On the Run

by Colin McLaren

  Dear Sandy,

  Tried to call you a few times, honey. I really wish I was home with you. I’ve had another miscarriage, Sandy. Yes, I am unwell, hope there are some ideas forthcoming. This is my third miscarriage and it’s putting so much pressure on me, and on the marriage.

  Otherwise I’m fine, Ingrid.

  Satisfied with the contents of the bottom line, Tommy clicked ‘send’. He moved past the teenage attendant at the front counter and dropped a single euro coin into the tray as he hit the street again, mentally ticking off item two and wondering how to prove Massimo had been in the Bay of Islands.

  His third job for the morning was a mere hop, skip and a jump around the corner to the Piazza Municipio, the legal precinct of the city of Naples. He had been mulling over this chore since he first stepped off the little balcony the previous night. Tommy walked up to the office of the Anti-Mafia Unit at the northern end of the piazza. The massive fortified building was surrounded by squad cars. Uniforms and suits ran purposefully in and out of the grand archway of the main entrance. It was all a bit too busy for Tommy who carried with him not just, as always, the Bees-Knees with its secret compartment, the new home of the Browning, but also the Albanian’s satchel, hidden in the Vietnamese Vuitton. He turned promptly on the ball of his foot and headed in the opposite direction.

  Diagonally opposite the police headquarters was a McDonald’s. Tommy ordered a long black coffee of questionable quality and found a booth near the front window. He dropped his phonecard into a phone adjacent to his pedestal seat and placed a call to the police headquarters across the road. Once answered he asked to be transferred to an English-speaking investigator.

  ‘Hello, Commissario D’Alfonso.’

  Tommy hesitated for a moment, realising he knew that name. This was Spud’s trusted contact.

  ‘Hello, Commissario D’Alfonso,’ the Italian repeated.

  Without offering his own name, Tommy launched into his tale of the central railway scam that he had observed the night before. The Italian guessed from the way his caller spoke that he was talking to a traveller who was also a detective; they spoke the same jargon. He listened intently as Tommy further explained that the black satchel that now sat inside the Vietnamese Vuitton bag at the bottom of the garbage bin at the centre of the piazza was full of almost all of the money stolen. Just before he had closed his eyes the previous night, Tommy had counted out more than 6000 euros, of which 5000 remained in the bag. He went on to inform the Italian investigator of the passports, credit cards and the other items of identification of the many victims that the garbage bin now held, as well as the wallet belonging to the leader of the gang. There was a slight pause on the end of the phone before Tommy heard a burst of raucous laughter.

  ‘Magnifico, Signore, magnifico, Signore Robin Hood,’ came enthusiastically from the Italian’s end. Tommy hung up the phone immediately and with a trace of a smile himself, ordered another bad coffee, before returning to his booth and settling in to watch police swarm into the piazza.

  Tommy left the McDonald’s, glancing back occasionally at the half-dozen uniforms squatted over the now up-ended satchel. A tall, lean and handsome Italian investigator stood confidently overseeing them in a beautifully tailored suit. He was still laughing as he glanced below the trees in the garden and around the rim of the piazza for his anonymous caller. He guessed his fellow detective was out there, watching.

  On the opposite side of Via Acton, Tommy stood facing the largest ferry terminal in Italy, the Stazione Marittima, his best way off the mainland. If he were to stand any chance of survival he couldn’t venture any further south by road or train, as the next region was Calabria. He surveyed the dozens of ferries before him, and the many destinations. Corsica, Sicily, Tunisia, Malta, and on the list went, each destination requiring a passport. Tommy read over the names several times and his eyes settled on one location he knew well; it had become a great curiosity to him only months earlier. Chances were that it was remote enough not to have a customs desk or a vigilant police department, having only 400 residents. He confidently stepped forward to the ticket office with the word ‘Stromboli’ on a card in the window, and placed 85 euros in front of the collector. A gift from his Albanian friend.

  The attendant in his well-starched white maritime shirt with its shiny brass epaulettes handed Tommy his one-way ticket.

  It was a different world, southern Italy, he thought, as he stood beside the gangway and surrendered his bag to the luggage trolley. No armed security in sight, no passport checks, no customs dogs, an easy state of travel that was rarely seen after 9/11.

  Tommy sighed as the tension dropped from his shoulders along with the Bees-Knees. He took his seat alongside a couple of Italian fashion icons on holidays to the Aeolian Islands, off the coast of Sicily. They were both his age and beautifully dressed. He ordered three beers.

  Four hours later, on the scheduled three-hour journey, the hovercraft eased into its lone dock at San Vincenzo, the only town on Stromboli. Tommy couldn’t help but be overawed by the magnitude of the volcano, which comprised almost the entire island.

  Tommy hurriedly collected his Bees-Knees, not giving too much thought to the illegal firearm stowed within. He took a seat at the Ossidiana Hotel coffee shop and bade his fun-loving friends, Signori Dolce and Gabbana, farewell; they went off to find a cart ride to their holiday house. As he waited for his brew and the accompanying cornetto, he fingered through the postcard stand and selected one, much like all the others, an aerial shot of an angry volcano with the word ‘Stromboli’ beneath. He paid for the card and postage and sipped his coffee as he racked his brain to remember Sandra’s home address. He had only shared a BBQ there once or twice before.

  In the text section he scrawled nothing more than the number ‘467’ before taking the final mouthful of his beverage and strolling back onto the wharf. He slipped the card into the waiting post bag on the dock’s edge to ensure that it would commence its journey with the return of his ferry to the mainland in a couple of minutes’ time. He turned to face a landscape that would be home for a while.

  Tommy walked the entire town of San Vincenzo, exploring his new environs. Even at dawdling tourist pace, it took no longer than an hour. He surmised that it would now be 8 a.m. in Melbourne. He checked his wallet for the pre-paid phonecard and went to one of the two phones on the main causeway, dialling police headquarters in Melbourne and asking for Superintendent Fountain. As he waited for the connection he rehearsed his brief lines. The Toeys had the capability to trace calls if the caller stayed on the phone long enough. Tommy needed to be brief and succinct. The phonecard had almost run out of credit when Fountain finally picked up.

  Tommy began, ‘I hear you’re making a fair attempt to investigate my role in the Bay of Islands mess?’ No name, no pack drill.

  ‘Is this … ?’ the Superintendent was about to ask confirmation of Tommy’s identity.

  ‘You’ve got half a minute left,’ Tommy broke in.

  ‘And you’re running out of time yourself. Help me.’

  ‘You need to prove Massimo was in the Bay.’

  ‘So, where’s the help in that?’ asked Fountain.

  Tommy checked his watch. If he held the connection for much longer a trace would be a sure thing.

  ‘The dago went to the Marlborough Hotel, on the waterfront, and spoke to staff before going to Inn the Black. Go find yourself a good witness there.’ He hung up, not daring to wait for the reply. He breathed slowly, thinking that he wouldn’t be pulling that little trick again any time soon and went in search of a room so he could rest for a while.

  27th June

  Superintendent Fountain stood proudly at the lift of police squad headquarters. He wasn’t one to be intimidated by the rank and file of other detectives in the more glamorous squads like Armed Offenders or Homicide. He liked his job, rooting out corrupt cops. In return he gave a sort of dignity to a career that had owned him for more than twenty years. As always, he noticed
a few sideways glances as he waited for the lift door to open. And the odd snicker, a small price to pay, he thought, for a guaranteed crack at a commissionership in a year’s time. The lift opened and he and his cheap suit took it to the eleventh floor, the Homicide Squad. Not surprisingly, Mick, the sergeant whose job it was to liaise with the New Zealand police department on the death of Cary Peterson, was waiting for him. They shook hands in a manner that could best be described as professional. Mick ushered him quickly into a private room. They took their seats and both opened their folders at the same moment.

  ‘I’m not too sure what I can give you, Superintendent,’ began Mick.

  ‘It’s probably more what I can give you, young Michael,’ answered the Superintendent.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m assuming that you have fuck all to prove that Cole did the murder, other than that he was known to have stayed at the house.’

  ‘But everything points to him,’ said Mick.

  ‘Sure, but take away your pointy stick for a second, Mick, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Until Lynette Peterson regains consciousness, we only have what we have. Fingerprints, circumstantial evidence, a credit card,’ said Mick.

  The Superintendent tapped his pen anxiously on the table and asked, ‘But there are no witnesses to the Peterson murder, are there, Mick?’

  ‘No. Dead men tell no tales.’

  ‘No witnesses to the attempted murder of his wife?’

  ‘Not unless she comes out of the coma.’

  ‘ We can now prove the real killer was in the Bay of Islands that day.’

  Mick, impressed, closed his notebook to let the internal investigator speak his mind. ‘You’ve got the floor, Boss. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘This is what we’ve confirmed. Cole sent the Mafia to gaol, after being undercover for two years buying pure coke and grass, right? Then, a couple of days after the court case, a Mafiosi hitman arrived in Australia to bump him off. We’ve tracked his movements in and out of Australia and New Zealand.’

  ‘Aahhh,’ said Mick, startled, and remembering Sandra’s earlier comments. ‘Is that why he was on the run?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the Superintendent. ‘What we do know is that Detective Donny Benjamin from the drug unit is giving the old Godfather in Griffith a lot of attention these days.’

  ‘A go-between?’ asked Mick.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Plus, he’s running drugs around the nightclubs.’

  ‘Have you got him, Boss?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s fucked. We’re just playing with him now. He’s not smart enough to be doing this on his own. We’ve just got a 28-day warrant for a camera in his apartment.’

  ‘So you want us to have a sleep too, for a month?’

  ‘Please, Mick. We’ll have it wrapped up by then. We think there’s a bigger fish involved than Donny.’ The Superintendent closed his file, having offered up more information than he initially intended.

  ‘Besides, I don’t reckon Cole did it,’ he finished.

  ‘Neither did we. But you’ve got one problem, Boss.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You need real fucking evidence. Or else I’ll have to charge him.’

  ‘I know. If you can find him.’

  Mario, not in uniform but a grey suit ensemble, stood to one side of the village piazza, alone. He took a mental note of all the proceedings as he observed, head bowed, the entrance of the old stone church. A single white-robed server reached the bottom steps of the church entry, gently waving an ornate thurible, incense wafting in his wake. He was followed closely by another server, this one holding aloft a two-metre-high gold-plated crucifix. Their pace was slow, allowing the ageing priest who was close on their heels, his missal held ceremoniously in both hands, time to adjust his eyes from the candlelit darkness of the narthex to the brightness of the sunny Plati morning. As he too began to descend the short stone staircase, six pallbearers, each dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, emerged through the archway behind him to continue the solemn procession. They carried, at waist height, a simple timber casket bestrewn with garlands and wreaths of white fragrant flowers. The family fell in behind, sobbing into their hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, among them an appropriately dressed, tearful Lydia. Watching from the wings, their fidgeting backs against the stone church wall were the township’s nervous schoolchildren, filed in by their quietly observant teacher to pay their respects. There was no chorus, no choir boys or ear-piercing organ tones. After all, it was Plati, in the wretched hills of southern Italy. The procession stood in a reverent silence as the casket was gently lifted into the waiting hearse.

  Apart from a minor adjustment or two, the coffin slid easily into place; it was not as weighty as some. Pino’s body had been released two days earlier, after the family’s frequent requests to allow a burial. A baffled Mestre Commissario had struggled unsuccessfully for leads on the crime, and the Venetians had long ago given up arguing with the rabble from the south. As the hearse moved slowly towards Via Roma, the town swelled out from the church. A respectful silence remained, broken only by two soft voices, those of the head pallbearer, Massimo, and the Godfather, Don Carbone. Massimo had broken away from his five soldiers to place a consoling kiss on Lydia’s forehead as he moved to assist the old Godfather, who was so stricken with grief at the death of his nephew that he had given up his cane and taken to a wheelchair. The Don waved his tired right hand in a gesture to Massimo to wheel him away from the crowd, which was fading away, along the exit to the town.

  ‘Massimo, are you sure the Australian is responsible?’

  ‘I know it, as I know my own hand,’ replied Massimo.

  ‘Then you must avenge our Pino.’

  Massimo remained silent as he slowly pushed the wheelchair. He fussed over a light summer scarf around his uncle’s neck. There were tears in his eyes.

  The old man pulled on the younger man’s hand. The heir apparent knelt before him. He knew full well that his time was only months away, maybe weeks. The old man squeezed Massimo’s hand more tightly. ‘Go to Germania, and organise the shipment first.’

  Massimo nodded as his uncle finished his final instruction.

  ‘Then return and use this hand to destroy the Australian and his blonde undercover slut.’

  Massimo lifted his bowed head and stared solemnly into his uncle’s eyes. ‘For Pino,’ he said.

  ‘For me,’ the Godfather commanded.

  The noise of the sturdy industrial vacuum cleaner broke the otherwise tranquil silence in the corridor on the twenty-first floor of the trendy Establishment apartment block in the Docklands. The small bespectacled cleaner shuffled from door to door, passing a busy lift mechanic. It appeared that both lifts had jammed and were out of order. The technician in his logoed blue overalls looked impressive as he played with the various wires and terminals that led from the junction box; a quick manoeuvre or two and the lift lights were also out, temporarily. With the coast now well and truly clear, he winked to his mate, Superintendent Fountain, who was also sporting the blue technician’s overalls. The head man then walked briskly to Apartment 2103, home for the previous two years of Detective Donny Benjamin. In less than two minutes the front door lock had been picked and Henri the analyst switched off his vacuum cleaner and disappeared into the apartment along with the Superintendent. They each stopped at the entry long enough to don a pair of the thinnest white cotton gloves.

  On first viewing Henri was very impressed with the décor. Black leather lounges, Bang & Olufsen audiovisual system, a CD and DVD collection that could almost stock a retail outlet and a collection of Giaconda wines. And the views were just as impressive. With rent of $800 a week, and on a gross salary of $1300 a week, the drug unit detective was doing alright for himself.

  After the initial sweep of the vista, Henri moved on to Donny’s laptop computer, which sat proudly on an antique executive blackwood desk. He found the Toshiba in sleep mode, for w
hich the analyst was more than grateful. He pulled the thinnest business briefcase from inside the chest area of his overalls, unzipped it and laid it out on the desk, careful not to interfere with the assorted paraphernalia that Donny had left cluttered there. Henri then went about the task of reviewing the directory and copying as many files as possible onto the memory sticks he had brought with him.

  ‘Is he on any chat sites?’ whispered the Superintendent, peering eagerly over his shoulder.

  ‘Facebook and Skype are all I can find,’ replied the analyst as he pulled out two miniature screwdrivers from his briefcase and began to carefully remove the casing from the superstructure of the laptop, allowing him access to the workings beneath, and in particular the inbuilt camera. In the meantime, Fountain completed his drawer-to-drawer inventory of the kitchen, photographing everything he considered relevant. He discovered two nice fat rolls of cash, which he counted out at $20 000 apiece. He placed them neatly back in their hidey-hole inside the rangehood’s air filter. He then moved on to the hall closet and bedroom, admiring for a moment the collection of at least half-a-dozen leather coats in the walk-in robe, Max Mara and Ben Sherman among them.

  Donny’s top dresser drawer revealed yet more designer gear tucked under a clump of socks and jocks—and five watches. The Breitling and the Rolex looked genuine to the Superintendent. Moving back to the study where Henri was still busy with the laptop, the Superintendent extracted the mobile scanner housed in his own briefcase and started copying much of the documentation including eBay accounts and bills in Donny’s haphazard personal filing system. It was the single sheet of paper filed under ‘C’ that worried the internal investigator most of all. He was uncertain as to whether the ‘C’ was a direct reference to Cole or to a Citroën 2CV. It was the A4 brochure printed out by Inspector Mack, with details in the Inspector’s own scrawl of the whereabouts of Tommy Paul in Argentina and details of his MasterCard. He scanned it twice, and tucked it safely back into the file.