by Gary Jubelin
Her uncle, Derek Barrett, says he last spoke to Mengmei by telephone on the morning of 22 April. A day later, he signs a police statement saying his niece recently started going out to parties and nightclubs, and drinking. He says his wife had gone away for a few days, leaving him and Mengmei alone in their apartment, then he woke up one day and the young woman was gone.
We talk to Mengmei’s aunt, who says when she returned, she noticed how clean the place was, and that the bedsheets had been laundered.
But if the battered body recovered from the water is Mengmei, then what brought her here, to Snapper Point? It is over 100 kilometres from Sydney, where she was last seen.
Barrett has family in the area. His mobile phone pinged off a nearby tower in the early morning of 24 April.
We arrest him on 29 April, after DNA confirms the body is that of Mengmei. On his phone we find photographs of her, bound, naked and terrified, and also of the blowhole where he tried to hide her body.
Barrett will eventually be sentenced to 46 years in prison over the murder, with a non-parole period of 34 years and six months. We got justice and, once, I might have gone out on the beers after a result like this, but this time there’s no joy in this. It is just an extremely sad case.
At least it’s quick. At the same time, I’m also dealing with the Leveson inquest, trying to find a way to take the Bowraville murders back to the appeal court and searching for William Tyrrell. I’m wound tight as a metal spring. Most days, whether I am on call, leading a fresh investigation or in court, I wake up at three or four in the morning to start working, to ensure none of these other cases suffer.
* * *
Mum calls to say Dad has leukaemia. The news, coming soon after Barrett’s arrest, forces its way through the crowd of deaths I’m wrestling with and demands my attention.
I knew Dad was having tests.
The doctor reckons he might have three years, but it could be only two, or one.
You tell yourself that you’re OK receiving news like this, but there is a hollowness.
I visit him, when next in Port Macquarie working on William’s disappearance, but Dad won’t discuss his fears.
I say, ‘Look, of course you’re scared.’
‘I’m not worried about dying. It’s how I’m gonna die,’ he tells me.
There’s no death that’s a good death. So, at what point do you let go? And what does it feel like when it happens?
What Do We Want?
5 May 2016: 31 years in
A young boy walking with his mother in the sunlight stops and stares into the shadows created by the overhanging fig trees. Advancing towards them through Hyde Park, in central Sydney, is a skinny, wild-haired woman, her raised hand and forearm painted with the same white ochre that decorates her face.
Behind her, carrying a huge black, red and yellow flag is a mob of hundreds more protestors. Their brown faces, and the Aboriginal flag they carry, are painted with the same white ochre as Dolly Jerome’s fist.
‘What do we want?’ shouts Dolly, whose nephew Clinton was the third child to disappear in Bowraville.
‘Justice!’ the mob behind her answers, moving out from under the trees into the sunlight, heading towards Parliament House.
The young boy and his mother watch as they step into the road, forcing the city traffic to a standstill.
‘What do we want?’
‘Justice!’
‘What have we got?’
‘Fuck all!’
Other members of the children’s families carry empty ring binders, representing the volumes of evidence about the killings sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP) and two attorneys general between 2007 and 2013, all of whom refused to send the murders back to court.
Just like the last time they protested, in November 2013, I am not a part of the crowd but not entirely separate from it either. My bosses told me not to come here, saying they don’t want the police to appear politicised, but I’ve disobeyed them. I’m a detective chief inspector now, an automatic promotion after spending a decade as a detective inspector, and reckon I am senior enough to make my own decisions.
Today, I’ve swapped my black tie for one decorated with the pattern of a dot painting, given to me by the children’s families. I’ve decided to stand with the mob from Bowraville.
The crowd is full of faces I recognise. There’s Thomas Duroux, Clinton’s father, his careworn face hidden in the shade of his baseball cap. He nods. Thomas is a man’s man, just like my father is. He doesn’t show a lot of emotion, but it would be a mistake to think that he isn’t hurting. I’ve spent hours sitting with him on the Mission, seeing how his sorrow bows his shoulders forward and how his eyes still light up softly whenever he talks about his son.
Behind Thomas is Michelle Jarrett, standing tall and staring in defiance. Her niece Evelyn was the second child to go missing. Michelle has grown over the time I’ve known her, into a real leader. I wouldn’t like to be on her wrong side – when she goes off she’s terrifying – but, like Aunty Elaine used to, she will often now reach out to check I am OK when she sees me on the TV news, busy with another murder.
The protest forces its way north along Macquarie Street, up to the locked metal gates of the parliament building. Within it, Muriel Craig walks past me, surrounded by her surviving children. Even among the crowd, there’s something in the way Muriel carries herself that makes her seem isolated. Her daughter, 16-year-old Colleen, was the first to go missing and, it is as if she has been stranded ever since by the grief of losing a daughter and never having even found her body.
She and I have often argued. I can’t count the number of times Muriel has abused me, saying I’m not doing enough to convict her daughter’s killer – and she’s right. I feel I’ve let the families down: all these years, with no result. There’s always something more to be done. If anything, her anger’s made me more determined.
Sometimes, when I tell myself I can’t do this anymore, I look at the children’s families, who keep getting up after all the times they’ve been kicked in the guts, by the courts, by the DPP and the attorneys general. I watch Thomas, Michelle and Muriel join the angry knot of people outside the locked gates of Parliament House and think, No, let’s go. Let’s keep fighting.
The parliamentary inquiry into the murders was good – it made people listen – but it had no power to overturn the last Attorney General’s refusal to send the case to the appeal court.
‘What do we want?’ shouts another voice from within the crowd, not Dolly’s this time. A voice I do not recognise, amplified by a loudhailer.
‘Justice!’ the crowd shouts in anger. The loudhailer gets passed round and different voices start calling politicians cunts, or saying that they hate the cops.
‘Except this bloke.’ I look up. The man with the loudhailer points at me. It feels extraordinary to be singled out. After the protest dissipates, I walk away thinking, Well, the police might not like me being here but at least I’ve got my convictions. I took a stand.
And the protest is only the beginning.
For months now, I’ve been meeting with journalists, trying to get them interested in the case, knowing that could help put pressure on my bosses and the politicians.
Four reporters told me the story was old and cold, and going nowhere. A fifth seemed interested but made no promises. Then, months later, he called back.
This morning, 5 May, his article appeared in The Australian newspaper. It began:
The investigation into a serial killer responsible for the unsolved murders of three children 25 years ago has been criticised by federal and state politicians, who say the result would have been different if the victims were white.
The article quotes the country’s first Indigenous Member of the Federal House of Representatives, Ken Wyatt. ‘If this had been three children in Sydney’s Point Piper, then would there have been a different approach?’ he is quoted as saying. ‘The approach would have been tackled with a lot more
rigour . . . by police, by authorities. There would have been an outcry.’
That should make the State government take notice.
The next day, following the protest, the newspaper reports:
NSW Police will present an 18-volume submission to the state’s Attorney-General calling for a retrial of the man alleged to have carried out the unsolved murders of three children in Bowraville 25 years ago.
The submission, drawn up in cooperation with lawyers acting for the victims’ families, details similarities and links between the killings as well as evidence uncovered by police that has not been heard in court.
It’s accurate, except for one detail – I haven’t actually got all the signatures I need from my bosses to make the submission. But I will do.
The protest, these newspaper reports and the submission calling for a retrial have all been carefully coordinated. All we’re asking for is the appeal court, not the politicians, to look at the murders and decide if there is a case to answer. If the not guilty verdicts are overturned, James Hide can be put on trial for all three of the murders together. Should that happen, a jury can hear all of the evidence against him for the first time, including the new information we have uncovered in the years since he was acquitted.
It’s not traditional policing, to be cooperating with campaigners, lawyers and the media to push your government into making a decision, but it is an attempt to get justice. And, if not that, then what is police work for?
The Australian starts campaigning on the issue, running stories on the murders daily, often on the front page, creating the pressure I hoped for. After a fortnight, one of its journalists records an interview with James himself, who’s never spoken about all three of the children’s killings, and publishes this conversation in a podcast.
In it, James says he played no part in what happened to the children. When asked why he did not give evidence at his trial for Evelyn’s murder, he says his barrister told him not to.
‘Why didn’t you want to give evidence? Why not clear it up?’ the reporter asks.
‘At that point it’s not about clearing things up, it’s about winning the case,’ says James. His voice is dull, and without being able to see him across the interview room table, it’s hard to judge what he is thinking.
Asked to explain how a pillowslip from his caravan was found with Clinton’s corpse, James says maybe the teenager took it with him and went walking into the bush to collect some marijuana.
But he didn’t have his shoes on, the reporter counters.
‘It’s not my explanation, it is a theory that’s consistent with the evidence, and that’s what they said in court,’ says James. ‘If you look at the law, and this is what the judge said in the trial, if there is a scenario that fits the evidence and is consistent with innocence, you have to find not guilty.’
He’s right. The law protects the suspect.
Asked whether he would welcome an appeal court hearing, James says:
. . . almost, if it wasn’t for the strain it puts on the family, emotionally and financially, and all the other things that go along with it, the national celebrity that comes with it, I don’t want none of that but then again, I want the actual evidence to be all heard and seen that it wasn’t me.
The reporter follows this up, asking, ‘But you’re saying there’s a part of you that would like to see this go to court?’
‘A small part, we’ll put it that way.’
The newspaper also prints his words, under the front-page headline: ‘Trial would clear me: accused killer’. That can only make it easier for the current Attorney General, Gabrielle Upton, to make her decision. On 25 May, after the Police Commissioner finally signs off on our submission and after three weeks of unrelenting pressure from the families and the media, Gabrielle does what none of her predecessors would do and asks the appeal court to look at all three Bowraville murders. She asks them to assess whether the previous not guilty verdicts should be overturned and James put on trial again.
I picture Michelle talking to her sister Rebecca, Evelyn’s mother. I picture Thomas celebrating with Leonie Duroux, who’s spent hours on the phone with me over the years, working out how to push this campaign further. I picture Muriel hugging her remaining children.
We’re in with a chance, I’m certain. It’s always been about making people listen. After so many years, I feel such happiness that the families will be heard.
A Million Dollars
11 August 2016: 31 years in
The other members of the strike force, Jerry Bowden and Bianca Comina, stand with me on the Mission, watching the smoking ceremony before the Police Commissioner Andrew Scipione steps up to a wooden lectern facing the gathered families. The black faces watching him are guarded, unsure what to expect. Ash from the burning gum leaves settles on our shoulders as Andrew says he came here to pay his respects.
‘I want to acknowledge that for 25 years you have been fighting for justice. A dignified and committed fight for the truth about what happened to your children,’ he says. The crowd is silent, listening. There is still a great mistrust of the authorities among this community but I sense there is also something deeper in the silence, a willingness to hear what the policeman is saying.
‘I want to publicly acknowledge that the New South Wales Police Force could have done more,’ Andrew continues. ‘We could have done more for your families when these crimes first occurred. We should have done more. I know this has added to your pain.’
He looks up from the words written in front of him, directly at the families. ‘And can I say to you that I am sorry?’ He repeats those words – ‘I am sorry’ – four times over.
Afterwards, he carries a wreath of flowers through the smoke, placing it at the base of a memorial to the three murdered children that now stands on the grass, opposite Thomas Duroux’s house, close to the Tree of Knowledge.
The families surround Andrew and gently thank him for coming. I see relief on Michelle Jarrett’s face. Muriel Craig is smiling.
Jerry, Bianca and I are also impressed. His words have helped repay the trust the Bowraville families put in us to correct what went wrong here. As Andrew walks away across the grass, Bianca watches him go with her head tilted to one side. She says the apology is welcome, but the truth is, the evidence we’ve gathered about this case has not changed in the past decade. All that’s changed is the politics, she says. She’s right, I know, but at least we got here.
I get embarrassed sometimes, comparing the staff and resources the police put into pursuing the Bowraville killer over the past three decades to what I’ve now been given to investigate William’s disappearance. Earlier this year, we set up a second strike force – Rosann 2 – in an attempt to find our way through the tangle of over 1000 different people we’ve nominated as persons of interest (PoIs), hoping to eliminate as many as we can in order to find suspects.
Rosann 1 has drawn up a list of around 400 PoIs and spent weeks drawing up background reports on each of them. These are then sent to the detectives in Rosann 2, drawn from different squads within State Crime Command, as well as local area commands to follow up. They report back. It is a huge commitment, with detectives travelling across the country to find people and strike them off our list, which means this investigation is being attempted on a scale I have never before seen in the police force.
But, as always on this case it seems, it’s not enough. We need more staff, more resources. Whatever you throw at this, it eats it up. And right now, more than anything, I think we need more money.
One Friday night towards the end of August, I get a call on my mobile from the State Police Minister, Troy Grant. He asks about William’s disappearance and if there’s anything we need to solve it. We talk about announcing a reward for information. It would have to be substantial I say, as whoever out there knows something – and someone must – they’ve not come forward before now. We need enough money to turn heads, to make a wife inform on a husband, maybe, or make one
paedophile betray another.
Enough to make someone believe they can change their life completely.
‘What about a million dollars?’ Troy asks.
That might do it.
Later the same idea comes up in conversation with William’s foster parents. They ask what kind of reward a murder normally attracts and when I tell them that for Bowraville, it is $100,000 for all three children’s killings, Tom says that it’s not enough.
‘What about a million dollars?’ I say. I can’t promise them that we will get it; no case in New South Wales has ever attracted such a reward, and once you set that kind of precedent for William, it would be hard to refuse any other murder victim’s family that comes after. But, after speaking to Troy, I’m confident. With so much public attention on William’s disappearance, the State Premier and Police Commissioner are also in favour.
There’s just one catch. They want to first be absolutely certain neither William’s biological nor foster parents were involved.
We’ve already established that his birth parents were nowhere near Kendall when William went missing, as CCTV, telephone records and shopping receipts put them both in Sydney. Nor have we found any evidence that someone else took William on their behalf over the years since. At first, I am reluctant to re-interview Tom and Jane, as we’ve grown close and I know how much they have already suffered, but I do it. This is my job. On 1 September, I sit down with each of them and go hard. Nothing either of them says makes me doubt them.
The reward is announced less than a fortnight later, on 12 September 2016, the second anniversary of William’s disappearance. It makes the TV news and is shared thousands of times on Facebook. A special video is created for the Where’s William? website: ‘$1 Million Reward, Make the Call!’
We sit by the phones and wait, but we get nothing. The silence makes me doubt myself at first, and then I realise we have at least learned something from it.