No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  Warders, who had seen trouble brewing, swooped too late. Pescaro lay on the ground, his life blood seeping from a ruined eye socket and punctured brain, a sharpened toothbrush embedded deeply in his neck. When the warders arrived, Pescaro was dead, his carotid artery pierced by the fatal blow. A lifetime of villainy had ended in a cold and grimy concrete remand yard.

  EPILOGUE

  Autumn, 2012

  ‘Patrick! Come on, stop dawdling, we’ll be late,’ Sinaid scolded. ‘Hurry up, your Dad’s already out front with Thomas. We’ve got a big day ahead and everyone has to pull their weight. Including you Sunshine.’ She smiled at the dark haired boy with rosy cheeks who was kneeling and fussing over his shoe laces. Her eyes in Finn’s face. What a treasure. Indeed, what three fine treasures her menfolk were. Thinking back to the dark days in Australia so long ago, she blessed herself a hundred times over.

  Before leaving for Ireland, she and Finn had secretly married in the Assistant Commissioner’s office. Throughout the long investigation they had become significantly more than mere witnesses to Tavistock and his team.

  Tavistock had invited the Mauds to Melbourne ostensibly for Tony to receive a Certificate of Commendation for his role in the Pescaro enquiry, but in truth, to attend the wedding. Like everybody else, the Maud’s knowledge of Drummond and Teresa as protected witnesses was strictly limited. They were unaware they would be seeing their friends, let alone witnessing their marriage. Apart from the Police Chaplain, the only other guests were Paul Donovan, Robby Danniellson and Aleisha Campbell. No one could remember such an event in an A/C’s office before and though discreet, it was joyous and emotional.

  Too soon, it was over. Finn, Sinaid and Aleisha returned to New South Wales in preparation for the journey to Dublin. Then, suddenly, they were gone. Off to Heathrow, the world’s busiest airport, and after that, County Wicklow.

  Six years had vanished. Sinaid’s financial skills had grown Finn’s Australian lottery winnings and they had settled comfortably on ninety-five beautiful acres south of Wicklow overlooking the Irish Sea. Heavily into organic farming, the moist climate and rich soil was perfect. Finn’s interest in trees was building a sizeable plantation of Irish birches and he had become immersed in a local study to improve the genes of birch stock.

  Sinaid, on the other hand, was besotted with goats. Having scoured the net, she could find only two places in Ireland making goat’s milk products: one at Corleggy near County Cavan, the other at Glenisk between Portlaoise and Tullamore, close to Wicklow. After several training courses, a lot of hard work and a good deal of money, the O’Donnell organic cheeses, yoghurt and milk were steadily building a fine reputation.

  In those six years, wee Patrick and later, Thomas had arrived. Over that period too, the trials of Pescaro’s capos were finalised with Drummond and Teresa giving evidence from Australia House in London. By March 2009, the whole sordid affair was over with every capo behind bars for years. Donovan’s men eventually were able to prove that Andy’s attackers in the Alfred Hospital had also been his shooters at Heathcote. The third member of that team, Nino Costello, was the man who had shot Teresa at the courthouse. Only Santini’s death remained unsolved.

  Aleisha Campbell remained in touch and had written advising that federal authorities – ASIC, ATO and the police – were still dismantling large chunks of Pescaro’s Empire. Along the way, Wyvern and Sprite had become victims of that scrutiny and were out of business and under investigation for perverting the course of justice.

  For the O’Donnell clan, stability prevailed to the extent that they had recently taken the huge step of abandoning their protected witness status. From that point on, the Mauds and O’Donnell’s were in regular contact and today, at 1:00 p.m., the Mauds would arrive in Dublin. The envelope, so long ago left on the kitchen table the night of Drummond’s shooting, contained documents deeding the farm to Tony and Mary for a peppercorn fee of $5,000. Intensely reluctant to accept, but afraid not to because of their love for the property, they had agreed to the offer and now lived there. Tony was enjoying long service leave and on completion, would retire from the Force after twenty-nine proud years of service.

  Watching Patrick tie his laces, this cavalcade of dark events had flashed through her mind. Today that past no longer intimidated and the arrival of their friends promised to be a great reunion.

  Five minutes from touch-down, Anton Gromyko relaxed four rows behind the Mauds. He sighed hoping this flight was the end of a long and tedious wait. Truth to tell, he could not stomach living in Australia and pined for Mother Russia.

  Gromyko, known in Bendigo as Tony Gromwich, a mechanical engineer, was one of Chernamenko’s long term sleepers. A slim, nondescript sixty year old with a bald pate and cropped red hair, he had spent the last six or so years maintaining a low profile, working hard and keeping tabs on Tony Maud. Chernamenko had reasoned that Marchese’s and Drummond’s complete disappearance meant they were somewhere in witness protection. Whether it was Australia or overseas he didn’t know. Between them, Pescaro and the Police had dealt his infant Australian crime empire a mortal blow and information was hard to come by. Nevertheless, having discovered that Mauds were living on Drummond’s property he thought it probable the parties had a continuing connection. He inserted Gromyko, a non-threatening individual with remarkable skills, to observe what he believed might potentially be a weak link.

  When Gromyko reported that Maud was about to leave the police, Chernamenko ramped up surveillance. He instructed Gromyko that no matter what the Mauds did or where they went, they were to be followed. He had gloated to Gromyko that Australians were a complacent lot, not used to the hard ball of Russia’s Mafiya and would never comprehend the Great Bear’s limitless patience. That complacency, he laughed, would be their undoing. And that undoing would deliver him Teresa Marchese, architect of his downfall.

  Gromyko had no idea why the Mauds were travelling to Ireland but what he could see and understand was some fairly unrestrained body language sparkling with happiness and anticipation. That, he thought, was a very positive sign.

  Acknowledgement

  As a first time story teller, finding inspiration and reaching the end of this tale which started in 2005 were new experiences for me. My mother-in-law, Molly (now deceased), would frequently say: Agatha Christie always said her stories came from just around the corner. Believing that to be sound advice, I liberally plundered the newspapers for ideas, information and themes relevant to my story. To The Age, The Australian and Herald Sun, I express my heartfelt appreciation.

  Information about the Mafia came from many sources, including the internet. Particularly helpful were Paul Elliot’s, Brotherhoods of Fear and the work of William Balsamo and George Carpozi Jr, The Mafia: The First 100 Years. For an understanding of the Russian Mafiya, I am indebted to Robert I. Friedman’s stark account of their activities in his book, Red Mafiya. The hostilities which occur between these two criminal elements in this story is my fiction, although it is not difficult to imagine that, from time to time, it could happen.

  Helpful Australian texts included: Frank G. Clarke’s Australia in a Nutshell – A Narrative History, the Herald Sun’s One Hundred and Fifty Years of News From The Herald, Gordon Greenwood’s Australia: A Social and Political History, W.H. Newnham’s Melbourne Sketchbook and John Ritchie’s Evidence To The Bigge Reports. From the last, the fictional politician, Lance Baker, claims Major George Druitt as a forbear. Druitt was Chief Engineer of the Colonial Establishment in 1817. Baker’s claim is myth but the slim account of Druitt’s life in my story is fact and may be found in Ritchie’s work.

  Teresa Marchese’s interest in the martial arts is drawn from three sources: The Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Mushashi, as translated by Bradford J. Brown, Yuko Kashiwagi, William H. Barrett and Eisuke Sasagawa; Samuel B. Griffith’s Sun Tzu: The Art of War and of course, an old favourite, Machiavelli’s The Prince, translated by George Bull.

  Other helpful references have been
James Morton’s Gangland: The Lawyers, J.P. Chaplin’s Dictionary of Psychology, Dr. Cyril H. Wecht’s Crime Scene Investigation, Death’s Acre: Inside The Legendary Body Farm by Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson, Helena Kennedy’s Just Law, Robert Payne’s The Corrupt Society, Athol Moffitt’s A Quarter to Midnight and the amazing book of political dirty tricks by John Stauber and Sheldon Rampton, Toxic Sludge Is Good For You.

  To the authors of these books I express my gratitude for creative guidance and insight. Any failure to optimise their ideas and information is due to my own inadequacy.

  To the men and women of the Victoria Police Witness Protection Unit I am deeply grateful. Their amazing work, quite properly unsung and unheralded, is performed with commitment, compassion, infinite patience and steely resolve. The ideals portrayed by the fictional Aleisha Campbell reflect the work of not only Victoria Police, but similar units in each of Australia’s States and Territories.

  The difficulties experienced by witnesses in protection are substantial. The quotation in Chapter 49 which alludes to these comes from a former USA Federal Drug Agent appearing before a Senate Committee on Governmental affairs. It is also recorded in a Report to the Commonwealth Parliament of Australia prepared by a Parliamentary Joint Committee on the National Crime Authority in 1988 titled simply: Witness Protection.

  I am indebted to Professor David Wells of the Coroners Court, Victoria, for his practical and helpful discussion of DNA and retention of body parts.

  Many places referred to in this story are factual: Gaffney’s Bakery at Heathcote, The Rose Café at Kilmore, Di Mattina’s in Carlton, Connoisseurs, Andrew’s Bookshop (now departed), The Booktalk Café in Richmond, Dimmeys, Borders (now departed), The Queen Victoria Market and others. And, while the Alfred Hospital is probably known to most Melbournians, the layout of the carpark and Surgical Wing described herein is fiction.

  Apart from Major George Druitt and a handful of contemporary people who attract passing reference such as Lord Hutton, former Premier, Jeffrey Kennett, Vivian Alvarez, Christina Rau, John T Cusack, ”Chuck” Bennett and Tony Mokbel, all my characters are wholly fictional.

  Profound thanks goes to my litmus readers for wading through the original manuscript and making constructive suggestions to improve presentation, style and story: Sabina Robertson, Kevin Gaitskell, Glenn Zimmer, Alex McAllister and my good friend Graham Sinclair who, since completion of this tale, has passed on. The value of their contribution has been inestimable. Particular thanks for help with final polishing are also due to long time friends Bob Haldane, Chris Fyffe, Jeff McCubbery and my great mentor, S. I. “Mick” Miller.

  To the editors, Julie Capaldo and Paul Bujiea whose brilliant work honed my story to its final form, my gratitude is boundless. To my publisher, Mark Zocchi of Brolga Publishing Pty Ltd, without whose support this book would not have seen the light of day, my sincere thanks.

  Finally, to my wife Jennifer, for her endurance and patience, her debate on so many aspects of the story, her probing questions, eternal support and constant exhortation to ‘simply enjoy the experience,’ my endless thanks and love.

  W.H.G.R.

  November, 2012