Drummond parked the car half a kilometre from the end of Export Lane and walked quietly towards Aldrittson’s Depot. It was 12:10 a.m., June 5, a cold night with a new moon. Dressed in black, he carried a back-pack with various accessories. The five acre site was enclosed by a 2.5 metre cyclone fence topped with strands of barbed wire. Seeing this, he decided to walk the perimeter and probe for weak spots, camouflage, vantage points, guard dogs and security.
His reconnaissance confirmed two free ranging German Shepherds, security cameras, tall poled security lamps and evidence of mobile security patrols. From the wad of cards stuffed in the front gate he reasoned the guards called hourly.
Overall, the site was almost a square with long truck shelters and work shops hugging the north and eastern boundaries. The southern side held a large bitumen car park with access through double gates on the west. Lawns, shrubs and trees were planted around the western and southern fences. The administration block squatted in the centre of the site, its entrance facing the carpark.
Drummond considered his best route to the offices was over the north fence and through the shadows of the truck sheds. Negotiating the security beacons would be difficult, their overlap with cameras meant anyone in the yard after dark would be caught on film. There was also the possibility of either sensor or silent alarms to the security firm. But he wanted information – he had to take the risk. Trees outside the fence would shield his entry and he had found one with a limb above the fence.
Crouching under the tree he took a rope and folding grappling hook from his backpack. He buckled on an equipment belt and added pepper spray, a slender Maglite, some memory sticks and a collapsible baton. Swinging the hook into the tree he checked that it held his weight and ascended. In the tree, he dropped his rope onto Aldrittson’s side then removed a white paper parcel from his pack. He sat listening for anything unusual. Apart from frogs and the faint drone of traffic on Westgate Freeway, the night was quiet. He emitted a shrill, urgent whistle. Somewhere within the compound the dogs started barking. He waited and whistled again. Soon, two German Shepherds were snarling beneath him.
He unwrapped the package and began dispensing chunky squares of meat liberally laced with valium. The barking rapidly turned to contented snuffles. When the meat was eaten the dogs sat looking up expectantly. After twenty minutes they were prostrate and powerless. The dose would last about four hours and carried few consequences for the animals. He had to be gone no later than 4:00 a.m.
He moved along the overhanging limb, lowered himself full length and dropped to the ground. At the same time he heard a vehicle travelling down Export Lane towards Aldrittson’s. He lay flat with the dogs. A small van stopped, lights illuminating the gates. He watched a man in uniform alight, walk to the gates, rattle them and stuff another card in the lock. Drummond shook his head in disgust – the check was sloppy and futile. The security man returned to the van, reversed and drove away. The transaction had taken less than a minute. Drummond was certain that if Aldrittson knew the quality of the security he paid for he would be ropable. On the other hand, perhaps he was getting what he paid for.
The dogs had not stirred. Keeping low, he moved to the nearest shed and worked his way around the edge of a sulphurhued pond of light. There would be little on the camera that could identify him. His target was a dark spot where two lights just failed to fully overlap near the Administration Centre. Moving quickly, he cut across to the building and worked his way around it, testing for open windows. He knew he would be on film so kept his face to the wall. The one window he least expected to find unlocked turned out to be Jack Aldrittson’s. Certain now there were no audible alarms, he still hurried in case of silent alarms wired directly to the security centre.
Inside the building Drummond found the external security lights bright enough to do without the torch. He closed the window and went straight to Aldrittson’s desk, systematically searching and isolating papers he felt might be important. Aldrittson’s computer was locked by a security code so he moved on quickly. There was little in the room or desk of value.
In the general office he identified Mary Edwards’ desk from a photograph of her and, presumably, her husband, on a snow trip. He activated her computer and got straight into the office programs. He plugged in a memory stick and began downloading. He had given a lot of thought to the type of information that might reveal wrongdoing and looked for employee details, customer information, waste disposal schedules by type, collection and disposal point. He was pursuing an idea that had arisen in discussion with Tony Maud on the Friday night – the possibility of Aldrittson’s running another activity inside their main business.
He turned the copier on and moved from desk to desk for insight about the work performed by the occupants. After twenty desks he was satisfied he had located the main personnel and customer service areas and could retrieve some useful information. But again, he was stymied by computer security codes. He returned to Mary’s computer and searched several folders and concluded he could probably get most of what he wanted from her computer if it was networked.
With senses honed, Drummond began systematically searching for anything that would link Aldrittson to the truck fire and two deaths. He moved to Santini’s office. Switching on the computer he was again denied access. After several failed attempts to break security, he had an idea. He went back to Mary Edwards’ desk and searched her folders. Santini’s folder was empty but she had made an unprotected short-cut for Jack Aldrittson titled: “S-Code.” He memorised the single alpha-numeric line, returned to Santini’s computer and entered it – in like Flynn. He opened My Documents then a folder marked Jobs. Clicking on it, he saw items arranged in years. Opening the current year and month, he found blocks of entries in long alpha-numeric strings. He inserted another memory stick and started downloading. As best he could tell, these files were concealed from the general office system. He started to search Santini’s desk although he didn’t expect much – Santini had been dead nearly four days and the contents had probably been cleared.
The top right drawer was unlocked. It contained a plastic insert for pens and pencils but otherwise was empty, as were the other drawers. It was obvious from the waste bin however, that someone was using the desk. He checked the contents and found it contained a few crumpled pages with long sets of handwritten numbers; he took two. Looking at Santini’s book case, he saw volumes of four post binders going back years. He opened 1978 and found it full of customer invoices, trucking manifests, waste disposal schedules and pay records. He opened folders for 1981, 1987, 1993, 1996, 2002 and 2005: all records seemed similar.
Back in the main office he copied several days of entries from each of the years he had selected. Halfway through 2002, he heard the security patrol return. He nipped into the entry foyer and saw the watchman rattle the gates and put another card in the lock. As he made no attempt to enter the grounds, Drummond was confident there was no silent alarm back to the security centre. He finished copying and stashed the pages in his backpack. He returned the folders to Santini’s shelves then removed and stowed his memory stick from Santini’s computer. In the main office he found the download from Mary’s computer had also finished – he removed the USB and stuck it in his belt. He switched the computer and photocopier off and took a last look around. It was now 3:15 a.m. and he felt as though he had been there only five minutes.
Returning to Aldrittson’s office he heard a chilling sound – the window being quietly raised. Somebody else was coming in. Drummond moved to the desk nearest Aldrittson’s office and knelt beside it facing the door. He waited. Whoever had come in had not closed the window. Soft steps rapidly swished past the desk – the intruder was clearly on a mission. He peered into the gloom: the newcomer was small and trim and in dark clothing. A waft of perfume invaded his nostrils – a woman! He looked again. Carefully, but purposefully, she made her way towards Santini’s office. Shit, he thought, if she doesn’t already know I’m here from the dogs, she’ll
know it the minute she touches Santini’s computer – it’ll be warm.
As soon as she was in the passage, Drummond crawled to Aldrittson’s office and slipped out the window. He moved quickly along his previous route to the fence where his rope hung. He tested his weight again and cursed when the hook speared down on top of him. He swung it up again; it held firm. Bidding silent farewell to the still sleeping dogs, he shinnied into the tree, stashed the hook and rope in his pack, moved to another limb and dropped to the ground. He stayed a few moments before raising his head – no sign of the woman. He jogged quietly to his car. The absence of other vehicles in Export Lane suggested the new intruder had entered the grounds in a spot different from his. Right now however, he wasn’t concerned with that. He had what he wanted and needed to be gone.
Chapter
TWENTY-FIVE
Teresa woke slowly on Sunday morning, exhausted from the previous forty-eight hours. She lay still, recapping. The turned off but warm computer and copier at AWD had alarmed her. Certain she had company, she searched the premises without result. Later, there had been that odd thing with the dogs. She had neither seen nor heard them when she entered the depot, yet as she left, they had barked and bounded out of the night. She smiled remembering – they had seemed drunk as they staggered and fell trying to leap at her in the window. Pepper spray had quickly dispatched them. It seemed obvious they had been drugged. Someone definitely had preceded her.
She had learned about the toxic waste racket soon after becoming Pescaro’s office administrator. While he had openly referred to Aldrittson’s role in finessing their scheme through Parliament, she had never actually heard him implicate Ben in its operation. But she inferred from his slick presentation to her on Friday night that he was deeply involved. She believed that if she could directly tie him to the unlawful dumping she had the perfect tool for exposing him. However, he was teflon-coated and she had seen him cruise his way out of too many seemingly impossible situations before. She wanted proof, hence the unorthodox visit to the depot.
There was, however, a serious flaw in her idea: exposing Aldrittson meant exposing Pescaro. Her feelings about Pescaro were ambivalent. As Consigliere, her position was unique and life in this role would be exciting. She was genuinely fond of Pescaro, yet looking ahead, she believed the future was threatening. Perhaps when she knew more about the demise of her parents she might feel differently, but right now she was in torment. The only thing she was certain about was that the Don’s wife could never have been killed without his sanction.
Her visit to the depot was disappointing – she had not found what she wanted. From her book-keeping and the overheard discussions between Pescaro and Santini, her knowledge of the waste scam was intimate. She had known what to look for and where, and was familiar with Santini’s coding system. She had even copied some of the damning information. But she had nothing cementing Ben Aldrittson’s complicity in the fraud.
She contemplated the value of Santini’s records and the letters she had found in his home. They would be ripe pickings for anybody interested in her activities, particularly if she went public. She decided to make copies and keep them somewhere safe – not at home. She also gave herself a mental prompt to be more careful and observant about what was going on around her. That someone else might have been inside AWD that night was truly unsettling.
Mulling all this over brought new insight. Pescaro would be waiting for her to comment on the Santini letters, to raise issues and ask difficult questions. He knew her curiosity was insatiable and he had given her a key to the box. He was expecting her to examine its contents. He could have withheld that key, but had not. He would be intensely curious about her silence. By straying from her normal behaviour and remaining quiet she had probably engineered the very opposite of what she had intended. Pescaro would be alert to that.
She thought about it some more. Why would Pescaro want her to know about Alfredo’s and Angelina’s infidelity? Especially given the shocking outcome. It had to be a test of some kind. She burrowed further under her doona and considered the possibilities. She had become Santini’s replacement without the accompanying ritual for such an elevation. Being a female in this position was unique – it also carried the onerous responsibility of Mob mediator. She had never been a true Picciotto, flunkey to a fully fledged member. Being a Picciotto meant fetching, carrying, collecting, punishing, heavying and betting. Nor had she undertaken the final phase of this type of apprenticeship – running her own criminal activities, showing she could profit and expand while exercising control and building respect. Instead, she had assumed Santini’s mantle because of exceptional business, financial and entrepreneurial skills; essential attributes for today’s Mafia. The Mob was as much interested in legitimate business and clever entrepreneurial acumen as it was in murder, violence, drugs and brutal law breaking. Teresa was the face of the modern Mafia.
Membership no longer depended on being Sicilian or of Sicilian extraction; these days any individual with particular and needed skills was recruited. But one thing would never change: undying allegiance to the Family. That was absolute. She had never been exposed to any test. The secrets of Santini’s box had to be some form of initiation. Well, she was ready for it. After Santini’s funeral, she would tackle Pescaro head on.
At 7:00 that Sunday evening, Senior Constable Aleisha Campbell was cursing her common decency for assisting Marnie Baker the previous Friday. She had finished nightshift at 7:00 a.m., slept, and rushed back to work for the quick changeover at three o’clock. At 6:35 p.m., the police Communications Centre, D.24, contacted her station: Lance Baker’s body had been found near Lades Hill, close to Strath Creek, about twenty kilometres east of Broadford. It looked like suicide. Because she had helped with Baker’s missing person report, she felt compelled to take the task. The Duty Commissioner, D.24 warned, had been notified. He would contact the Chief Commissioner who would inform the Minister for Police. This was not an everyday suicide.
Campbell had rung Sergeant Connor O’Dowd at Broadford and obtained details, including a faxed copy of the suicide note. She hated death messages and knew from Friday’s meeting that both Marnie’s and Baker’s parents were together in Europe. Lack of family support would only make things more difficult.
Campbell parked the police car in Glyndon Avenue, Brighton, opposite the Baker home. She informed D.24 she would be off-air attending their last dispatch and walked down the pathway. I am a harbinger of gloom. The minute I give this woman the news about her husband, her life, and those of her daughters will collapse and fill with pain. God I hate these jobs.
Taking a deep breath, Aleisha knocked at the door. It was opened in a trice by Marnie Baker. Not a word was spoken. Marnie Baker’s eyes filled with tears, her face blanched and her hands covered her mouth. In a strangled voice she said, ‘You’ve found him. He’s dead isn’t he?’
Numb and feeling the transfer of Marnie’s emotion, Aleisha simply opened her arms. There, on the door step, Marnie fell into them and wept, noisy, huge racking sobs, breath hard to find. Aleisha held her tightly, gently crooning and stroking her head, comforting as best she could, her folder making spontaneous compassion awkward. Slowly, she moved Marnie into the house.
She found the kitchen and detached herself from Marnie who was clinging, limpet like, and sat her at the table. Aleisha began to heat the kettle for tea. Gradually, the sobs subsided. Marnie asked chokingly, ‘Where did you find Lance?’
‘Just outside Strath Creek, near Broadford at about 5:30 this evening. We had to be sure it was him before we came to you. Unfortunately, you or someone else, will still have to formally identify him.’
‘How? How did he die?’ Marnie whispered.
‘It’s too early to be certain but it looks like suicide, I’m sorry. I have a copy of a note that was on the front seat of his car. It seems as though he drank some whiskey, took some pills and then turned the motor on and gassed himself from the exhaust. I’m so sorry to bring you this
news. There is no easy way to say what I know must be devastating.’ Aleisha went to Marnie and hugged her again.
Sitting opposite, Aleisha said gently, ‘Marnie, I deeply feel your loss and I could see how distressed you were last Friday, but there are things I need to tell you and it would be good if someone was here to help you. Can I contact anyone for you? Would you like any of your neighbours here?’
Baker quivered as she pulled herself together. ‘My sister Michelle lives at Korrumburra. We’ve been in close touch since Lance went missing. She’ll come but I don’t think I can speak to her just yet’ Her eyes filled with tears again.
‘Give me the number, I’ll give her a call. By the way, where are the girls?’
‘I’ve been so worried about Lance I asked friends to help out. Sarah is with a school friend and Jessica is with a friend from Kinder.’
‘Good. Now, before I call Michelle, I need to tell you that your circumstances are different from most people in these situations. I’m sure you already appreciate that but I just want to run through a couple of things. There will be press and TV reporters once this story breaks. They will be intrusive and disruptive and possibly hurtful. We’ve not passed the story on yet, but these things have a way of getting out whether we like it or not. It’s also possible the Premier and other Ministers will want to come and see you – that will mean more press. In the note your husband left …’ Aleisha paused and withdrew the fax from her folder and passed it to Marnie, ‘he mentions a solicitor’s firm. I think it would be good if you contacted them as soon as you can. In a month or two there will be an inquest where the Coroner will enquire into the cause of your husband’s death. That’s likely to generate more media interest. I guess what I am trying to say is, you will need to prepare yourself for very close scrutiny of your husband’s life and probably, your own.’ She paused again, Baker’s face had become stricken as she read the note.
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