Chapter
TEN

Big Jack leaned against his car shaking. He had worked hard at staying on Pescaro’s good side because he truly feared the alternative. Now he had learned, as casually as one might swat a fly, that Pescaro had considered removing him and Ben from the business. His business. He shuddered. Aldrittson considered himself a mean bastard but he had never personally harmed anyone. Poisoning the land, creeks, rivers and lakes for thirty years with deadly compounds was business, and business was about money. That the loads he ordered carried by Browne and others might be poisoning them was not his concern

He climbed into his BMW and punched Ben’s number into his phone.

After three rings Ben answered, ‘Hello Dad, what’s up?’

‘Can’t talk about it on the phone Son, where are you? I’ll come and see you.’

There was silence. ‘I’m up in Sydney Dad, I won’t be home till Sunday afternoon – late. You sound stressed, is Mum okay?’

‘Yes, your mother is fine. But we have to talk. I’ll come Sunday evening. What time do you get in?’

‘I should be home about seven o’clock. Why the mystery? What’s going on?’

‘Santini and Pescaro. That’s what’s going on. You be bloody careful up there.’

‘Righto Dad. See you Sunday evening.’

At 9:30 that evening, Little and Jamieson parked their nondescript rent-a-wreck fifty metres from Santini’s home, comfortably blending into the streetscape. They had followed him from Brooklyn, watched him park in front of his house and go inside. Having reconnoitred during his absence, they knew there was no rear exit. They were confident Santini had settled in to watch Friday night football. After a quiet night, they packed it in at 5:00 a.m.

Colin Fox watched them come and go. He knew they were covering Santini and would report to Spencer Johnson. Anything important would be relayed to him by Johnson. At fifty-two, Fox, an ex-Special Air Services warrior was superbly fit. Slim, hard, tough and poised, he regularly worked out at Johnson’s gym. He and Johnson were good mates going back years to a period when they both were in the UK and occasionally, when Johnson was overseas competing in veteran body-sculpting contests, Fox managed the gym.

Fox had trawled past Santini’s home early Friday morning after being rung by Johnson. He had noticed the house opposite was for sale and vacant. He arranged an inspection at midday and at four o’clock that afternoon, quietly, illegally, let himself inside. He carried a sizeable airline bag with the things he needed, including food and water. The inspection revealed the partially furnished house had been on the market for eight months. Its wonky floors and cracked walls were such a disincentive that even inspections had dried up. It was a perfect base.

He too had watched Santini enter his home and saw Little and Jamieson drive by. Fox thought Santini had chosen well, it was a good secure location. A workman’s cottage from the 1890s, it extended from one side of the narrow block to the other. In studying the house, Fox perceived his target to be a fussy bastard. Three steps led to a bull-nosed veranda mounted on shapely poles with elegant fretwork between them; ancient wisteria crawled through the fretwork. A doorway on the right suggested a main hall with all rooms off to one side while a common brick wall divided the house from its twin on the right.

Fox could see no evidence of telephone lines to the house and wondered if, like many people today, Santini used only a mobile. That could be problematic. At 11:00 p.m. the lights went off and stillness descended. Fox settled into his chair, set his wrist alarm for 4:45, and relaxed. At 5:00 a.m., he saw Little and Jamieson quietly leave. He breakfasted on dried rations and water and waited. At 10:30 a.m. Santini emerged, got into his car and drove to Johnston Street where he turned towards the city.

Unhurried, Fox walked to his motor bike a few doors north of Santini’s and rode after him. Santini was about a block ahead. Traffic was light, the day cool and sunny, a typical Melbourne autumn morning. Fox closed on Santini while keeping cars between them. Their destination appeared to be Carlton. Presently, Santini drove into the Wilson Car Park west of Lygon in Elgin Street. Fox followed, parking a level higher to watch him.

Santini made his way into Lygon Street. Drifting like a tourist, Fox followed, watching him pass in and out of Italian shops and restaurants where he openly received envelopes. In a few locations short, animated conversations occurred before an envelope was given. Fox understood the pattern and calculated that as Santini made his way along first one side of Lygon Street, then the other, he had relieved around eighteen shop keepers of an unknown sum of money. At DiMattina’s, Santini stopped for coffee, cake and conversation. After about twenty-five minutes, he left and made his way back to the carpark.

Fox gave Santini two minutes then followed. He came out of the carpark, drove to Swanston Street and then down to the Queen Victoria Market. Fox didn’t like this; too easy to lose Santini in the bustle and throng of the vibrant Saturday market. He moved to within one car of Santini as they drove through the barrier into the car park. There, his concerns were immediately allayed. The park was sluggish with long delays caused by people searching for spaces. Santini couldn’t go anywhere fast. Fox peeled right and parked in a reserve for motor cycles. He could see Santini’s car trapped in a squash of immovable vehicles. He removed his helmet, donned wrap around sunglasses and a peaked cap, took a shoulder bag from his pannier and slowly sauntered after Santini. From now on, surveillance would be easy. Suddenly, a glut of cars moved, and, like jig saw pieces, slotted into empty spaces around the market buildings. At a leisurely pace, Fox followed.

The little man was not difficult to shadow. He was dressed snappily in a tweedy-looking soft brown cap, light tan leather jacket and sharply creased brown woollen trousers, his crisp shirt was the deepest of browns. All around the market buzzed. People moved, vendors called, buskers played, children laughed and chattered while the aroma of sizzling sausages and onions, incense, soaps, coffee, cheese and fresh vegetables pervaded all. Making the odd purchase here and there, Fox watched Santini visit stalls, speak to owners and receive envelopes, until he arrived at the fish market. There, a terse exchange occurred with the vendor. Fox watched Santini pat the young man on the arm to calm him but instantly, the man turned ashen and leaned in towards Santini nodding vigorously. He reached beneath the counter and gave Santini an envelope. What intrigued Fox was Santini’s disregard for the surrounding crowd.

Fox turned and almost collided with Penny Jamieson. Shit! Where had she come from? He hadn’t noticed her before … Not good enough. Jamieson barely gave him a glance, her focus was Santini. Well, well, thought Fox to himself, full marks to you girl. You’ve obviously been on him all morning. And I thought you’d gone home! He moved past her and looked over his shoulder. Recalling his movements, he realised that she had been there all morning, he had just not recognised her in DiMattina’s.

He decided to call it quits. Walking back to his bike, he wondered how much and how often Santini milked the shop owners and stall holders. He figured Santini was taking hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.