by Neil Cossins
Manuel was completely alone and although the situation wasn’t looking good, he knew he had one thing going for him. He reached around to the back of his jeans and carefully pulled out a knife. It was a small flick knife with a blade of just a couple of inches in length and a slim handle. He had chosen it specifically for its ability to be concealed and had hand-sewn a small pocket on the inside of his jeans so that the knife rested neatly in the crevice of his butt cheeks. Despite still being on probation and risking the chance of a return to prison if he was found in possession of a weapon, he never left home without it. He smiled grimly at the fact that his kidnappers hadn’t noticed it during their quick and faulty search of him and hoped that it would prove to be a costly mistake for them.
He cut through his plastic cuffs and massaged some life and blood back into his wrists and hands. As the car stopped at a traffic light, the brake lights of the car illuminated the boot space within. He noted that the cable that operated the boot locking mechanism had been completely enclosed with sheet metal so that it couldn’t be accessed from inside the boot. His kidnappers had done this sort of work before. He tried jamming the knife blade into the part of the boot lock that was visible in an effort to pop it open, but only succeeded in snapping off the knife’s tip. He cursed quietly and gave up on his escape attempts for the time being. He calmly reasoned that the knife was his only chance of escape and the he should wait for a time when he could use it to better effect.
He thought of Kylie while he waited to reach what might be his final destination. He thought of her scent, her pretty face and her slim, tight body. He knew he had something to live for, something worth fighting for and it gave him strength and callous resolve to survive.
After fifteen minutes, the car pulled to a stop, the engine remained idling. Manuel heard a car door open and one of his kidnappers walk around to the front of the car. He heard the squealing of a garage door being rolled up. The car slid forward through the door then stopped. The engine was turned off and the garage door closed behind the car.
Manuel readied himself for action. He decided to attack first and ask questions later while he still had the element of surprise and hoped that wherever he was there were only the two men who had picked him up and not another half a dozen waiting in the wings. He knew that if the latter was the case, it would be a very short fight indeed. Footsteps approached the car boot as he waited ready and tensed.
The boot popped open and Manuel squinted his eyes against the light and quickly took in his kidnappers. One man was very tall, six foot four plus, dressed in a brown leather jacket and slacks. His grey hair and lined face was proof of a man in his early fifties. The other man was shorter, younger and bald. Manuel noted his strong build, and his small blue eyes which were flat and devoid of any emotion.
“Come on sunshine,” said the bald man. “We’ve got some questions for you.”
Manuel decided to strike at him first. He lay on his side with his hands holding his knife behind his back to give the impression that he was still bound.
“What do you want with me? I haven’t done nuthin!” he responded, trying to show fear on his face in an effort to put his kidnappers momentarily off guard.
As those same rough hands grabbed him to pull him out of the boot he lashed out savagely with his knife, slashing the bald man deeply across his neck. He kicked out viciously at the tall man, striking him in the chest and knocking him on his backside. Manuel leapt out of the boot, ignored the bald man who was busy trying to hold his neck together with his hands and concentrated on the tall grey haired man who was quickly regaining his senses. As the man reached inside his coat pocket Manuel instinctively dived full length on top of him and used his momentum to try and drive his knife into his chest. The tall man half blocked the blow and the short blade got caught up in the folds of his thick leather jacket. The narrow handle twisted in Manuel’s hand and broke free.
Manuel quickly realised his kidnapper outweighed him by more than twenty kilograms. He wrestled the man’s hands away from his pocket but was rolled over onto his back by the bigger man who then butted his forehead down violently, connecting with the bridge of Manuel’s nose. Manuel felt excruciating pain burst through his head and his sight blackened for a few seconds. He fought the darkness off and as his vision cleared he brought his knee up with all his strength and caught the man’s unprotected groin in a sickening blow. The man grunted loudly and although he tried to keep fighting, Manuel felt the strength ebbing out of his arms. He managed to roll the big man off him and hit him with a flurry of wild punches to his head. The big man rolled away and gamely got to his feet, but by that time Manuel had recovered his knife and plunged it savagely and repeatedly into his chest. The man groaned and slowly slumped to the floor with a groan and deep wheezing exhalation of breath.
Manuel removed a gun from the tall man’s inside coat pocket. He walked up to the short bald man he had slashed in the neck with his knife who was on his knees, still trying to staunch the blood that was flowing profusely from his neck wound and creating a pool on the ground around him.
“Why did you do this?” Manuel growled as he stood over the man, but the only response he received sounded like a wet cough. “Who told you to do this?”
The bald man tried to reach out weakly for Manuel’s leg as Manuel put the gun to his head and fired once.
Manuel surveyed his surroundings for the first time. It appeared to be a small warehouse of about twenty metres by thirty metres in size and was half full with crates of furniture, piles of packing materials, food stuffs and also three large shipping containers. There were two offices partitioned off from the rest of warehouse and Manuel was relieved that there wasn’t anyone else around. Although the fight had been short and he was ultimately victorious, he felt exhausted from the primal exertion. He looked at the bodies lying on the ground and tried to regather his breath. Blood dripped freely from his nose and he pinched the bridge in an effort to stop the flow.
When he had caught his breath and the worst of the bleeding had stopped, he searched the bodies and removed their keys and wallets. As he was searching the big man he removed something from his pants pocket that astonished him. It was a photograph of Manuel and worst of all, judging by its background appeared to have been taken shortly after he shot Emilio Fogliani.
He stared dumbly at it for almost two minutes, wondering how such an impossible thing could exist and yet there was no mistaking the likeness. He wondered who could have taken the photograph and from where. He held the photograph up at eye level and tried to position himself back at the warehouse that night. He judged that the photographer must have been hidden in the garden bed at the rear of the warehouse, concealed by the dense bushes. It seemed unlikely that someone passing by had chanced upon the meeting carrying a high quality camera or video camera and managed to capture images of the actual murder taking place. There were too many maybes for that to be a realistic possibility.
“But who then?” he wondered aloud, and was answered by a slight echo from the empty warehouse. Although he didn’t want to accept it, he already knew what the most likely answer was. As far as he knew, there were only three people, including himself, who knew when and where Emilio Fogliani was going to be punished for his sins.
He put the thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being and forced himself to concentrate on the problems that immediately confronted him. He looked down at his clothes and noted the blood on them, probably from him and his assailants. And he knew that his blood, his DNA, had been dripped all over the concrete floor of the warehouse, his assailants and possibly the car as well.
Manuel knew the cops had a sample of his DNA on their databases and the thought of it worried him. If they found his DNA it would only be a matter of time before they caught up with him and the thought of returning to prison after just a few months of pure naked freedom sickened him to his core. He quickly considered his next move, knowing that it would be crucial. He thought about moving th
e bodies and cleaning up the mess but thought it would be too time consuming and risky, and besides, he hated cleaning, so he decided to leave them where they were. He walked outside the warehouse in an attempt to get his bearings and noticed for the first time he had strained his left calf muscle during the fight. Fortunately the area where the warehouse was located, which was comprised mostly of decrepit corrugated iron clad warehouses, appeared to be deserted.
He went back inside and briefly massaged his calf as it rapidly tightened. He looked longingly at the car, but decided it would have to stay in the warehouse. Using every ounce of his remaining strength, Manuel dragged the bodies inside the car. He tore a sleeve off the big man’s shirt, removed the petrol tank cap and fed it down into the petrol tank, leaving a bit hanging out. He lit the end of it with matches he had found on bald hood and limped as fast as he could out the door and away from the warehouse. Within twenty seconds a large explosion cracked the night air, percussioning violently on his ear drums. Manuel took a quick look back and saw that the explosion had set fire to most of the contents of the warehouse. Orange flames were already leaping up towards the windows high up on the walls. He smiled grimly and moved away into the night secure in the knowledge that whatever DNA that wasn’t destroyed by the fire would be destroyed by the Firefighters who would no doubt drench the place with their hoses.
As he left one problem behind him, he turned his mind to the next. A mixture of emotions churned inside him as he looked again at the photo he clasped tightly in his hand.
Chapter 43
Nelson morosely worked his way through the seemingly bottomless pile of witness statements - or witless statements as he often like to refer to them - from the Crenshaw homicide investigation. Even though it was only ten in the morning he felt tired and lethargic. He, Robards and Bovis had spent the entire previous day at the Kings Cross Police station assisting the LAC Detectives in their investigation before joining them at a local watering hole for what was supposed to be just a couple of relaxing drinks. Despite his very best intentions, Nelson had eventually struggled home slightly after midnight, again short changing his body of much needed sleep.
He tried to work through his flat spot and forced himself to concentrate on the work in front of him. He noted that the LAC Detectives seemed to have done a reasonably thorough job of collecting evidence and interviewing witnesses, although Nelson made notes on some inconsistencies that would need to be chased up. The case appeared to be a matter of finding out which of his relatives or business associates had knocked the old man off so they could benefit from his death. There was plenty of motive because Crenshaw had amassed a property portfolio that was estimated to be worth in the vicinity of $50 million. Nelson mused that murder for profit was a re-occurring theme in history. Already the LAC Detectives’ attention had been drawn to the youngest son and his wife who had been the last people to have seen Crenshaw alive. They were in debt up to their eyeballs as a result of losing big on the stockmarket and there were witnesses to heated arguments over money in the past between them and the deceased.
Nelson leant back in his chair and stared out the window. His thoughts drifted back to the Fogliani case and to Craig Thoms in Silverwater mixing with some of the state’s worst criminals.
Detective Sergeant Tony Robinson sauntered over to Nelson’s desk, holding two cups of coffee, one of which he handed to Nelson. Nelson took the steaming brew appreciatively and felt the aroma seep into his lungs and begin the revival process.
“You’re a lifesaver Tone,” said Nelson, grateful for the distraction and the much needed pickup. Robinson was also a Sergeant in VanMerle’s team and had worked with Nelson in the past.
“I know, and by my calculations you owe me five coffees now.”
“Is that all? I thought it was closer to ten. I’ll be sure to remember you in my will.”
“Hey, I’ve got some information that might be of interest to you.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s that? You finally lost your virginity? That’s not that interesting Tone,” said Nelson with a deadpan expression to the thirty-nine year old Robinson.
“Nope, it’s not that, but I’m still hopeful,” returned Robinson with a smile. “I took a call from the South Sydney LAC a while ago. Word is a couple of bodies have turned up.”
“So what’s strange about that? Bodies are always turning up around here. You could even find some in the Homicide squad if you looked hard enough,” said Nelson smiling at his own joke and nodding his head toward the ancient, grey haired colleague at a neighbouring desk.
“True enough, but it’s where they turned up which will interest you,” Tony said conspiratorially.
“Well are you going to tell me or will I have to beat it out of you?” returned Nelson, his interest beginning to pique. “Because I will if I have to. You know I can take you.”
“The story is that there’s been a warehouse fire in Strathfield. It took the Firies quite a while to bring it under control but when they did, they found two bodies inside. The early forensic reports are indicating that they met with foul play. Now the interesting point for you is that the warehouse appears to be owned by the Fogliani family.”
“What?” said Nelson instantly casting aside his veil of tiredness. “When did this happen? Who died in the fire?” he said, snapping out the questions. Robinson smiled genially at Nelson’s instant change in demeanour.
“The fire started around ten p.m. last night. They haven’t been able to identify the bodies because they were pretty much crispy bacon by the time they got to them. We’ll have to wait on the dental records. One thing’s for sure, the Firies reckon it was deliberately lit. Someone torched a car inside the warehouse.”
Nelson thought hard for a moment, quickly sifting through the information and discovering new angles and possible links to the Fogliani case.
“Do VanMerle or Crighton know about this?”
“Yeah, they both do. When I told VanMerle who owned the warehouse he choked on his tea and immediately phoned Crighton. From what I could tell, I don’t think Crighton was particularly happy about it. VanMerle told me and Davis to stay tuned. I think they’re still trying to work out what they should do about it.”
“Yeah and I know why,” replied Nelson with a grim smirk. “They shut the Fogliani case down before we had a chance to sort out what really happened. If other people look into this case and find out that we’ve got the wrong guy in custody, then it’s not going to look too good for them, or me for that matter.”
Nelson barely noticed Robinson leave as he turned his full concentration to the meaning of the new information. His gut instinct was telling him these two new deaths were somehow linked to his case and he was mindful that this could be his best and perhaps last chance to set things right in the Fogliani case.
He made the decision to back his instincts and take the rest of the morning to run the new developments to ground regardless of any possible consequences.
Robards and Bovis were still at the Kings Cross Police Station helping with interviews on the Crenshaw case so Nelson would be on his own. He considered giving Robards a call and telling him what was going on or even asking for help, but decided against it. If his investigations came to nothing he would steal back into the office and pretend to have been working the Crenshaw case and hopefully no-one would be the wiser.
He decided to call in some favours and dialed the number for Raph Sanchez of the Gangs Squad.
“Sanchez speaking.”
“Hi Raph. It’s Nelson. Look, I need a favour.”
Raph Sanchez noted the business-like tone in Nelson’s voice.
“What sort of favour?”
“I need you to tell me where I can get some information on what the Fogliani family might be up to. Apparently, two bodies have turned up in a burnt out warehouse in Strathfield that the Foglianis own.”
“Shit. I wonder what the hell is going on there?”
“I don’t know but I’m going to find out.”
If Sanchez knew that Nelson had been told to wrap up the case on the Fogliani murder he said nothing.
“Look Nelson, I know you’ve been working the Fogliani case from the start, but I’m not sure you should be chasing this one. Three murders in a week related to the Fogliani family sounds like our territory and as soon as our Super hears about it I think he’ll be wanting us to take a closer look. Maybe Crighton was right after all and there is some sort of war starting.”
Nelson chose his words carefully. He knew he was treading a fine line.
“Don’t worry Raph, I’m not going to stomp on your toes. If the Gangs Squad want to take the case then that’s no problem, I’ll give you all the case files. But until then, I just want to take a quick look at things to see if they relate to my current case, that’s all. Now I know you guys have plenty of contacts on the street who you pay an arm and a leg to for information, so I’d be grateful if you could help me out this time and tell me who I can talk to.”
Raph Sanchez thought for a moment. He had an uneasy feeling about Nelson’s request and wasn’t sure if his motives were as pure as he had tried to make them sound. And yet their friendship was still strong so he begrudgingly cast his concerns aside.
“Alright Nelson, you win. There’s a guy who we’ve used in the past. If anyone has an idea of what’s going on it’s him. He’s got links to all the underworld groups, new and old, because he’s done business with all of them at some stage. He’s about as well connected as they come. The bad news is that he hasn’t been too forthcoming lately.”
“You gotta name?” asked Nelson, trying to control his eagerness.
“Mark Dendy.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“Probably not, but you never know your luck, so be careful.”
“Thanks Raph. I owe you one.”
“Oh you owe me more than one and I’ll be looking forward to collecting one day.”