The interview was incredibly draining. Bernie had not slept for almost forty-eight hours, and his head felt like it would explode from the pressure of trying to remember dates, times and events in order to answer the detectives’ questions. At midnight, Duncan put his pen down. ‘Bernie, how about we call it a night?’ Bernie’s eyes had a faraway look. They could finish off his statement later, after they had interviewed the nanny and her mother Marge.
Sarah’s bedroom was large and had a proper work desk, suitable for transformation into a mini operations HQ ahead of the arrival of the senior detectives. She cleared away her artwork and textbooks to make way for three police computers. She watched through the door as the technical support officers took over her room. It made her feel good, as if she was really contributing something to getting her mum back.
Chief investigator Bray knew the task ahead was formidable. The state’s police force had never encountered a kidnap and ransom demand of this magnitude before. The closest they had come was thirty-five years earlier when the eight-year-old son of a lottery winner was snatched on his way home from school. His name was Graeme Thorne, the son of a middle-class Australian family who had won a £100 000 lottery held to finance the building of the Sydney Opera House. A month after the win, on 7 July 1960, the dark-haired boy was snatched and bundled into the boot of a car a few metres from his Bondi home. His parents received a ransom demand for £25 000 and, five weeks later, Graeme’s body was discovered on a vacant block in bushland near Seaforth, wrapped in a car rug. Hungarian-Australian Stephen Bradley was jailed for life.
Until Kerry Whelan’s disappearance, no kidnap had triggered such a wide-scale police operation since that of poor Graeme Thorne. The cases would come to have other similarities: a massive police search for the victim and for a certain type of vehicle, numerous alleged sightings, consultation with Sydney crime bosses to ascertain whether the underworld was involved, and the same motive: greed.
Howe and Bray arrived at the Whelans’ house just after 1 a.m. on 8 May. Bernie was trying to be brave but his voice trembled as he spoke. He could not hold it in, and broke down. Howe put a hand on his shoulder, while Bray looked on; he had to keep an open mind. Bray had seen killers put on performances before, but he detected genuine grief and fear in Bernie. If it was an act, he was doing a bloody good job.
Bernie knew he was the prime suspect. He had watched enough crime thrillers and read enough newspaper reports to know that in most cases the husband, and sometimes the wife, turned out to be the culprit. He had seen those tearful pleas from grieving spouses on television and the next week watched them charged with murder. Bernie wanted to scream and yell at Bray that he was not one of those husbands, that he adored his wife and would never hurt her. But perhaps that was just how guilty men behaved. Bernie knew he had to convince them as quickly as possible that he had nothing to do with this, so they could concentrate on finding the perpetrators—and Kerry.
A plan was being established to move the children out of the house and the police in, to begin the covert operation. James and Matthew were fretful and did not want to leave their father. They had already lost one parent; a second would be too much to bear, but their father told them that this was no place for children. They were bundled into an unmarked car and driven to Tony Garnett’s house.
By daylight, the operation had gained momentum. With the clear intention of remaining covert for as long as possible, Mick Howe decided that Taskforce Bellaire would operate only from the Whelan house and out of the Royal Australian Air Force base at Richmond, in Sydney’s far north-west. It was a sound staging point, close to the Whelan house, and if fewer police knew about it, gossip about the operation would be less likely to leak out. Howe had called in the favour from an ex-service mate at the RAAF base. Howe had joined the army on his seventeenth birthday in 1965 and stayed for three years, after which he joined the police force, but he hadn’t shaken the regimental approach. His voice was a major’s bellow, his manner precise, ordered and disciplined.
Fifty specialist officers were already on board and, restless and adrenaline-charged, they stood chatting in the air base’s large emergency centre. They were ignorant of the case details, but knew something big was at hand.
‘Now, team, we’re preparing for a major operation which could take days, weeks, we just don’t know,’ Howe told the group. ‘If anyone can’t stay, tell me now. Please. Once you come through those gates,’ he pointed towards the entrance to the base, ‘you’re not leaving until this is completed.’ A couple of the group glanced at one another and rolled their eyes. Heavy-handed Howe.
Howe outlined the case. ‘I want to make it crystal clear, ladies and gentleman. If you speak to anyone about this, if anything is leaked to the media, I will take immediate action on you. The only way this can be a success will be if I have the utmost confidence and secrecy. It’s gotta be kept quiet.’
The taskforce began investigating possible leads—Bernie’s US connections, his business engagements, the Whelans’ social circle. At the house, Amanda Minton-Taylor watched as forensic officers gathered proof of Kerry’s existence: hairs from an upstairs bathroom, her red toothbrush, a pink razor, and a nail care kit. They would be used to establish Kerry’s DNA profile.
Amanda was asked to pack a bag for Kerry, in the hope she was still alive: ‘Put some of her favourite things in there,’ the policewoman advised. ‘We need some loose, comfortable clothes, warm things, underwear and a toiletry bag. We don’t know what condition she’ll be in.’ As if she was on remote control, Amanda folded Kerry’s belongings into a bag.
In Parramatta, the canvassing of shops was widened to include the entire region—all salons, skin specialists and medical centres. Police checked hotel guest lists. More than two hundred businesses were contacted in all. None had a record of a ‘Mrs Whelan’ on 6 May.
The taskforce pored over Kerry’s diary. She’d had an appointment at Zanthee’s Hairdressers at Windsor on 5 May, the day before she went missing. Narelle Bean remembered the visit. Kerry was a regular, three days a week, usually for a blow-dry. On her last visit, Kerry had asked Narelle to dye her hair. ‘Get rid of those greys, Narelle. There’re far too many of them popping up these days,’ she had laughed.
Annabelle’s Perfumery at Richmond had booked Kerry for an eyebrow wax on Friday 9 May. Kerry’s credit card and bank records revealed no transactions since 5 May.
Brett Ryan was having flashbacks to the last time he had seen his sister, just four days ago. He and his fiancée, Jo, had driven to Willow Park for a family dinner with Kerry and the children for James’ 11th birthday. The evening held a special poignancy because James shared a birthday with his grandmother who had died earlier in the year. As usual Kerry put on an effortless spread, but Brett noticed that she wasn’t quite her usual upbeat self. Perhaps Kerry was missing Bernie who was still in Singapore on business, Brett thought at the time. Also, the first birthday without her mother was weighing on her mind, no doubt.
But Brett now remembered how after dinner, Kerry and Jo had wandered into the atrium to talk privately. Kerry explained that she was bleeding heavily and thought she was possibly going through menopause, which was quite a disappointment as she was considering having another baby. As she continued to speak privately with Jo, the children ran in and the conversation was lost. Brett now felt tormented. Had his sister wanted to tell Jo something else?
Marge too was going over every last word, over-analysing any snippet of conversation. On the Sunday, Kerry had organised a small birthday gathering for James at the amusement centre, TimeZone. While the children played video games, the adults sat at a coffee shop and chatted. Kerry was in a good mood, relaxed and happy. At one point, Kerry turned to Marge and said: ‘I’m thinking of going to Adelaide with Bernard for a few days. I need to discuss something with him. Would you be able to mind the little monsters?’
‘Of course Kerry. Go,’ Marge insisted.
Police swarmed over the Whelan house, sea
rching every document, even the children’s homework. At taskforce headquarters, detectives still did not have a suspect. Trevor Whelan had been interviewed by detectives who conducted thorough checks on his background. His alibi was solid and police ruled him out as a suspect. Taskforce Bellaire was left with few clues as to who was behind the abduction. As the investigation entered its third day, Bray told a woman police officer to watch Bernie Whelan closely.
Amanda Minton-Taylor was deeply tormented. A man had visited the house two or three weeks earlier, and Kerry had been upset when he left . Kerry had asked Amanda not to tell anyone of the visit. At the time it was easy to dismiss, but now it was starting to resonate with meaning. What if Kerry’s life depended on it? Should she tell the police? What if this man had something to do with it?
Eventually, on the morning of 10 May, Amanda pulled her mother aside. ‘Mum, there’s something I have to tell you,’ she whispered.
Marge was reluctant with so many police around. She did not want to be seen acting furtively as they were watching closely.
‘Just listen,’ Amanda insisted. ‘I feel disloyal to Kerry saying this, and I don’t want to be disloyal to her, but a funny thing happened two weeks ago . . . Well, not funny, but strange. You see, this man arrived at the property and I just have a feeling he’s got something to do with this.’ She bit her lip, and let the story tumble out.
Marge was sitting on a kitchen stool and leant across the kitchen bench to her daughter.
‘Kerry said not to say anything but I feel I have to.’ Amanda took a drag on a cigarette, something she had taken up in the past few days.
Marge was trying to remain calm. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Think about this, Amanda. We don’t want to alarm Bernie unnecessarily.’
‘But, Mum,’ Amanda said, ‘I have been thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I think I have to say something. What if he’s the guy holding her?’
Marge agreed. She found Bernie in the living room and quietly told him. His mouth dropped.
Within minutes, Amanda was seated on the lounge giving a description to police. He was about six foot and pretty solid, with a fair complexion, Amanda remembered. His hair was sandy-red, thinning and collar length. ‘He spoke with an accent, but I’m not sure what it was.’
‘What was he wearing?’ a detective asked.
‘White shirt and navy trousers. And he had sunglasses on the whole time.’
It could have been anyone, Bernie thought.
The police pressed Amanda to remember his name but her mind went blank. She tried going through the alphabet in her head. A—Alex, B—Bob, C—Charles . . . No, it was B. B for Bruce.
‘It was Bruce, I think,’ she told them. ‘Kerry said he was an old family friend.’
The police turned to Bernie. He looked back at them perplexed. He had no idea who it could be. His brain felt scrambled. It did not help that he had still not been to bed.
Amanda helped police construct a Penri sketch, an identikit image of the visitor, but she was not happy with the result. Then someone suggested the family photo albums. They contained the usual stuff—baby pictures of the children, family snapshots of holidays and celebrations, social outings on the boat. Amanda flicked through them, concentrating hard.
Suddenly she stopped. ‘That’s him,’ she said, pointing at a photograph of six people gathered at a social function. The man was standing next to advertising guru John Singleton and his then wife, 60 Minutes journalist Liz Hayes. Holding a beer in his hand, the man was half in the shadow. He was wearing white trousers and a white shirt with vertical stripes, a subdued outfit compared to his wife, who stood beside him in red high heels and a very short skirt.
Bernie grabbed the album, incredulous. ‘That’s Bruce Burrell. Oh, come on, Amanda,’ he said, ‘he’s like a big teddy bear.’
‘Yes, Bernard,’ Amanda said, ‘but this guy was like a teddy bear. Like a big cuddly, roly-poly teddy bear. His hair was a bit gingery, a bit blondy . . . James was home too. He saw him.’
Bernie looked again. The photo had been taken on a tennis day that the Whelans had hosted in 1989 for employees of Crown Equipment, and past and present employees of associated advertising companies, including Bruce Burrell.
‘Bernie, I’m sure that’s him,’ Amanda said, pointing to the photo again. ‘He looks slimmer there, and his hair is shorter.’
Worn out and frustrated, Bernie muttered, ‘It couldn’t be Bruce Burrell, for God’s sake, Amanda. We call him “the gentle bear”.’
The detectives turned to James and asked him to try and remember what ‘the man’ who had visited his mother looked like. James wandered about the rumpus room, which was hung with photographs of his parents’ parties and social outings.
‘That’s him,’ James said, indicating one man among a group of guests posing for a photograph on the tennis day at the Whelans’ property. James had his finger on Bruce Burrell. Detective Bray immediately recognised that this was the taskforce’s best lead. It was their only lead, but he reminded his team members to keep an open mind. That afternoon, Bray briefed members of the taskforce: ‘Fellas, we need to find this bloke, find out his movements, but please be discreet. If he is involved he might not be working alone and we don’t want to jeopardise Mrs Whelan’s safety.’
5 A PERSON OF
INTEREST
Amanda Minton-Taylor lay flat on her back in the dark. The police had sent her home to her mother Marge’s place, and instructed her to lie down in her bedroom and to cast her mind back to the day Bruce Burrell had visited. It was not working. Amanda lay there, tormented with guilt, believing this was all her fault. She had let the man in and she had given him the front gate security code, and now it was too late. She pulled a pillow over her face, squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think.
Amanda remembered it was a sunny day, because Kerry sat with her visitor in the courtyard. It was a Wednesday too, because Bernie had flown to Adelaide that morning. Yes, the events of the day were slowly coming back.
James woke with a sore throat, and Kerry had fussed over him, taking his temperature, checking his tonsils. In the end, she decided to keep him home from school. It would be more trouble than it was worth to send him off, only to have his teacher call her to come and get him. Kerry planned to potter around the house anyway, her diary empty for a change.
As Amanda tended to the horses around 11.30 a.m., she noticed a car outside the security gate. It looked like a Jaguar, silvery grey. Ten minutes later Amanda heard the phone ring. She let it go, assuming Kerry would pick it up in the house. But it kept ringing so she took the call from the phone in the stables.
‘Hello,’ a man’s voice said. ‘This is Bruce Burrell. I’m an old friend of Bernie and Kerry’s. I’m in the area. Thought I’d pop in and say hello.’
‘Oh, hi. Bernard’s at work,’ Amanda explained, ‘but would you like me to transfer you through to speak to Kerry?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
Amanda tried but again Kerry didn’t pick up. She dialled the extension in Kerry’s main bedroom. Still no answer.
‘Hello,’ Amanda said into the receiver. ‘Look, I can’t seem to find Kerry. She’s on the property—somewhere.’
‘I’m at the front gate and it’s all locked up,’ the man said.
‘Yeah, it was only put in a week ago,’ Amanda said, ‘would you like me to give you the code?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘okay, thanks.’
Amanda had been instructed not to give out the number to strangers, but this man was a friend, so she gave him the code, hung up and walked out of the stables. She saw Kerry by the side of the house and called out that an old friend, Bruce, was on his way up.
‘That’s fine,’ Kerry waved back.
It normally took two minutes to drive from the front gate to the Whelans’ five-bedroom house. Yet at least ten minutes had passed by the time Bruce parked his Jaguar and came to the door. Amanda heard the dog barking but did not see Kerry greet her v
isitor. When she wandered up to the main house fifteen minutes later to get a drink, Kerry was standing in the kitchen on one side of the bench. The man was on the other.
‘Amanda, this is Bruce,’ Kerry said as she handed him a cup of coffee. ‘Amanda trains our horses.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Amanda,’ the man said, and half turned his back on her.
At the time Amanda had assumed he did not want to bother with the hired help. But now, lying on her bed, she wondered. It was almost as if the man hadn’t wanted her to get a good look at him. He’d turned his face away as if stung by her gaze, and then quickly followed Kerry out into the courtyard.
Amanda did not take too much notice of guests. They were always coming and going from the Whelan property, and she had plenty of chores to finish. But as she filled the kettle looking out the window at this unfamiliar man, she saw something. Kerry’s body language had changed. Kerry was usually friendly and vivacious, but now she appeared uncomfortable and defensive. Normally seated with her body open and facing people, Kerry sat stiffly back in her chair, as if affronted by something the man was saying.
Amanda popped her head out the window. ‘Is your guest joining us for lunch?’
‘No.’ Kerry’s tone was abrupt.
The man sat still for a second and then rose to go. He leant forward to give Kerry a kiss goodbye, but she turned her cheek away and Bruce grazed it with a light peck. Amanda did not see the visitor leave but she heard the ding-dong of the electronic bell as the Jaguar drove out the gate.
A short time later Kerry came into the kitchen. ‘Can you do me a favour, Amanda?’
‘Yeah, of course.’ Amanda put down her sandwich.
‘Please don’t tell anybody he was here.’ Kerry’s tone was serious. ‘I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks why he was here . . . you never saw him here. Right?’ Her voice was tense.
Amanda looked back at her strangely.
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