No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  The telephone intruded upon his reverie. ‘Pronto?’

  ‘I do not yet ‘ave the answer to your question Don Pescaro,’ Mario Embone said, ‘but I thought you might be interested in two things. First, Drummond is back, second, someone trashed ‘is ute last night. I ‘eard ‘im talkin’ to one of the girls at Gaffney’s.’

  ‘Did he know who was responsible?’

  ‘No. ‘E said if ‘e did ‘e wouldda like to kill ‘em. Idle talk Giuseppe, butta shows ‘is annoyance.’

  ‘Good work Mario. An interesting piece of information, nothing to do with me though. Ring me when you find out about Drummond and Maud.’ He wondered what might shake loose.

  Chapter

  TWENTY

  At 6:00 p.m. Mario Embone’s phone rang. About to step into the shower, he answered with a curt, ‘Embone.’

  Pescaro’s deep voice rumbled down the line. ‘I have another job for you. One of my police sources says Drummond was interviewed yesterday. Seems he had something to do with Nardo’s “accident”. As I suspected, Nardo’s death is suspicious. I want you to give this Drummond a terminal headache. Call me tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Pronto Giuseppe.’ Embone’s plans had just been ruined but he was not unhappy. It had been a long time since he had had a job like this one. He didn’t mind the new shape of his evening at all.

  Also on the dot of 6:00 p.m., Drummond pulled up outside the police residence. With roses and a beautiful bottle of Syrah from Vinea Marson, one of Heathcote’s newest wineries, he sauntered to the front door and rang the bell.

  A beaming Mary Maud stepped forward and embraced Andy to her ample bosom, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Andy love, how nice to see you, come on in. Got the ute fixed? Tony told me about it.’

  ‘All fixed … bastards,’ he growled. Then he grinned at her. Their relationship was as close as brother and sister. Mary had been a staunch supporter during Sue’s illness and following her death. Not only had the two women become close friends through the bond between their husbands but they also shared a common interest in teaching. Auburn haired Mary was a steady, cheerful woman with limitless compassion, a perfect foil to Tony and a wonderful back stop. Locally, she was renowned for her intense interest in current affairs and blunt views on politics.

  As they moved to the kitchen, Drummond savoured the mouth watering aroma of roast lamb.

  ‘Where’s Tony?’ he asked.

  ‘Next door in the “shop”. Jerry Riddell needed a trade plate for a van early tomorrow morning. He said it would only take five minutes. Now, what have you got there?’

  Andy presented her with the roses. ‘For Mary, our Goddess Rhea, Queen of Comfort,’ he laughed. ‘I got these at Kilmore and they assured me their colour is surpassed only by their fragrance.’

  ‘Oh Andy, I’m not even going to say “you shouldn’t have”, how wonderful.’ She smiled again and gave him another hug.

  ‘Cut that out you two or I’ll be suing for divorce tomorrow.’ Tony Maud bustled through the back door, filling the room with his presence and grinning like a fool. He pumped Andy’s hand vigorously.

  ‘How about I trade you Mary for this bottle of Syrah?’ responded Drummond.

  ‘You’re on,’ laughed Tony.

  Mary giggled. ‘I didn’t know you had that much money, it must have been priceless.’ They all laughed.

  ‘Sit down boys. Do you want a beer before dinner? Tony, be a love and get me a sherry will you, while I finish the gravy.’

  The men sat at the table with their beers.

  ‘So, tell me what happened this morning?’

  Andy took a long, slow pull at his beer and sighed. ‘I went outside at half six because I had a few things to do at the farm and wanted to leave early. And, there it was – a bloody mess! Cost me nearly nine hundred bucks for four new tyres. The new tonneau will be close to five hundred. It took nearly an hour to get all the crap off the truck and out of the tray. I’m certain the bloke at the car wash wanted to shoot me. Should have seen the look on his face when I drove in! He was not a happy camper.’

  ‘Do you think this was a random attack or somehow connected to your recent nocturnal activities?’

  ‘Hard to say Tony. I think probably the latter, although I’ve got nothing to base that on, just gut feeling.’

  ‘Did you call the cops?’

  ‘Of course, but they weren’t all that interested. I think I interrupted their breakfast. City coppers aren’t the same as you country blokes.’ He grinned at his friend.

  ‘Did you call John Oliver and tell him?’

  ‘No mate. To tell you the truth I was so angry about the whole bloody thing it didn’t enter my mind. And then, when I calmed down, I just went at it to get everything fixed so I could get home.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll call him tomorrow. He might organise a flea in the ear for those local blokes you saw. Now, what about Santini. Tell me again what happened.’

  Andy described in detail the events of that night. He had just finished explaining about the motor bike when an imperious signal from Mary’s clattering plates interrupted. The fragrant smell of roast lamb, baked potatoes and vegetables mixed with rich gravy drifted across the kitchen.

  ‘Righto, suspend hostilities you blokes. Come and get this tucker. I’m not waiting on you, I gave up slavery twenty years ago when I married him.’ In her usual style, Mary had dished up a huge roast dinner causing Andy to almost drool with anticipation.

  The wine, a deep red, was the perfect accompaniment to the dinner and dessert of baked apples, cinnamon syrup and double cream. For Drummond, this was the essence of a home life lost to him since Sue’s death, a loss still as painful as the day it occurred.

  After dinner, Mary shooed them into the lounge room.

  ‘Finish nattering. I want to clean up and make a couple of phone calls. I’ll bring tea in later.’ It was her way of giving them space.

  Settling into arm chairs, Maud turned on the gas fire to take the edge off the early winter chill. They sat in comfortable silence while the heater warmed the room.

  ‘Got any info back yet on that bit of metal?’ Drummond queried. ‘Was it a detonator?’

  ‘Yep it was. Just today I learned forensics can prove the detonator was responsible for the fire. They found minute traces of the same chemical cocktail on it as on the truck. That now makes this a homicide investigation and officially takes it out of my hands.’

  ‘What are your thoughts about Santini’s death Tony?’

  ‘At this stage, none. He was a key man at AWD responsible for organising pickups, dispatches, rosters and so on. So far, the blokes in town have found nothing to link Santini’s death to the truck fire.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not linked. Maybe it’s unrelated, some kind of private dispute, or something like that,’ said Drummond thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, who knows? At present nothing can be ruled in or out, but I’ll tell you this, if you hadn’t been in Nicholson Street the other morning, we would never have known about that bloke under Santini’s car. That changed everything. John Oliver’s already told me Santini’s death looked as though it happened as the result of an unfortunate blow out. What you saw changed all that. Now forensics is looking at Santini’s car with very different eyes. As for your ute – hard to say. Could be vandals, could be related to Santini’s death. I can’t see any connection between it and Browne’s death in Schoolhouse Lane.’

  ‘I agree,’ Drummond responded, ‘and I didn’t want to sound as though I was jumping to conclusions. But, driving back today, I had a good think. I’m inclined to the view that my ute was either a warning or payback for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds plausible. We could have two strands here: Santini’s death and Browne’s death. Both are connected through AWD but that doesn’t mean they actually relate to one another. Somehow though, I can’t believe they’re coincidental. We’ve decided to quietly put Aldrittson’s under the microscope. And that wo
n’t be easy. Apart from being a reputable company, Jack Aldrittson’s son is the Minister for Trade and Business. He’s a mover and shaker with a reputation for being a prickly bastard with lots of clout. We can’t afford to cock up.’

  Drummond took notice of Tony’s view of the Minister. Because of Mary’s firebrand opinions about politicians, he tended to be more than usually circumspect about them. Drummond had not made the connection to the waste firm.

  ‘Is it possible that Aldrittson’s have some kind of illegal waste racket going Tony?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ responded Maud. ‘Anything is possible – until we begin investigating no one knows. One of our problems will be Jack Aldrittson’s reputation. It’s rock solid. And, as I said, his son rides shotgun. They could create quite a fuss if they get pissed off.’

  ‘Any joy from the motor bike rego I gave you?’ Andy asked.

  ‘Nah, it’s a bodgie. Did you look at it closely?’

  ‘Sorry mate, the plate looked fair dinkum but I didn’t scrutinise it. It was pissing with rain and I just took the number,’ Andy replied.

  ‘Righto, that’s enough.’ Mary appeared with a large tray of steaming tea and thick fingers of boiled fruit cake. She smiled at them both. ‘You know that old saying: Too much work …’

  ‘Okay Mair. I give up.’ Tony rose to take the tray and smiled affectionately at his wife.

  ‘Andy,’ said Mary, settling herself on the lounge near him him, ‘have you met any nice girls recently?’ Her voice was soft and gentle, the enquiry of an interested and concerned friend.

  He looked sheepish – it was a regular probe by Mary. ‘No Mary, I just can’t get used to life without Sue and can’t bring myself to even think about anyone else.’ His voice trailed off huskily.

  ‘Well, you need to think about it sooner or later. You’re only thirty-nine – far too young to spend the rest of your life alone. And too good looking! I know of at least three eligible and attractive women in this village who would love to park their shoes under your bed.’

  ‘Only three,’ laughed Tony.

  Mary grinned at her husband, she well knew the depth of love between Andy and Sue. And, from her many conversations with Sue also knew she had not wanted Andy to live alone after her death. Often she had said that what counted most was their time together, not fidelity to a memory. That, Sue maintained, was just plain silly.

  ‘I could invite one of these women to dinner if you like.’ She leaned across and patted his arm, delivering her warning with an engaging, warm-hearted smile.

  ‘I’m flattered Mary. Maybe we’ll talk about it some other time,’ was all he could manage. His discomfort provided a perfect opportunity to leave. ‘Well folks, nine o’clock,’ he said, ‘I must be getting home. It’s been an eventful day and I need an early start tomorrow. Mary, thank you so much for the wonderful dinner, it was just super.’ He stood, then bent to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Tony, on the way out, give Andy that container on the bench. I cut him some fruit cake.’

  ‘Thanks again Mary,’ said Andy, ‘see you soon.’

  The two men walked to the front door. ‘Don’t think unkindly of Mair,’ said Tony, ‘she worries about you. I know she promised Sue to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Andy nodded, touched by the concern of his friends.

  They shook hands and Drummond walked to his ute, relieved that the rotten start to his day had ended so pleasantly.

  Mario Embone watched Drummond carefully. Rugged up against the cold, he had chosen a vantage point east of the crest of the drive where a half dozen oaks planted last century provided good cover and an excellent view of Drummond’s lounge and kitchen. He had brought his Winchester .270 mounted with telescope. He raised the rifle to check the view. Drummond was fixing the fire: it was like watching a silent movie, perfectly clear actions but no sound.

  Within a few minutes, the stove was blazing cheerfully. Drummond took a jug from his pantry and topped up his boiler. Embone’s view of Drummond was good. He slipped a shell into the breach, cocked the rifle and waited, watching through the ‘scope.

  The bright, clear, round image revealed a man intent on the simple task of boosting the fire in preparation for a cup of tea. He moved about the kitchen, organising his tea and putting things away in his pantry. Drummond walked outside and returned with an armful of wood and placed it on the hearth. Embone waited patiently.

  Drummond moved and stood directly in front of the firebox. The small door between his legs was open and Embone could see the flames behind him. It appeared that Drummond was warming his backside while he waited for the urn to boil. Embone checked his scope again and put Drummond’s chest dead centre of the cross hairs. He slowed his breathing until the image stilled then … gently … gently … squeezed the trigger.

  In the kitchen, Drummond, who had been warming his bum, bent to retrieve a large ember that dropped into the wood stack on the hearth. In that same instant, he heard a loud, sharp crack, followed by the sound of splintering glass and a small explosion above the stove top. He knew instantly he had been shot at. He dived to the floor, grabbed the poker, and slithered across the door and turned the light off. Under the protection of darkness he dashed to the laundry. There, he grabbed a small torch and his snake gun – a Savage .22 magnum/410 under and over. Quietly, he let himself out the back door.

  There were no more shots, just the night quiet and a filigree of icy starlight. Drummond moved silently to the western side of his house, slid beneath his car and quietly elbowed himself toward the rear end. From this vantage point he could take in a 180 degree arc from east to the west. Nothing moved, there was only the stillness of endless silence.

  He waited ten minutes. Nothing happened. He figured his assailant had fled after the one shot. He worked his way from beneath the car and headed west. He would make a wide looping circle to the oak trees east of the house: locus of the shot. Automatically back in full military mode, he worked methodically, silently and carefully towards the oaks. He lay on the ground twenty metres from the trees scanning the scene. Nothing.

  Embone was long gone. He had used a gully in the neighbouring farm that took him to Schoolhouse Lane, 500 metres north east of the oaks. His vehicle was about two kilometres away and he was in no hurry. He had certainly delivered the headache as requested – just unfortunate it was not permanent. He would report to the Don and bide his time.

  Drummond moved towards the oaks then looked at his house. The centre of the grove best suited the line of sight taken by the shooter. He played his torch on the ground and saw fresh scuff marks in the soil; no shell casing. He would tell Tony tomorrow. Tonight, he didn’t have the energy to deal with it. For Drummond, the rule book was now in the bin; he would be working for himself in his own way to find out what the hell was going on.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-ONE

  The slim, attractive woman stood in the foyer of the modern south suburban police complex. At 9:00 a.m. Friday, the reception counter was unattended. She saw a sign and rang the bell. No one came. She felt as though she had been standing for hours in this barren place. She noticed a grubbiness and lack of pride already appearing in the new building and felt unwelcome.

  Behind her, glass doors banged opened. Two young policemen dripping with weapons, handcuffs, radios and mobile phones bustled out. One carried a large black brief case, the other, a street directory. She turned, thinking they had come to her aid. Laughing and talking, they barely glanced at her and continued on through the foyer. She felt like running from the place but rang the bell again and waited.

  Senior Constable Aleisha Campbell pushed through the glass security doors on her way home. She was tired. It had been a long night dealing with a fatal accident. The stupidity of drivers depressed her. Already two hours past knock off, she was looking forward to a hot shower and bed. Entering the foyer she saw the solitary woman at reception. Her bearing bespoke despair, anxiety and grief. The woman looked at her pleadingly.
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  ‘Are you being attended?’ asked Campbell.

  ‘No,’ said the woman, in a strained and husky voice.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘It’s my husband, he’s missing.’ Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.

  Aleisha introduced herself. ‘Come in,’ she said kindly and thinking, Lazy sods inside don’t give a shit. They must have heard the counter bell! She held the door and ushered the woman into a passage and along to a large room with rows of desks and computers. Several uniformed police chattering to each other, drinking from mugs and working on computers were oblivious to their presence.

  ‘Sit down here,’ said Aleisha. ‘Now, tell me, what’s happened?’

  Still weeping silently, the woman made an effort to compose herself. ‘My name is Marnie Baker,’ she said. ‘My husband is Lance Baker, Minister for the Environment. He hasn’t been home since Wednesday. I can’t reach him at his office, he’s not answering his mobile and his secretary hasn’t seen him since late Wednesday afternoon. I’ve contacted a few of his friends and they haven’t seen him either. He’s vanished. I know he’s been under pressure getting ready for the election and so forth. We had a row about that on Wednesday morning. I thought, when he didn’t come home Wednesday night, he was punishing me and the girls. Sometimes he gets into moods … But when I heard nothing Thursday, and he still wasn’t home Thursday night, I started to worry that something had happened. And now, I know it has. I am sick with fear.’ Fresh tears ran down her face.

  Campbell listened. Her radar screamed at the words “missing” and “Minister.” She drew close to Marnie Baker and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s have a cuppa eh, while I get the details. But could I ask, why on earth didn’t you call us to your home? I mean, your husband is a Government Minister.’