Ladykiller

by Candace Sutton

  On the first anniversary of their mother’s disappearance, Maree and Lessel held a memorial service at St Jude’s Anglican Church in Randwick. Maree’s daughter Kate rehearsed her eulogy in front of the mirror for days, until she could do it without crying. Maree had two hundred orders of service printed for the memorial. They quickly ran out. Friends, neighbours and people Dottie’s children had never met packed the church. Afterwards, as the family stood at the church entrance thanking the mourners, Maree caught sight of Bruce Burrell standing in the church grounds with his father-in-law. She tried to catch Burrell’s eye but he had slunk away.

  Just over a year later, Maree was having a cup of tea at a friend’s house in Pymble, on Sydney’s north side, when her mobile phone rang. Lessel was calling. ‘You know that woman they are searching for on a property down near Goulburn?’ Lessel said to Maree. ‘It belongs to Bruce Burrell.’

  Maree’s friend watched the colour drain from her face and Maree felt her legs turn to jelly. At that moment, any last, secret hope she might have held that her mother was alive vanished.

  13 GONE FERAL

  Monday 26 May 1997

  A young Sydney Morning Herald artist named Felicity Walsh read the newspaper reports with growing intrigue. It all came flooding back to her: two years earlier while she was working at an advertising agency, Peter Grace & Associates, two policemen had interviewed her then colleague, Bruce Burrell. Now his photograph was splashed across the newspaper. Fat, lazy Bruce.

  Walsh still remembered how his face dropped when an insistent police sergeant asked for a spare room at the agency to interview him. It was the principal memory she had of Burrell, apart from the fact that he did little if any work and was always boasting about money but borrowing cash. Walsh heard at the time, in whispered corridor exchanges, that the police were investigating the disappearance of an old lady who lived in Coogee, not far from Burrell. The police had returned to interview Burrell and check his alibi. Walsh relayed the incident to her news editor and to Herald journalist Kate McClymont who was sent out to follow up Walsh’s claims.

  When she reached Lurline Bay the first thing that struck McClymont, even in a pair of modest work heels and at half Dottie’s age, was that Undine Street was no place for strolling, unless you were a mountain goat. By her second door-knock, McClymont found someone who remembered that around the time she vanished, Dottie had told the builder she was going to visit a sick friend and waved a hand towards the ocean.

  Meanwhile, McClymont’s colleague, Greg Bearup, had secured an interview with Bernie Whelan and made his way to Crown Equipment’s headquarters at Smithfield. In Bernie Whelan’s neat office on the building’s top floor, Kerry Whelan and the children beamed out from framed photographs arranged precisely along a shelf. Bernie’s fingers trembled as he pulled a manila folder from his desk drawer and ran through some loose photos. He paused at one picture, his voice quivered and he began to cry. ‘This is my Kerry,’ he said. It was one of the last photographs taken of her.

  A secretary arrived with a cup of tea, and touched Bernie affectionately on the shoulder. Bernie spoke about his heartache and the children, before switching to the police investigation, in particular the taskforce’s focus on the earlier disappearance of an elderly woman, Dottie Davis.

  The Davis angle was what Bearup was most interested in and, two hours after he had arrived, Bearup returned to his office and worked with McClymont on the story which would break the news of Burrell’s second possible victim. But their enquiries to the taskforce about the Davis link resulted in a senior police officer going in to the Herald for a ‘quiet chat’ in which he warned the paper that publishing the story would seriously imperil the investigation. An FBI criminal profiler was preparing a list of questions for Burrell and the gambit relied on Burrell believing his association to Dottie was a forgotten secret. But the Herald went ahead and published the exclusive story on 31 May 1997, much to the taskforce’s frustration.

  The police were considering a number of alternative methods to force Bruce Burrell’s hand. The phone call made by the kidnapper to Crown Equipment had been traced to a telephone box outside Goulburn’s Empire Hotel. Dennis Bray was certain the caller had to be the kidnapper because he knew intimate details of the ransom note and had demanded Bernie ‘call off the police and media today’. How many people in the Goulburn area were the subject of a major police operation and had been surrounded by media? Only one. Nevertheless, a cautious Bray knew they needed more for an indictment and the monitoring device placed on Hillydale’s telephone line was proving enlightening.

  Bray and Mick Howe discussed the intelligence gleaned from the phone taps. The police had also bugged Bruce’s father Allan Burrell’s home phone and the phone lines of Bruce’s sisters. The recorded conversations later tended to the court in the police brief of evidence confirmed that Bruce had firearms which the police had not found and which he may have used in the murder. Information had been obtained from Bruce’s friends and relatives that he had a .44 revolver and possibly a Luger-style pistol, but numerous searches had failed to find them.

  On 25 May, Bruce was discussing guns with his father as police searched outside on his property. Bruce: ‘The cops seized some firearms today.’

  Allan Burrell: ‘Did they find the other things too?’

  Bruce Burrell: ‘No.’

  In another conversation, Allan Burrell spoke with his youngest child, Tonia, who told her father: ‘I said to Bruce, I know what they’re looking for.’

  Allan: ‘Yes, so do I.’

  Tonia: ‘The guns?’

  Allan: ‘Revolvers.’

  Tonia: ‘Yeah.’

  Bruce’s friend Bob had also phoned, asking him: ‘Did they find your revolver?’

  ‘I can’t comment or talk about it because of the court proceedings,’ Bruce said. ‘They think I was having an affair with the woman.’ Burrell laughed. ‘Please, keep that bit under your hat.’

  Another listening device at Tonia’s home had recorded Tonia and her sister, Debbie, apparently trying to get the story straight on Bruce’s movements around the time he visited Kerry at her home.

  Allan: ‘Well, last time Bruce was here at our place was around about the fifteenth of bloody April and he stayed the Monday night and the Tuesday night . . . he left on the Wednesday morning and he was going home via the bloody Whelans at Kurrajong to see if he could pick up some bloody flaming advertising contract from Bernie Whelan. And that’s as far as I know.’

  Tonia: ‘That’s when he was over here and I gave him a haircut and he was here for about an hour and a half and then he went to your place.’

  Allan: ‘He stayed there the Monday and the Tuesday— no, he went and saw you but he stayed at our place on the Monday night. He came and saw you and got a haircut on the Monday. On the Wednesday morning he’s got himself dressed up and he’s going out. I said, “Well, where are you going?” so he said, “I thought I might go and see Bernie and see if I can pick up some flaming freelance advertising on the way home”, and that’s the last I saw of him and the last I heard of him.’

  Tonia: ‘When did she go missing?’

  Debbie: ‘Beginning of May.’

  Mick Howe and Bray decided to pay Allan Burrell a visit at the North Balgowlah flat he shared with his second wife, Marie. As Marie fussed around with tea cups, Bray studied Allan Burrell. He was not as tall as Bruce and had the brown-spotted head of a man who gardened or golfed, although he sported a small beer gut. It was always interesting to examine the parents of a killer and, in his experience, they were usually ordinary people, banal rather than monstrous, and unaware of their child’s true nature. Bray decided the father was more of a regular citizen than the son and might prove vital to them at this stage of the case. He and Howe had decided they wanted to have a casual chat with Allan about his son’s guns, but more importantly they wanted to put pressure on Bruce. Burrell was feeling isolated. The public was against him; his family was his only ally and if the poli
ce managed to stir up trouble in the nest, Burrell might just crack.

  Mick Howe began the conversation. ‘Now, mate,’ he said, ‘do you have any knowledge of any pistols or revolvers in Bruce’s possession?’

  ‘None at all, mate,’ Allan replied. Lying must run in the family, Howe thought.

  The interview continued for around half an hour, but Bruce’s father imparted nothing of interest and Howe did not let Allan know that they had heard him discussing firearms with his son.

  As Allan and Marie walked the detectives downstairs to the door, Marie turned to Howe: ‘Inspector, do you think that Bruce was involved in the disappearance of that Dorothy Davis woman?’ During the interview, Howe had watched Marie Burrell’s face. Just a lip curl here and there, a frown or two, but he suspected she did not particularly like her stepson.

  ‘There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever, or the minds of my investigators, that Bruce was in some way directly involved in the disappearance of Dorothy Davis,’ Howe said.

  Maree and Allan stopped midway on the stairs.

  ‘What about Kerry Whelan?’ Marie put her hand to her mouth.

  ‘There’s also no doubt in our minds that Bruce is directly responsible for the kidnap and murder of Kerry Whelan,’ Howe said.

  ‘That’s laying everything on the line, isn’t it?’ Allan said.

  ‘You asked the question, and I think it’s only fair that as Bruce’s parents, you should be aware of our suspicions. There’s no doubt he would have killed Jennette Harvey too,’ Howe said. The detective had uncovered proof that Mrs Harvey, a wealthy widow, was on Burrell’s hit list. Allan just shook his head. He had never heard of Jennette Harvey, and he did not wish to.

  Bernie and his three children had moved back home to Willow Park on 1 June. Media crews had been camped outside for weeks, and now photographers with 600-millimetre lenses had their eyes trained on the family home, which was at the end of the 700-metre-long driveway. Each time the children left for school, flashing cameras were pressed up against the car windows. The family hated the intrusion, and was shocked at the media’s obsession with the story.

  Bernie, who continued to wear a bulletproof vest, had engaged a Crown security man, Mark Stewart-Woods, to protect him and the children from possible copycats, and the media. It was four weeks since Kerry had vanished and the children were understandably deeply troubled.

  At night Marge would often hear Matthew sobbing. She would make him a hot chocolate, give him a cuddle, and they would talk.

  Sarah was trying to be the little lady of the house at a time when she was also struggling with a debilitating bowel disease, ulcerative colitis. Her next major operation was a few weeks away, the first without her mother.

  James was confused about the media at the gate. ‘Dad, who are the good guys and who are the bad guys?’ The ten-year-old concluded that the media were the latter. Commander Mick Howe was engaged in running warfare with one photographer, who only left his post outside the Whelans’ gate to chase the family’s car. Howe reckoned he slept in his vehicle; he certainly smelt like it. When the photographer followed Matthew and Sarah to school and photographed them in the school grounds, Howe lost his cool. ‘Do that again, and I’ll knock your block off,’ Howe yelled at him.

  Bernie’s fears escalated when pictures of him and the children trying to go about their daily lives appeared in the paper. He knew that if the media could get to him unobserved, so too could copycats. It wasn’t long before his fears were confirmed. The first attempts were calls made to Crown Equipment, but they were poorly orchestrated. Another happened on 18 June, Bernie’s birthday. Bernie was on his way home for a small celebration when a man phoned with information about Kerry. Bernie rang the police and drove to the meeting place at Balmain Wharf, in Sydney’s inner west. Luckily, police were ready to pounce, and the man was charged with public mischief. By the time Bernie arrived home at 11 p.m., two of his children were asleep at the table next to his uncut birth day cake.

  A few weeks later, there was another copycat. A man requested Bernie meet him at a nearby shopping centre with the money. If he did not comply he would post him Kerry’s severed finger with her diamond ring. John Murat Hall, a 24-year-old from Haberfield in Sydney’s inner west, was arrested as Bernie made the approach to him. He was sentenced in Blacktown Court to six months periodic detention for demanding money with menaces.

  The most frightening attempt came soon after, and threatened the safety of his children. A man was seen around the Kurrajong shops asking questions about the location of the Whelans’ house and police were notified of his car registration details. The suspect, who had a police record and was dangerous, was on his way to Willow Park. Bernie was terrified and was forced to barricade his children in the bathroom while he sat on the porch with a rifle.

  Near Bungonia, the press lingered on even though the search of Hillydale was over. The Daily Telegraph and the Herald refused to leave, staking out Inverary Road, not far from the surveillance squad officers. At the media camp in Bungonia there were no toilets, no showers, no beds, shops or mobile phone coverage. Eventually, the Herald hired a Winnebago to house its photographer, Dean ‘Mad Dog’ Sewell and reporter, Nick Papadopoulos. The Telegraph team had to settle for tents, sleeping-bags and stuffed toy sheep from Goulburn’s Big Merino to use as pillows. They rarely left their post because they did not want to miss their mark.

  Burrell eventually emerged and they chased him up the road like rally car drivers trying to take pole position until he stopped suddenly, got out and ambled over to Telegraph photographer Grant Turner’s window. Behind them, Sewell had his finger on the shutter.

  ‘Why are you chasing me, mate?’ Burrell said.

  ‘It’s my job, Bruce,’ Turner said.

  Burrell smiled and went back to his car.

  On another occasion, Burrell drew up at the camp and asked how much longer they were going to be camped near his property.

  ‘Until they arrest you,’ reporter Stephen Gibbs told him.

  Burrell threw back his head, laughing, and put his foot on the accelerator. Gibbs’ abiding memory was that they were dealing with a very cool customer.

  The press gang by now resembled a team of vagabonds. Everyone was dirty, unshaven and tired from living on their wits. They had been in the bush for five weeks, sitting around a campfire, collecting wood, occasionally playing soccer and, less frequently, rushing madly when a car appeared, to chase it up the road. There were occasional interviews with a neighbour, all paid for in the local’s favourite currency: cases of beer. Sewell and his Telegraph counterpart, Grant Turner, had started wearing second-hand mechanics’ overalls they had purchased at Marulan’s café, Truck Stop 41. They bought meat from a roadside truck vendor and cooked it on a sharpened stick.

  The Herald eventually decided to replace its weary team at Bungonia and asked Kate McClymont to drive Greg Bearup down to the site. McClymont remembers catching sight of the Winnebago and a car parked on a dirt road. Smoke curled up from a clearing in front of the vehicles and four males sat staring into a small fire. At the sound of the car, photographer Dean Sewell stood up. He was dressed in filthy overalls and was holding a spear, fashioned from a tree branch, as if he was a native poised for the kill. On the end of the stick was something limp and heavy, like a body part. Bearup and McClymont drew closer, and saw that it was a piece of cooked meat. Sewell grinned at McClymont and she stared back. The scene reminded her of a cross between two movies, Apocalypse Now and Lord of the Flies. They had arrived not a moment too soon: the boys had gone feral.

  The following morning, on 11 June, a convoy of police motored past the Winnebago down Inverary Road; a second search was underway.

  14 LITTLE GEMS

  The large rusted sign at the gate between Burrell’s property and the Bungonia State Recreation Area bore an ominous warning: ‘This park contains deep holes and shafts with concealed entrances. Please take care.’

  Locals knew part of the area as Depre
ssion Village where, in the 1850s, and later in the 1930s, poor itinerants had carved out mineshafts—by hand—in the hope of striking it rich. They were resilient and literally dirt poor. From Goulburn they walked 22 kilometres, often through snow, on unsealed roads. Some would set up camp armed with a few pieces of equipment and a steely determination to find their fortune. It was tedious work, digging for gold. First they heated the hard quartz surface to soften it in preparation for the laborious task of excavating their way in with a pick. The risk of suffocation or cave-ins was high, and the below-zero temperatures in winter culled the weakest of them.

  This was hard country. Lives were cut short by the backbreaking work of digging the steep, narrow shafts and perhaps by the heartbreak of finding little of worth. By the end of the 1930s, the shafts numbered some three hundred. As the gold dwindled, so did the population and all that remained in 1997 were reminders of a once-thriving village: a crumbled chimney, a fireplace with utensils, plates and bottles, and rusted slews and other mining equipment scattered down on the dry creek bed.

  As Detective Inspector Bruce Couch surveyed the area, he knew it presented a considerable danger and challenge— but also an excellent hiding spot for a body. Burrell’s property, Hillydale, backed onto the Bungonia State Recreation Area, which measured about 3893 hectares, and was part of the 162 000-hectare Morton National Park. Heavily wooded in parts, with giant ironbarks and other gums, the area was not open to the general public, unless an application was approved by the ranger. Burrell held the key, which enabled him to have the vast expanse completely to himself—undisturbed. Rangers regularly saw Burrell walking through the area. Was it Burrell’s burial ground? After the search of Hillydale had turned up no clues, Howe directed that it be expanded to include the Bungonia State Recreation Area.

  ‘Now, team, the new search area is much bigger than the last,’ Couch told the assembled officers. ‘If you haven’t already read it in the press,’ he quipped, ‘we’re now searching for two bodies. Kerry Whelan and Dorothy Davis. Don’t be surprised if we find the two together. History has shown that where there’s one, there’ll be another.’