No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  Marnie’s eyes welled with tears again. ‘I know. I just didn’t want to make a fuss if I was wrong. You know, police cars at the house and so on. Lance can get so upset, especially about mistakes.’

  Privately, Aleisha read ‘bully’ into the comment and assessed Marnie as a somewhat timorous woman. ‘Okay. Stay here Mrs Baker, I won’t be long.’

  Marnie looked grateful. She dabbed fresh tissues to her eyes but couldn’t stem the tears.

  Campbell left the office to find Tom Daley, the Duty Sergeant. He was in the mess room and as she made the tea, she briefly filled him in on the missing Lance Baker. ‘Sarge, we’d better pull our finger out on this. No one bothered to attend this poor woman at the counter and if her politician husband is missing and we muck around, the shit’s gunna hit the fan.’

  Daley agreed. ‘I’ll deal with it. But, and I know this is an imposition, would you mind staying on while I get the ball rolling. I’ll see you right for overtime. Bring her up to the Sergeant’s Office, it’s more private.’

  Campbell returned to the general office with the tea. As she entered, a loud hoot of laughter came from the police at the computers. Marnie Baker seemed to shrink even further and slump in her chair, tears streaming.

  ‘Here you are then Mrs Baker.’ Campbell passed a mug of tea and spoke encouragingly. ‘I’ve briefed Sergeant Daley; he will take over right away.’ Marnie Baker looked apprehensive at the prospect of being passed on to someone else.

  Sensing her concern Campbell said, ‘It’s okay, I’ll stay with you while we get things underway.’ Gesturing towards the passage she led Baker to the Sergeant’s office.

  Tom Daley was gentle, reassuring and patient. Aleisha Campbell sat quietly as he explored and recorded the details of Baker’s absence. At the end of his information gathering Daley concluded that not only was Baker missing, but that his shy, sensitive wife was verging on shock. He arranged more tea and took Campbell aside. ‘Would you mind staying with her a little longer? I know you’re on night shift, but you’ve got a rapport with her and she needs support right now. I’m going to have her driven home. We need to make sure she’s got someone with her and that she can cope with the kids. I’ll pass this straight up to the Super. The last politician I recall going missing was Harold Holt, and we know how that finished up.’

  Campbell nodded and returned to Baker. It was 10:00 a.m. and she was very weary. She tipped out her tea and made herself a strong black coffee.

  At that time, a spunky blonde in a red and white top and designer jeans parked her sports car in Alexandra Avenue, Prahran. She walked to the tall apartment building at the corner of Chapel Street. The front entrance of the block, normally locked, was propped open as removalists struggled to take a large couch through the door. Frustration with the size of the couch and the narrowness of the opening was obvious from their spicy profanities blistering the air.

  Teresa stood silently watching the Herculean pantomime, amused by the language. Unabashed by her presence, the two sweating, straining men continued their colourful invective. At last it was through and Teresa followed them inside, showily fishing keys from her shoulder bag. Waiting for the lift she scanned the resident directory and memorized some names on floors nine to twelve. Stepping into the lift she hit the button for the twelfth floor, relieved the removalists were continuing their battle via the stairs. As she ascended, she pulled on some clear surgical gloves.

  In the foyer on twelve, Teresa saw doors to four units. All but Aldrittson’s bore the owner’s name in a slot beneath the door bell. She inserted the key and held her breath, praying it was not alarmed. When the door opened quietly she entered and closed it behind her.

  Standing just inside, she took in the size, shape, texture and atmosphere of the unit. The city view was expansive, breathtakingly close and clear. The unit itself was rectangular. To her immediate right was a small and tasteful kitchen. Ahead, a broad and generous open space divided into dining and lounge areas. Aldrittson’s taste was elegant and expensive; nothing, it seemed, was wanting.

  At the entrance beside her were four long blackwood doors. She opened one and found a neat work space with a computer, stationery shelves, dictionaries and other texts. She fired-up the computer, found it needed no password and quickly scanned the contents. The files were innocuous: letters to constituents, parliamentary speeches, family details, business matters and accounts. Innocuous or not, a copy was going with her. She plugged in her memory stick and commenced downloading. Silently, she moved forward and looked into a doorway on her left: Aldrittson’s bedroom.

  The big western windows allowed city views to flood the bedroom. These views were bounced around the room by floor to ceiling mirrors on the southern wall. A king-sized bed with side cabinets and lamps stood in front of the mirrored wall. To the left, a sliding door led to a walk-in wardrobe and small stylish bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, everything was tasteful and well designed. Yet, something about the bedroom bothered her. Compared with the rest of the unit, it was Spartan and didn’t fit the prevailing style.

  She commenced her search in earnest. First the bathroom, next the walk-in robe and then the two bedside cabinets. The left cabinet contained several books, the right one was empty. She checked the bed, the mattress and under the bed: all clean. She found nothing, not even in the pockets of his clothes.

  Quietly, methodically and carefully, she worked her way around the lounge, dining and kitchen areas and back to the cupboards at the entrance. In effect, she had nothing to show for her visit apart from the contents of Aldrittson’s computer on her memory stick. Knowing his reputation and some of his antics, she refused to believe he was without records of some kind. She wondered where he kept his most private information – at his parliamentary office or some other location? If it was another place, Giuseppe’s soldiers could find it. In the meantime, she would think about it.

  It was almost midday. She had turned the place over meticulously and was satisfied she had neither missed nor left anything out of place. Before leaving she checked Aldrittson’s answering machine. It contained a call from someone named “Spence” who wanted to discuss Ben’s gym program. She didn’t know Spence and was not surprised that Aldrittson worked out. She surveyed the foyer through the front door spy glass: all clear. She left as quietly as she had arrived and found the removalists still working on the ground floor. Nonchalantly, she walked to the car.

  She now had another task. Today marked the beginning of her search for information about her parents. Driving towards the city, she felt a growing apprehension.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-TWO

  Parking in Collins Street, Teresa fed the meter and walked a block to the Registry of Births Deaths and Marriages. This was her first opportunity to delve into the deaths of her parents since finding the letters in Santini’s box. She thought the easiest way to start was by lodging a request for death certificates. She could have done it on the internet but preferred a personal approach. Her drive to discover the truth was not entirely rational; she knew that. Dealing directly with the record keepers she thought might bring her a little closer to her parents. And that was illogical too. Her strange feelings were further complicated by a fear of what she would find.

  With legs feeling like lead, Teresa walked slowly into the request area, selected a leaflet on how to obtain certificates and sat, quietly reading. The respite calmed her apprehension.

  Normally, she was not hesitant, but having copied the letters and deciding to follow her heart, she believed she had crossed an invisible line that now put her constantly on tenterhooks. At times when she least expected, the letters and photo catapulted thoughts about her parents into her mind reinforcing the realisation she knew so little of them. In the absence of truth, and uncertain about the future she knew only that when she found that truth, action would follow.

  She submitted the forms, paid the fee and left knowing that in ten to fifteen days she would have some answers. Maybe not all, b
ut some.

  Stepping into thin winter sunshine, Teresa felt a sense of buoyancy she had not experienced since first visiting Santini’s. The quest had begun. She drove to Swanston Street and found a car park near the State Library.

  The Grande Old Dame had been commissioned in 1854, her north wing completed in 1864 and the imposing Doric columns and front portico added in 1870. Teresa hadn’t been there since university days when, like many before her, she had inhaled the rich historical atmosphere of the octagonal reading room beneath the huge glassed dome. In her mind’s eye she pictured the green shaded lamps and oblong reading tables radiating from the centre of the room like spokes in a wagon wheel. She could even recall that unforgettable essence seeping from thousands of books lining the shelves – a unique aroma distilled from leather, linen, paper, ink and gum.

  Today her destination was the papers and periodicals section, a functional place not nearly as elegant as the old reading room. Obtaining the 1975 microfiche records for the Sun News Pictorial she concentrated on the months June to December. It was during this period she had gone to live with the Benedettis. She had only a hazy idea of what she was searching for but felt she would recognise it when she saw it.

  Like most years, 1975 carried its share of triumphs and tragedies. The bulk shipping carrier, Lake Illawarra, had collided with the Tasman Bridge, knocked out two pylons, destroyed the road and killed at least ten people; Saigon unconditionally surrendered to the Viet Cong; Australian identity, Dame Mabel Brookes, renowned for her energetic charity work and long term presidency of the Queen Victoria Hospital died; wage indexation was adopted by the Australian Arbitration Commission; North Melbourne won its historic football grand final over Hawthorn and Think Big won the Melbourne Cup. The climax of the year was the sacking of Prime Minister Gough Whitlam by Governor-General Sir John Kerr.

  Hoping against hope to find an account of a ski boat accident, Teresa ploughed through a morass of stories and almost missed it. Several seconds passed before it registered, but there it was – September 15, 1975: Brutal Double Murder At Sorrento. Her stomach knotted, her mouth dried, her throat constricted painfully. The naked bodies of a man and woman were found jammed into the boot of a 1969 Holden on the Sorrento foreshore. Joggers were alerted by a terrible smell from the car. Bare details disclosed the bodies were missing heads, hands and feet; they bore no other wounds apart from genital mutilation of the male.

  Teresa put her head in her hands, she felt ill and was pierced with dismay. She had no doubt it was her father Alfredo with Angelina Pescaro. She steeled herself and followed reports of the police investigation over the next few months. The bodies remained unidentified. No one claimed them and no one reported them missing. Enquiries had been made interstate and overseas and, by December, the bodies were still unidentified. Teresa scrolled back to the original story and slowly moved forward in case she had missed something. A small article on September 20 momentarily caught her eye. An unidentified female body, fully clothed, had washed up on the beach at Greenwich Bay, Williamstown. She continued to the end of 1975, satisfied she had missed nothing important.

  Returning to the desk, Teresa arranged for print outs and asked for the 1976 microfiche. Her head pounded and her stomach felt like barbed wire, but the nausea was gone. She wanted to cry but somehow, held back. It was grim work. She began scrolling carefully through 1976 and found a small article which unleashed a lightning bolt that literally made her tremble:

  Open Finding on Drowning

  Blinded by tears, Teresa read that an inquest into the drowning death of Adriana Marchese, whose body was found on a Williamstown beach on September 20, 1975, had returned an open finding. The police investigation revealed that Mrs Marchese had taken a night boat trip around Port Phillip Bay on September 15, 1975. She had come alone and from the evidence of passengers, had made no attempt to join on-board festivities. Nobody had noticed her failure to disembark. Coroner, Peter Miller, noted that nothing suggested foul play and there was nothing to indicate whether Mrs Marchese had fallen or jumped overboard. No suicide note had been found. The cause of death was drowning but the reason was unknown. The article concluded by stating that Mr Marchese’s whereabouts was unknown and their five year old daughter was being cared for by family friends.

  Frozen with grief and shock, Teresa sat at the desk silently weeping, tears streaming down her cheeks. It seemed as if a lifetime passed before she could mentally and physically centre herself. She didn’t know what had happened but suspected that after discovery of the bodies at Sorrento, Adriana had either been told or inferred their identities and taken her life. At five years of age, Teresa knew nothing about the relationship between her parents, a gap compounded by the time she had been without them. Santini’s letters revealed that her mother’s love for her husband stretched beyond infinity.

  So often had she read the letters between her father and Angelina Pescaro she could almost recite them – the passion between them was palpable. Yet their relationship was complex. Several times Alfredo mentioned his despair over Adriana who, in her innocence, cherished him unconditionally. Torn by guilt, he had finally suggested to Angelina that because of Adriana’s love and their beautiful little Teresa, they should end their affair before it destroyed them.

  After what she had read in the microfiche today, Teresa believed they had been found out. How she would confirm her frightening suspicion was, right now, too difficult to imagine. She rose, managed to get herself to the counter and waited for her documents. No matter how bad she felt, she still had one more call to make before returning to Pescaro’s.

  By the time she reached her car, Teresa’s resolve had returned. She sat motionless for some time then dialled Aldrittson’s parliamentary office.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jack Aldrittson rubbed his forehead. Santini’s death had caused nothing but trouble. His personal workload had doubled and with Danny Browne’s position unfilled, the black jobs were mounting. Clients were complaining about the slow disposal rate and, worst of all, he had just learned of an arsenic leak into the headwaters of Port Phillip Bay. Right now he didn’t know if he was responsible or whether it was the idiocy of some other bastard. Either way, the implications were unpleasant and the timing diabolical.

  Recently, his only satisfaction had come from taking Ben’s advice: he had started looking over Santini’s shoulder. Give him his due, the little shit had been smart. Santini’s system for concealing black disposals was now very sophisticated. He wondered if Santini had secretly changed things to suit Pescaro. Ben’s suggestion to check Santini’s activities troubled him. What had prompted him to make it? His timing, so close to Santini’s death was, if not suspicious, worrying. He didn’t want to dwell on that – sometimes it was better not to know things.

  He turned his mind to Martin Judd. Santini had considered Judd competent in all but the administration of black waste. Jack was uncertain whether Judd’s ignorance of their scam was a ploy by Santini to ensure that he, Santini, remained indispensable, or whether Santini feared Judd too honest to possess the knowledge. Judd would have to be properly vetted. Jack had helped Judd after his accident and knew money was important to him. But was that enough? It occurred to him that if Judd passed muster, Santini’s death provided the perfect opportunity for placing greater control back into his own hands – an opening for easing Pescaro out of the loop. That would be a bloody good thing!

  Pescaro was a worry. Although he had been quiet since Santini’s death, he remained fixed in his drive to legalise their waste racket – now! What drove that demand was perplexing Aldrittson. So too was the pressure Pescaro was applying to himself and Ben. Of all the things that had occurred in their long relationship, this was most uncharacteristic.

  Aldrittson mentally reviewed their discussions over the past eighteen months. They were unanimous about how to get their scheme in place; there had never been any dispute about timeframes; they had recently acquired their last parcel
of land and had generously accommodated influential local government opinion makers. Finally, and with great stealth, they had completed an exhaustive environmental impact study of their proposed site. It had taken three years and cost a bomb, but it had been a brilliant investment.

  The clean, green strategy included reafforestation, wetlands, chemical, mineral and substance reclamation and recycling. The entire project would use sustainable energy sources: solar, thermal and wind and, with Blanchard’s farm completing their fifteen square kilometre buffer zone, the project could proceed. They intended commencing with waste destruction standards equalling world’s best practice and planned on setting new standards over time. Continuous improvement, or Kaizen as it was referred to in the business world, was integral to their plans. Only the media strategy remained to be completed and that too was almost ready.

  Aldrittson believed everything was beautifully positioned to commence lobbying a new parliament. Pushing for approval before the election was madness. Whatever demons were driving Pescaro, they were unknown to him. In the meantime, Martin Judd would be checked out as a potential replacement for Santini.

  Ruffles, on Southbank, was a tasteful and chic restaurant where Melbourne’s smart-set loved to be seen. Nestling on the edge of the Yarra river, the view west took in the re-sculptured landscape making this part of the city appealing. Teresa had arrived a little before 8:30 p.m., a good half hour before her meeting with Ben Aldrittson. She had showered, popped a couple of Panadol and relaxed in a long meditation to remove the shock and sadness of her day. Nothing would prevent this meeting. She wanted to be there first and was certain Aldrittson would come despite the brevity of her message. Her plan was simple: to look as feminine and vulnerable as possible. Tonight was not only about obtaining a copy of the Premier’s briefing package for Pescaro, but to also hook Aldrittson, to lower his defences and to begin initiating his downfall.