‘is merely one set of cogs in a big money making machine. Parts of the machine are legal, other parts are not. What both parts have in common is profit. It is through profit where the clarity of what is legal and what is illegal becomes opaque, and it is here especially where we strive to optimise our returns.’
Today, she had come full circle. Her life, it seemed, had always been shadowed by Pescaro and her discovery of the letters and photograph confirmed that. At 1:40 p.m. she drove into the Villa. She was calm, controlled and implacably committed to two things: learning the whole truth about the death of her parents and discovering as much as she could about Angelina Pescaro.
Chapter
EIGHTEEN
‘Spencer,’ said the familiar voice in Johnson’s ear, ‘care for a bite to eat tonight? I’ll see you at The Squid’s Legs, 7:30.’ Ben Aldrittson hung up without announcing himself or waiting for a reply.
Johnson could tell from the tone of voice that Aldrittson was pissed off about something. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. He figured it had to be Santini’s death.
Johnson had already met Fox for a debriefing and knew about the “watcher” in the Hertz van. He had ticked Fox off for not dealing with the watcher. Fox had rejected the smack. ‘Listen Spence,’ he had said, an edge to his voice, ‘I don’t have a problem killing people, just certain kinds of people. Rapists, drug dealers, murderers, paedophiles and Mafia villains are all on my “A” list. People like the bloke who tagged me last night are not. Get used to it. I know nothing about him. If you think I’m being hypocritical, remember this, all that damage on the bridge – minimal impact on others. I designed it that way. Don’t lecture me on principle; it shits me.’
Fox was right. Even so, his attitude had rankled.
‘Listen Foxy, your failure to deal with this bloke could bring a blow torch to all our arses. You should have thought of that.’
Fox had laughed it off. ‘Cut it out Spence. He got nothing. Not me, not my bike, nothing. You ought to be more concerned about Aldrittson; he’s a loose bloody cannon. And, I’ve got to tell you, he’s only a tick off full membership to my “A” list.’ Fox had seen Aldrittson many times at Johnson’s gym and assiduously avoided him. He detested the man’s double standards and smug self-importance.
Privately, Johnson thought Aldrittson should rate AA+ on Fox’s list, but he paid exceptionally well and without quibbling. Instead, he rumbled, ‘We’ll have to watch it.’
Fox had smiled lazily. ‘Listen up mate. It will be neither your nor my doing that brings Aldrittson down … he’ll manage that by himself. Mark my words.’
At 7:30 p.m. Johnson walked into The Squid’s Legs in Stokes Street, Port Melbourne. Not far from the beach, it was a quiet restaurant with a reputation for fine ocean cuisine. Nautical themes decorated the alcoves circling the main room and in the dim light of marine lanterns, Johnson saw Aldrittson furthest from the entrance. Reaching the table he boomed, ‘Benny my boy, good to see you.’
Aldrittson didn’t bother rising, merely nodded and pointed to the chair opposite. Johnson turned and signalled the waitress. Aldrittson was pissed off! He ignored the pointing finger and remained standing. The girl arrived swiftly and he ordered freshly squeezed orange juice. She melted towards the kitchen.
Johnson sat having subtly made his point. ‘What’s on your mind Benny?’ His voice was low and neutral.
‘Let me tell you Spence.’ Aldrittson’s eyes flashed, his voice was husky with anger. ‘You fucked up. The coppers think Santini was murdered. They know someone got to his car last night and they’re going through the wreck with sieves. And they’ll already be turning his house over … with a microscope and tweezers. I don’t need this.’ He was furious.
‘You’re jumping at shadows Benny. The coppers have nothing. It was raining, it was dark and my man was not discovered. They’ve got nothing. Okay, so maybe they’re talking to someone who saw my man, but all they will have is a vague description of someone act
ing strangely in the rain. Nothing else.’
Aldrittson was not assuaged. He continued at a slow burn. ‘My police sources tell me they’ve got enough to make them regard Santini’s death as murder rather than a car crash. That’s where you fucked up! Santini’s death was supposed to look accidental. Now it’s been compromised and Pescaro’s going to be on the hunt too.’
Johnson liked Aldrittson’s money but not his attitude. ‘Listen up sport. This whole bloody thing is down to you, no one else. Remember that. Bloody unfortunate this bloke turned up, but have you asked yourself why? Who is he? Where’s he from? What was he doing there? None of that’s coincidental, so any compromise occurred well before Santini’s death. Have you thought of that? Don’t feed me bullshit about my man compromising your little plan. He didn’t.’
Aldrittson drew back mollified, reflective. Finally, he said, ‘I can tell you who he is and where he’s from; the coppers told me that much. He’s from Heathcote and his name is Andy Drummond. Why he was there I don’t know.’
Johnson settled back into his chair. Aldrittson could see things ticking over in his mind.
‘My man heard a conversation between Santini and Pescaro where Drummond’s name came up. Seems he applied for a job at your old man’s firm yesterday. Santini knocked him back; thought he was a copper. Drummond claimed he was ex-army. Anyway, Santini was concerned about him. Given Drummond’s from Heathcote, that your truck burned there and suddenly he’s knocking at your door for a job I’d say is more than coincidence. Seems to me Benny, your old man’s firm is under some kind of scrutiny. You’d better be careful old son.’
Aldrittson was dismissive. ‘I don’t know about that but what I do know is, I don’t want the coppers sniffing around. Some of the bastards are honest and if they get their hooks into this, they could be hard to stop, even with my contacts.’
Johnson sat passively, thinking. ‘You need a diversion, something to take their attention away from the firm. Some new garden path to lead them down.’
Aldrittson reached for his wine, face shadowed, eyes glinting. ‘What about creating some friction, or the appearance of friction between Asian gangs, or the Lebanese Tigers or someone? We could make Santini’s death seem connected to that rather than our firm. Could you fix that Spence?’ As he voiced the question, he was struck by a different thought – political advantage, difficulties for the cops. The concept appealed to him, especially with the election coming up.
Johnson watched Aldrittson’s anger dissipate and smelt more big money, yet the idea was fraught. Manufacturing false hostilities could lead to his own demise.
‘Benny my boy, that is risky business. Let me think about it and make a few enquiries. Right now I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no, but your idea is very bloody dicey. I’ll get back in a day or two. One more thing though – we might be able to funnel Pescaro in the direction of this Drummond character. That should at least keep his eyes off you. In the meantime, let’s have some good food.’
‘Bloody good idea Spence.’ Aldrittson was in better humour, ‘but in the meantime, give that prick Drummond a lesson anyway. Smart arse! He needs to know it’s unwise to stick his nose where it’s not wanted.’
‘No problem,’ grinned Johnson.
Chapter
NINETEEN
After being interviewed by John Oliver, Drummond decided to return to the farm. He rang Tony Maud to fill him in and immediately was invited for dinner.
At 6:30 the following morning, Drummond walked downstairs to his ute. Nearing his truck, he stopped abruptly. His tyres were slashed, the tonneau cut to ribbons and a thick, foul smelling oil poured over the cabin, windows, bonnet and tray.
He was furious. Not only because of the damage but because he prided himself on sleeping with one ear on full alert. He had heard nothing. The audacity and scale of the attack lit his rage to white hot fury. Bounding upstairs, he rang the local police then took his camera down to record the damage.
Half an hour later, two uniformed police arrived in a Divisional van to take his complaint. They were sympathetic but unhelpful. They had had no similar calls and nothing suspicious had been reported during the night. They said they would pass it on to local detectives before their shift finished. Drummond believed they were disinterested and would palm it off as soon as they could. After twenty minutes of questions and form filling, they left.
By then, he had calmed and begun to think. Although nothing connected the two events, he wondered if his experience outside Santini’s was linked to this attack. Instinct said yes, logic said presumptuous.
After a time wasting and expensive morning of restoration and repair, he left for Heathcote. Driving home Drummond considered events of the last forty eight hours. The person under Santini’s car, the damage to this ute, Aldrittson Waste Disposals and the truck fire. Somehow, they all seemed related. He wondered too about the rapid compensation for Browne’s widow. It was too neat and too quick. He was suspicious of AWD and after Maud had told him about toxic residues on the burnt-out truck, he suspected them of dumping illegal waste. But, therein lay a contradiction. Every scrap of information he had heard or read about this firm extolled propriety and excellence. Nothing suggested the Aldrittson company was in any way shonky.
Arriving at Heathcote, he pulled up for fresh bread and milk at Gaffney’s Bakery and was followed in by Mario Embone. Behind the counter, Jacqueline Thibault greeted Drummond as though he had been away for a month.
‘Welcome home stranger. Where have you been?’
Drummond grinned, the red haired Jacquie was always trying a line. An unmarried mother of thirty something, she was cheerful, talkative and generously proportioned.
‘Just in Melbourne a couple of days Jac. How have you been?’
‘Yeah, goodoh. Did you bring me back something nice?’ She smiled wickedly as she asked the question.
‘Not this time Jacquie love. As a matter of fact, some bloody ratbag trashed my ute. I wasted the whole bloody morning getting things fixed. Bloody bastards, if I could get my hands on ‘em I’d kill ‘em.’ He told her about the damage, she sympathised and moved to another customer.
Embone, patiently waiting his turn, listened to the exchange with interest. He wondered if Pescaro was trying to provoke something. He would check later to find out.
In Melbourne, Ben Aldrittson was climbing the stairs to Spencer Johnson’s gym. With electioneering about to start he needed to tone up. After fifteen minutes or so, Johnson wandered across to check his progress.
‘Yo, Benny. How’s the program? Let me see.’ He checked Aldrittson’s chart and said, ‘you could manage another ten kilos on that bar, you’re doing it too easy. Speaking of easy, a friend of mine had some bad luck last night. His ute was pretty badly trashed. It’s going to cost him quite a few bob to fix it up. Jeez there’s some bastards in this world.’ He slipped Aldrittson a sly wink and moved on. Aldrittson kept pumping iron but allowed himself a wry grin. Good, he thought, maybe this prick Drummond will disappear back to his farm and stay there.
At her own small home in Rose Street, Burnley, Teresa selected clothes for her visit to Ben Aldrittson’s unit. Since the shock of finding the letters and photograph at Santini’s she had steadied. Even so, unanswered questions kept pummelling her mind and causing distress. If her parents had died in a boating accident, why keep their friendship with Pescaro secret? Had Pescaro known of the affair between Angelina and her father? Why did Santini have the letters and photograph anyway?
Pescaro had said nothing about the security box or its contents and received the firearm in silence. She noticed, however, that Santini’s old album now lay on his desk in a place reserved for things of importance.
Teresa felt a coolness towards Pescaro that was difficult to conceal yet she was acutely aware of the honour he had bestowed in making her his Consigliere. She felt torn between a duty to parents she didn’t really know and desire to experience her unique new role. If she chose to pursue the truth
about her parents it might be impossible to stay with Pescaro, yet leaving him would almost certainly result in her death. She felt trapped. In the end, despite the risk, and driven by boundless curiosity, she decided to seek the truth.
To her great sadness she realised she could no longer rely on the Benedettis, they were part of the deception. She had to continue with Pescaro as before, quietly searching for answers, slowly building the layers. What she discovered would ultimately determine her final action.
She settled on a shoulder length blonde wig, plain silk blouse, bright red and white Argyle patterned top, jeans and red and white sneakers. From her knowledge of Aldrittson, her image would fit the kind of girl he was often seen with and wouldn’t arouse too many suspicions at his apartment block.
At home, Giuseppe Pescaro quietly enjoyed an aromatic rum and honey cured cigar while listening to Django Reinhardt’s Jazz in Paris, a collection of 1935 classics. The westering sun suffused his study with a coppery glow. He was thinking deeply. He knew exactly what Santini’s box contained, he had always known. What he couldn’t be sure of was whether Teresa had inspected its contents. She had said nothing and he had not detected any noticeable change in her behaviour. She appeared just as industrious, just as balanced and as ever respectful. She had arranged Santini’s funeral to his complete satisfaction and learned that a chain of legislation was to be rammed through Parliament before it prorogued. Tomorrow she would use that legislative wagon-train to minimise risk when she visited Aldrittson’s unit.
He was, however, intrigued by her silence over the box. Sending her to collect it had partly been a test for her new position. No matter what his personal feelings might be, business came first, last and always. If she did not pass this test, then, ultimately, she was expendable. That was why her silence gnawed at him. He had expected her to raise the contents of Santini’s box and discuss them with him. He even thought she might have raged at him, that would have been natural The story behind what lay in the box was unpleasant, yet, to this point it seemed to lie unchallenged.
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