Ladykiller

by Candace Sutton

  Burrell had admitted to making a phone call on 23 May 1997, at the same time the kidnapper used the phone to call Mr Whelan’s office. That alone, Dennis Bray believed, was enough to put him behind bars. And there was the security camera footage of Burrell’s vehicle at the Parkroyal Hotel. Justice Sully had permitted the evidence relating to Crown’s secretary, Mrs Kathleen Pemberton, who identified Burrell’s voice as the kidnapper who called Whelan’s office on 23 May.

  After Sully adjourned the court, Dalton called on the director of the Department of Public Prosecutions, Nicholas Cowdery, to dismiss or ‘no bill’ the charges due to ‘insufficient evidence’. Cowdery read Dalton’s submission and consulted Barry Newport, who confided that he believed there was no reasonable prospect of conviction on the admissible evidence. Other senior counsel within the DPP strongly disagreed, but could not convince the prosecutor otherwise. On 17 April Cowdery quietly informed the parties he was dropping the charges.

  The taskforce was shattered. Newport took Bernie Whelan into his office to inform him. Before he could get the words out, Bernie butted in, ‘You’re here to tell me you’re not going to proceed.’

  Bernie went home in a daze. He sat at his kitchen table and poured himself a whisky. It was three o’clock. The children would be home from school soon. How could he tell them?

  Bruce Burrell was triumphant as he packed up his belongings in his cell. At 8.05 p.m. on 17 April 2001, he strode out into the night air, once again a free man. Two days later, on 19 April, Sydney’s Daily Telegraph broke the story. Its front page trumpeted: ‘Free to Go—Bruce Burrell released after evidence is dismissed’. Burrell was photographed outside his sister’s house unloading a carton from the boot of his car. The logo on the box read ‘Victoria Bitter’.

  Nicholas Cowdery had said that fresh charges could be laid only if additional evidence became available, but Dennis Bray refused to be beaten. He was renowned for his doggedness in an investigation. From his late teens, he had wanted to be a policeman, but his parents put the kibosh on that career when two officers were shot while attending a domestic dispute in suburban Sydney. They did not want their son suffering the same fate. So Bray reluctantly entered the sedate world of banking. His parents did not know, but their son would be armed with a long-nosed .38 pistol to protect him against bandits in the wild western Sydney suburb of Blacktown. Each week Bray, who worked at the Rural Bank, collected a bag full of cash from the post office, 200 metres away. With a gun and a leather bag full of cash he would traipse back to the bank, keeping an eye over his shoulder.

  Despite the weekly excitement, Bray was bored, and in 1974 he decided he could make his own decisions and enrolled at the Police Academy. For the first eight years Bray worked on the toughest patrol in the state—Mount Druitt and Blacktown—at a time when there were no such things as domestic violence orders (AVOs), or portable radios. Bray moved into plain-clothes as a detective in 1982 and worked in the armed hold-up, drug and later homicide squads and gained a strong reputation for his persistence and single-mindedness, attributes which would become imperative to the Whelan matter.

  After the kidnap and murder charges against him were dropped, Burrell made an audacious announcement—via a press release—that he would sue the DPP for ‘malicious prosecution’. In his statement, Burrell said he wanted compensation for the ‘extraordinary damage this prosecution has caused to both myself and my family’. Burrell accused the police of a ‘complete failure to properly and efficiently investigate’ the crime.

  Bray was peeved and slightly amused. Burrell’s statement would only cement the detective’s resolve that the case was far from over.

  Six months later, on 12 October 2001, State Coroner John Abernethy announced an inquest into the disappearances of Kerry Whelan and Dorothy Davis. Bruce Burrell would be the principal witness called to give evidence.

  30 THE

  INQUISITION

  Glebe Coroner’s Court is an inconspicuous cement building on Sydney’s busy Parramatta Road. Most people are unaware of its location, except those unfortunately drawn there to find out how and why their relative or friend died, often violently.

  Unlike in a trial where the judge or jury must decide a person’s guilt, a coronial inquest is an investigative process to shed light on the cause and circumstances of a death. Families see it as an opportunity for answers, some use it to ensure their loved one’s death was not in vain, and others want the coroner to direct the case to the Department of Public Prosecutions for charges to be laid.

  Each year at Glebe, some 2000 ‘unnatural or suspicious deaths’ are investigated. Many are routine enquiries, such as a cot death or a fatal fall during a home renovation. These are dispensed with by the coroner through a written notation. Approximately seven per cent—around 140 a year—are more complicated and require a hearing. They include incidents such as a five-year-old girl who died of meningococcal disease after being turned away from a hospital, or a workplace accident that left an apprentice dead, or a death resulting from a police pursuit gone wrong. For the New South Wales State Coroner, John Abernethy, the cases of missing people and unsolved murders are the ones that he finds the most fascinating.

  A sturdy, stocky man with a bushy brown-and-grey-flecked beard, Abernethy looks like someone’s grandfather. He can be gruff , and sometimes short tempered, a legacy of his career listening to the worst transgressions of humankind. Abernethy heard his first stories as a seventeen-year-old clerk at Sydney’s Metropolitan Children’s Court, in inner-city Surry Hills. He rose to the position of magistrate in 1984, but his goal was to be a coroner, a role in which he believed he could make a difference. It would enable him to consider how and why people died, and to make changes to the system to prevent deaths in the future.

  In 1994 Abernethy was appointed as the deputy State Coroner. He was made the State Coroner in 2000. Fifty-something and fond of cardigans, Mr Abernethy possesses none of the lofty air of some judges. But he commands respect in his courtroom. When he knows a witness is lying or avoiding the question, he tells them so. His remarks to witnesses can be scathing.

  A few months before the inquest into the deaths of Kerry Whelan and Dorothy Davis in May 2002, Mr Abernethy held an inquest into three young Newcastle women who disappeared without a trace in the 1970s. He lashed out at the police’s handling of the original investigation, telling the chief detective he found it extraordinary that records were not kept, statements were never taken and that the investigation was shut down within a year of the disappearances. ‘Could I suggest that no one, neither you nor anybody else, did that analysis and these cases just slipped through the cracks?’ Abernethy said. The disappearances of Leanne Goodall, twenty, Robyn Hickie, eighteen, and Amanda Robinson, fourteen, were among the many cases not properly investigated in New South Wales. Another case was that of Dottie Davis.

  Abernethy’s words could soothe as much as they could sting. He showed deep compassion for the families of victims. Police and victims of crime groups saw him as a crusader for families who were seeking the truth. And the truth was something Bruce Burrell was not going to like.

  On the morning of Monday 27 May 2002, Glebe Coroner’s Court was unusually busy. Today’s inquest would be a joint hearing into the cases of Kerry Whelan and Dorothy Davis. The families of the two women mingled in the foyer. Camera crews and photographers crowded the footpath waiting for the chief witness, inhaling soot and petrol fumes from the passing traffic which thundered down Sydney’s major road artery.

  At 9.45 a.m., a cameraman caught sight of a figure lumbering towards them. It was unmistakably Burrell, tailed by two women. Sunglasses on, Burrell and his sisters, Tonia Pai and Debbie Esposito, strode up the ramp and went inside. Burrell was wearing a white shirt and a brown diamond-patterned tie. He stood with his barrister, Murugan Thangaraj, in a corner, close to the courtroom’s entrance. Burrell kept his sunglasses firmly affixed, even while speaking to his lawyer.

  The Whelans made a nervous group; Dotti
e’s relatives were beside them, bonded by a tragedy no one else fully understood.

  Dennis Bray, who had been promoted to chief inspector in 2000, had become the confidante of both families. When the taskforce was disbanded in 1998, Bray and Detective Sergeant Nigel Warren continued to work on the case while juggling their normal police duties. Commander Mick Howe had been transferred to the Blue Mountains patrol.

  Bray saw this inquest as his last chance to nail Burrell. He hoped the joint inquest would attract media attention and above all he hoped it would force the DPP to finally act. Nicholas Cowdery had said that fresh charges could be laid only if additional evidence became available.

  Bray believed it was important for the public to know why police had pursued this man for so long. All the evidence that had been thrown out by Justice Sully was about to be aired. There were no restrictions on the coroner. He would use his broad powers of examination with dramatic effect. In the years since Burrell had been released Bray had persisted in compiling an even stronger brief.

  What Burrell didn’t know was that Bray had dug up fresh evidence.

  31 A PREDATOR

  OF WOMEN

  Kerry and Dorothy beamed down from the walls of Glebe Coroner’s Court. Their faces looked happy and alive, carefree in the coroner’s domain. As the Whelan and Davis families entered court one, they were stunned by the giant projected photographs. Dottie Davis’s daughter Maree Dawes started to weep, remembering how she had taken that photo of Dottie at a family birthday celebration, just weeks before her mother vanished.

  The Whelan party sat in the middle row: Bernie and Debra, who he had married in 1999 and the three children; Kerry’s brother, Brett Ryan; and Crown Equipment’s lawyer, Joe Scarcella. Maree and her brother, Lessel Davis, sat behind them. Burrell and his two sisters, Tonia and Debbie, entered and took the first seats they saw, in the back right-hand corner, close to the exit.

  Counsel assisting, Mark Hobart, stood at the bar table. He was tall with a red face and a shock of wavy white hair.

  Abernethy entered and took his seat at the bench. He explained to the court it was a joint inquest, with the evidence of Mrs Davis running for the first week, followed by Mrs Whelan’s matter.

  Maree Dawes was to be the first witness. She was nervous. It was her first time in a witness box—her first time in a courtroom actually. Mark Hobart was gentle and slowly he drew from her a portrait of Dorothy Ellen Davis. She was a kind grandmother, a hard community worker, an astute businesswoman, and a loyal friend. A widow, she was generous with her money. ‘Dottie was a soft touch for a good story,’ Mrs Dawes told the courtroom. ‘She was a very generous lady and you know, a sad tale, and she was always saying, “Well okay, how much do you need?” And it wasn’t uncommon for her to lend people money. She loaned money to family members and friends, some of which she got back, some of which she didn’t. It didn’t seem to stop her doing it.’

  Mrs Dawes said her mother had told her she lent Burrell money for a deposit on a house. Maree later found in her mother’s house two cheque butts, one for $500 000 and one for $100 000. The payee on each of them was ‘B.A. Burrell’. A bank statement showed that the $500 000 cheque had been cancelled due to insufficient funds in Dottie’s account. The second had been honoured.

  But Burrell had given Maree a totally different version of events. He told Maree her mother gave him a $90 000 cheque to deposit in a separate account for her because she did not want her children to find out. Burrell said Dottie gave him $10 000 for his trouble.

  Maree told the court she was ‘gobsmacked’ by Burrell’s explanation. ‘I mean, how bizarre. My mother could have gone to any bank and drawn out any money she wanted, questioned by nobody. Why would she go through such a farcical procedure? And why would she need $90 000 in cash? I’m thinking, Dottie has told me that she’s given this man a loan, yet this man is telling me this codswallop of a story.’ Maree said her mother was a smart businesswoman who would never have made this arrangement.

  ‘I tried to bait him,’ Maree said. ‘You have got to remember my mother had just disappeared without a trace. This man is telling this nonsensical story and I am trying to compute it all.’

  She said her mother’s last known words were to the builder—‘I’m off to see a sick friend.’

  When Hobart asked Maree who her mother could possibly have been referring to, Maree said loudly: ‘She was going to Burrell’s—unquestionably.’

  The next witness was Dallas Bromley, Burrell’s second wife. She was physically slight, but with her flame-red hair she stood out in a crowd. She looked almost anorexic and she wore spectacles that were two-to-three sizes too large for her narrow face.

  She had reverted back to her maiden name of Bromley and said she did not know much of what her former husband did during their marriage, because he did not like to be questioned. She was unaware that he would visit ‘Auntie Dot’ for cups of tea. She was unaware that the two vehicles her ex-husband was driving were stolen. Dallas did know, however, that Mrs Davis had asked Mr Burrell to do her a favour and deposit a large cheque into an account for her, because Dottie did not want her children to find out. Ms Bromley said she was surprised at this financial arrangement but did not challenge her husband.

  Coroner Abernethy interjected, ‘Ms Bromley, you knew Dot very well, all your life. Didn’t you think it was strange she would enter into a transaction such as that with your husband?’

  ‘I didn’t think he knew her as well as I have since been told he did,’ Dallas replied. ‘I was unaware there had been meetings. I was unaware he had gone around and had coffee with her on various occasions. I knew nothing about it, Bruce never told me a lot.’

  Later in their marriage, she said, he had become verbally abusive if she questioned him about his personal affairs. ‘He was a control freak,’ she said. He would fly off the handle at the smallest thing. Even simple questions like ‘how was your day?’ could make him explode. Dallas told the court she had dubbed his mercurial personality changes ‘wheelie bin moods’. She did not elaborate further.

  Since Dennis Bray’s interrogation of him on 15 June 1997, Burrell had learned his lesson: say nothing. Burrell’s barrister, Murugan Thangaraj, told Coroner Abernethy he had advised Burrell he was not obliged to answer any question he believed might incriminate him. ‘The prima facie position ideally of course, Your Honour, is for a person of interest not to have to give evidence,’ Thangaraj said. ‘I understand such an application would be refused, but if there is anything I believe might incriminate him, I will certainly take objection.’

  Despite Thangaraj’s objection, Burrell had no choice. He was compelled under the Coroner’s Act to take the stand. Accordingly, he walked across the court and took his place in the witness box. He looked angry. He declined to swear on the Bible and took a legal affirmation instead. He sat down, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and peered over a pair of half-moon glasses at Hobart.

  Hobart began slowly, his questions almost banal as he asked Burrell about his marriage to Dallas, the properties he owned, and his unstable work situation. Burrell was forthcoming, until Hobart turned to the vehicles Burrell claimed he had acquired from a man named ‘Tony’ at a pub. Burrell denied stealing the Pajero and the Jaguar.

  ‘See, what I suggest to you, sir,’ Hobart said, ‘is that in relation to both the Pajero and the Jaguar, you brazenly used the same modus operandi to steal them, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s not correct.’

  The coroner interrupted: ‘So it’s a coincidence that the two vehicles on your property are stolen and the modus operandi just happens to be the same?’

  Burrell put on a wide-eyed look. ‘Yes,’ he answered.

  ‘Right down to the Queen Victoria Building?’ Abernethy said.

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly right.’

  Hobart began to apply pressure. He suggested Burrell wanted to buy a waterfront unit in June 1994 and needed finance, a loan, to do it.

  Burrell denied it. />
  ‘Do you know a person by the name of Jennette Harvey?’

  Suddenly Burrell looked uncomfortable.

  The coroner interjected: ‘I’m going to caution the witness now. You don’t have to answer any question if you believe that the answer you give may incriminate you.’

  Burrell grabbed at Abernethy’s words. ‘Well, on my legal advice I won’t answer that question,’ he said.

  Hobart continued, unrelenting. ‘You asked her to invest $250 000 in a diamond fund, didn’t you?’

  Burrell’s face flushed a bright red. He wrote rapidly in his notebook, seemingly desperate to avoid eye contact with Hobart.

  As if choreographed, the observers in the court simultaneously leant forward, eager to hear Burrell’s explanation. But Burrell kept writing in his black folder.

  Burrell’s lawyer could see his client’s unease, and stood to address the coroner. ‘Your Worship, there’s authority that’s clear about this, the phrase being “tedious cross-examination”,’ Thangaraj said.

  Abernethy dismissed the objection because, he said, there was a specific purpose to the questioning. ‘Go on, Mr Hobart,’ he encouraged.

  Before Hobart could say another word Burrell’s lawyer immediately stood up to object. But Hobart was undeterred and, after a dramatic pause, said, ‘I’d like you to have a look at something on the screen here—thank you, sir?’

  Dennis Bray walked to a television and inserted a video cassette into the recorder. He picked up the remote control and pressed ‘Play’. The face of an elderly woman filled the screen. The woman had wispy brown hair, deep wrinkles and her lips were slicked a bright red. Her hands were in her lap, shaking. She looked unwell. She was sitting in a plain police interview room at Townsville police station in far-north Queensland. The old lady was clearly uncomfortable.