Burrell: ‘After there was a mix-up with the first cheque, she felt terribly bad about it. She said, “I only want ninety, that’s for you and your wife”.’
Carleton: ‘Would you concede that my account—that you got into Dottie Davis for a $500 000 loan—is more plausible?’
Burrell: ‘No, your story is not more plausible.’
Carleton: ‘Did you volunteer the information about the money to the police?’
Burrell: ‘Yes.’
Carleton knew this was untrue. He turned to Burrell’s unannounced trip to Willow Park three weeks before Mrs Whelan’s abduction.
If Burrell was surprised that Carleton knew, he kept a poker face: ‘I can assure you that between the date I spoke with Mrs Whelan in April and the date she apparently disappeared, I had absolutely no contact whatsoever of any description, by telephone, personally, by letter, nothing.’
Carleton: ‘Were you having an affair with Mrs Whelan?’
Burrell: ‘No, I was not. I had that put to me before and it’s just ridiculous.’
Carleton: ‘Did you feel uncomfortable alone in the house with a married woman?’
Burrell: ‘No, I mean, her son was there and the lady who looked after the horses was around as well, so there’s no reason to feel uncomfortable.’
Carleton: ‘Isn’t it true you schemed to see Mrs Whelan in her husband’s absence?’
Burrell: ‘Untrue.’
Carleton: ‘Do you think it’s strange that Mrs Whelan did not tell her husband that you called?’
‘I think it’s extremely strange,’ Burrell said, and paused. He looked confused. Carleton was baring his teeth again. ‘I’ve lost my train of thought,’ Burrell said, and called for his dog, Rebel.
Carleton: ‘What do you think Mr Whelan thinks of you now?’
Burrell: ‘I think unfortunately with the circumstances of everything that has occurred that his opinion of me at this point in time is not very high.’
Carleton: ‘Someone has got away with this?’
Burrell: ‘That is a major frustration from my point of view because whilst all the effort has been concentrated upon me, whoever has been responsible for this crime is out there laughing. I can assure you Richard, I’m not laughing.’
It was around midday. The crew wanted to have a break and get some footage of Burrell’s neighbours, the Coopers. In their car the Channel 9 crew followed Burrell over. In the Coopers’ kitchen Burrell donated some of his beer to Kevin. Burrell, an hour later, refreshed by a temperate two cans, had a wild story to relate for the Nine cameras, an utterly improbable tale.
Just last week, Bruce said, around nine o’clock one night, there was a knock on the side of his house and a voice calling out, saying it was ‘the police’. Burrell looked out into the blackness, he said, and saw the silhouettes of two people near the camellia bush. A voice said to him, ‘For reasons that will become obvious we will not be able to identify ourselves, but we are police!’ Then, according to Bruce, they said, ‘We believe you have been talking to the current affairs guys,’ and Bruce said, ‘Oh God, is nothing sacred to you guys? I know my phones are bugged,’ and they said, ‘If you were to consider not talking to 60 Minutes there’s a possibility the charges you are facing could be dropped.’ As the camera kept rolling Burrell’s face and neck flushed a bright beetroot red. Perhaps he realised how ludicrous the story sounded.
Richard Carleton was listening intently, and then interrupted Burrell’s narrative: ‘What you are saying is very, very serious, Mr Burrell. It is not plausible because the police,’ Carleton continued, ‘are in favour of us talking to you in the hope that you will say something they can trap you with. They want you on 60 Minutes.’ Carleton’s voice was gentle. ‘Did it happen?’
‘It definitely happened,’ Burrell said. The rosy blush had spread and was blooming on the top of his chest above his shirt.
Burrell looked relieved when the producer interrupted; the crew needed to get what the television industry calls ‘overlay’ footage, of Burrell the farmer with his dog, riding on the quad bike and talking on the two-way radio. Burrell relished the attention. Next to one of the outer buildings, he played woodsman for the camera. Barrett laughed to himself. For a man with a crook back, Burrell did a mighty job of splitting tree trunks.
The Burrell interview aired on Sunday 24 August and scored one of the highest ratings of any show that week. It sparked vigorous debate over his innocence or guilt on talkback radio the next morning. Dennis Bray ordered a search warrant for the 60 Minutes office and the footage was seized.
The same day as the 60 Minutes report, Sydney’s Sunday Telegraph ran a report about Barbie Rogers, a former TV game show hostess and model, becoming embroiled in Taskforce Bellaire’s investigations. Ms Rogers had purchased the Lurline Bay duplex from Bruce and Dallas Burrell in 1997 and, following that, bizarre things had happened at her home. Her burglar alarm was repeatedly triggered, but there was no sign of an intruder. Her car was stolen and found dumped months later in Liverpool; its contents, including her mobile phone, were almost intact, although covered in cobwebs. And then in July 1997 the police had knocked on Rogers’ door with a polite request to dig up an area of ground under her garage. They were looking for the body of Dorothy Davis.
On 1 November, police officially expanded Taskforce Bellaire into a double murder investigation, but the main suspect was yet to be charged.
20 FRAMED
Detective Dennis Bray’s dreams were haunted by the Kerry Whelan case. He was not the only one. Kerry’s friends and family dreamed of her in various states . . . alive and well, held hostage, or speaking from the grave. Bray’s visions, however, were more technical than colourful. His wife, Narelle, watched him wrestle in his sleep with the unsolved crime. As the months wound on, the pressure was on Bray and the taskforce to make an arrest. Good detective work had progressed the case to a point where they had a decent brief of evidence against Burrell; just a few details were missing . . . in particular, the bodies.
In the new year, Bray consulted with the New South Wales Department of Public Prosecutions to see if there was enough evidence to convict Burrell. The chief prosecutor, Mark Tedeschi, QC, would lead the case if it ever got to court and Bray kept him up to date with its complexities. Tedeschi believed the evidence so far was strong, particularly Burrell’s phone call from a Goulburn phone box, but he wanted something more. Tests of the ransom letter and envelope had revealed nothing. Robert Goetz, a forensic biologist at the Division of Analytical Laboratories in Sydney, had even tested the back of the stamp on the ransom letter envelope, in case somebody had licked it. No DNA evidence appeared to link Burrell with the crime and the large number of hairs vacuumed up from his vehicles were mostly animal. Either Burrell had gone to great lengths to clean up, or he was plain lucky. Goetz explained that DNA deposits were not as ubiquitous as television crime shows indicated. From thousands of stolen vehicles he had examined, only a tiny proportion harboured DNA. ‘There are some people that are good shedders of DNA, others are not,’ Goetz said. If the vehicles had been left outside for two weeks, that could also have destroyed any DNA.
The taskforce was speculating on how Burrell had subdued Kerry. He had bought the chloroform found at his house from the Surfside Pharmacy at Maroubra, near where Dallas and Bruce had lived in their ocean-front duplex. Pharmacist John Roper told police Bruce and Dallas were regulars at his chemist shop. Burrell’s request for the chloroform had startled the old chemist, but he issued it on the basis that Burrell was of ‘seemingly good character’. Pharmacists could still dispense chloroform without a prescription; it was sold pure and was a general anaesthetic with the potential to cause death. It was often used for industrial or agricultural purposes.
Roper could not remember the reason Burrell gave for needing the drug; possibly, it was to eradicate rabbits on his farm. When questioned, Burrell told police he bought the chloroform as a cleaning agent. ‘I don’t know why it’s empty actually, but it
was originally bought as a solvent,’ Burrell said. Burrell’s explanation for buying it was that his father-in-law, Les Bromley, had left a pair of trousers on the heater at their Hillydale home, which had burnt into the surface of the heater. ‘We used Jif and scourers and God knows what else and it wouldn’t come out and we were advised to use chloroform as a solvent,’ Burrell said.
As frustration grew within the taskforce, Commander Mick Howe, accompanied by Dennis Bray, decided to pay Burrell a visit at Hillydale. Bray found Burrell working in his backyard. Burrell initially thought Bray was on his own, and welcomed Dennis like an old mate. ‘G’day, Dennis, you fucking bastard. How are ya?’ His tone was very familiar and shocked Howe, who was behind Bray. ‘What you doing out here?’
‘I just want you to meet the boss,’ Bray said.
Burrell’s demeanor immediately changed when he realised Howe was with him.
‘This is Mick Howe,’ Bray said.
‘Oh.’ Burrell stood up straight. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’
Howe could not believe Burrell’s turnaround. In an instant, he had dropped the slang and adopted a formal, posh voice. He sounded very British, Howe thought.
‘To what do I owe this visit, Inspector?’
‘Well, Mr Burrell, you’ve indicated on 60 Minutes that you want to help this investigation, so get your hat and we’ll go back to Goulburn and have a chat.’
Bruce looked perplexed. ‘No, I’m not answering any questions, on legal advice . . . what do you want to ask me?’
‘I think you may find the questions very interesting, and possibly very difficult to answer,’ Howe told him.
‘See,’ Burrell said like a child, ‘there’s an inference there that you think I may know something about Dottie or Kerry that I haven’t told you.’ Burrell, insolent, added: ‘You yourself, Inspector, describe me not as a suspect but as a person of interest.’
Howe was riled. ‘Well, let’s just set the record straight, shall we, Mr Burrell. As far as I’m concerned, and I speak for all taskforce investigators, you are directly responsible in some way or another for the disappearance of Dorothy Davis and the kidnap and suspected murder of Kerry Whelan.’
Burrell stood at the gate and made no reply.
Howe was taken aback by Burrell’s reaction; he appeared neither distressed nor perturbed that he had been fingered for two murders. Howe continued. ‘I appreciate you are acting on the advice of your solicitor. I imagine that our next meeting will take place in the Coroner’s Court.’
‘What do you, mean? What Coroner’s Court?’ Burrell looked confused. He took a step closer to Howe.
‘At some stage or another, the disappearances of both Dorothy Davis and Kerry Whelan will be determined in the Coroner’s Court. I propose to call you as a witness in those proceedings.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘You didn’t think that by refusing to be interviewed we’d call the whole thing off and go away, did you?’
Burrell stood mute as the detectives left . Howe prayed the case would make it to the Supreme Court, long before the need for an inquest.
The taskforce—which had been reduced to six investigators and moved to new headquarters in inner-city Strawberry Hills—needed hard evidence and a strong brief for the DPP. The taskforce believed that Burrell’s original plan had been to kidnap Kerry when he visited her at Kurrajong on 16 April. He had designed the ransom note for that day—instead of losing a day by posting it, Burrell would have left it on the table after he had bundled Kerry into the boot of his car. Had his 16 April plan succeeded, Bernie would have discovered the note on the kitchen table and would have taken heed of the warning that ‘at no time are the police to be brought in’. ‘Had you done so,’ Bray informed Bernie, ‘you would have been killed when you delivered the money. Two people would have just vanished off the face of the earth.’
Bernie took a while to digest the revelation. He was preparing for the anniversary of Kerry’s death and did not know how to mark it. With no body to bury there was no ending for the case. The Whelans were in a kind of limbo. Bernie considered holding a memorial service on 6 May, but the police warned him that it could turn into a media circus. The Whelans had become household names.
Matthew despised the attention. ‘I hate being famous because my mum’s missing,’ he confided to his Uncle Brett. James did not like it much either, but he was able to use it to his advantage. One afternoon when Marge picked him up from school, she noticed the other children were paying James plenty of attention. When James hopped in the car he said, ‘Ever since I’ve been famous I’ve been popular.’ Marge smiled. Kerry would have loved that.
Bernie was proud of how his children had handled the tragedy. They had to endure a bodyguard accompanying them everywhere. They had to watch their father put on a bulletproof vest each morning before work, and each month the family leased a new car, to ensure their security. A further operation lay ahead for Sarah, but she remained strong for her younger brothers, although privately, she was suffering. The teenager had forgotten what her mother looked like. Her mind went blank whenever she tried to think of Kerry, and she had to look at photos to remind herself.
Family life became more strained when a woman entered Bernie’s life. His friends had tried to set him up with a number of women, but he gently rejected their offers. He preferred to be in control, and decided to telephone an old friend who had sent him a sympathy card. Debra Johnson had first met Kerry and Bernie while they were holidaying at Port Macquarie in 1993. Bernie employed Debra’s husband to landscape the garden. Kerry and Debra were around the same age and they developed a casual friendship. They had lost touch due to Debra’s divorce and move to the New South Wales central coast with her two children. Debra was petite, blonde and had a vibrant personality, the perfect antidote for Bernie’s sorrow.
In December 1997, Bernie took Debra to Fiji for a holiday but did not tell Marge Minton-Taylor, who was now the Whelans’ full-time housekeeper. When Bernie called Marge to report that ‘our luggage has been stolen’, she thought he was suffering a mental breakdown, or amnesia. ‘The poor man, he thinks Kerry is with him. He’ll get an awful shock,’ Marge told Amanda. They laughed about it later.
Bernie had attracted a bit of attention at Sydney airport before he and Debra flew out. An airport worker, Russell Smith, called Crime Stoppers and reported, ‘I’ve just seen Bernie Whelan leaving the country with a young woman and both appeared to be very friendly. I thought it would be of some interest.’
Bernie had informed the taskforce about the trip before he left, but Mick Howe called him anyway, just to stir him up. ‘Who’s the blonde sheila you’re with in Fiji?’ Howe said.
‘How the bloody hell do you know she’s blonde?’ Bernie was shocked.
‘Because everyone’s telling me you’re the murderer now,’ Howe told him.
Debra and Bernie began to spend more time together. For the Whelan children it was hard. Nobody could replace their mother. Debra did not try to, but the children did not want to give up hope that Mum might walk through the door. One day.
Kerry’s father, Leo Ryan, who was suffering from cancer, found it hard too. When Bernie invited him to dinner, he left heartbroken at seeing another woman where his daughter should have been.
Bernie tried to defend his new relationship. ‘In these six months I’ve lived six years,’ he said. He also knew that Kerry would have approved. She had always said, ‘Bernie needs a woman. He’s just that sort of guy.’
Kerry’s brother, Brett Ryan, was dealing with his own demons. He knew his sister was dead, but he found himself constantly looking for Kerry in crowded shopping centres or at sporting events.
Amanda Minton-Taylor still felt immense guilt for letting Burrell into the property on 16 April. She was chain-smoking and surviving on sleeping pills. In a bid for answers, Amanda consulted a clairvoyant. The woman sat in the Land Rover that Kerry had driven to the Parkroyal Hotel. Holding the keys in her hand, the clairvoyan
t told Amanda that Kerry’s body was buried 132 kilometres from Parramatta. Amanda checked and found that Bungonia was roughly that distance.
Kerry’s close friend Michelle Douglass, who knew little about the area police were searching, was being visited by a strange, recurring dream. In it, Kerry was ‘buried in a mineshaft in a clearing with twiggy trees . . . She was banging on the wall, alive,’ Douglass said. ‘It was built into the side of a slope, on the outside of the mineshaft at a clearing in the wood. People were walking over it all the time. Kerry was dug into the side of a little slopey road, shoes discarded on the floor, clamouring at the walls. “Help, help,” she was yelling.’
For Dennis Bray, his nightly visions were less emotive. He was dreaming in black and white. In the early hours of 21 May, the restless detective’s mind turned to the CCTV cameras at the Parkroyal Hotel, and he sat up with a start. ‘The security cameras,’ he said out loud.
The investigators had been focused on the grainy images of Kerry emerging from the hotel car park, but nobody had bothered to look closely at the footage from the other six closed circuit security cameras and, in particular, the images reflected on the glass doors. Had the cameras captured Burrell in the vicinity of the Parkroyal Hotel? Perhaps there was evidence of Kerry’s encounter with him. Morning could not come soon enough for Bray, who arrived at work tired but hopeful.
A team called Strikeforce Bangara had recently begun investigating a spate of armed robberies in Penrith. Bangara had new technology for studying security film, which enabled Bray to move slowly through the CCTV footage frame by frame. For the next twelve hours, with the light off, Bray stared at a screen. Over and over again, the detective paused and rewound the video cassettes taken from the seven cameras. It was painstaking work. The small, monochrome images were of poor quality and fraught with the movement of people hurrying by.
Then Bray saw it: a two-door Pajero pulling into the front of the Parkroyal at 9.01 a.m. on 6 May 1997. It was the same car seized from Burrell’s property, he was sure of it. The taskforce had assumed Burrell had driven his Jaguar to meet Kerry, and for months, had been looking for proof. But here was another of Burrell’s vehicles, captured by hotel security’s camera number 6, which was located in the lobby and focused on Phillip Street. Large cement columns and bushes blocked part of the view of the vehicle but Bray could clearly make out the rear section of a two-door Pajero. Thirty-two seconds later the vehicle moved forward, although its view again was obscured. But Bray kept rewinding until he saw the Pajero appear again at 9.38 just as another camera captured Kerry Whelan walking out of the hotel car park. Forty-five seconds later (at 9.38.45 a.m.), the camera had captured the vehicle pulling away from the hotel. Incredibly, these final two images had been picked up as reflections in a glass door.
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