Not long after Gloria left, we were introduced to another woman in Ces’s life, Margaret Barnett.
Apart from gaining another dog to add to his collection, Ces encouraged Margaret to take control of her life and get a divorce. After an operation to improve her health, Ces persuaded her to dye her hair blonde and put flesh on her skinny limbs. Over the ensuing months Margaret regained vigour and confidence, and became an attractive and happy woman.
30 The Murder of Allen Hall
I didn’t do it.
0 J Simpson
Wednesday, 29 June 1988, was a sunny cool winter’s day. Dean and I drove my boys, Damon Cooper, and Guy and Shaun Mathews to Sydney’s Parklea Prison to take part in an exhibition match for the inmates. Meanwhile, Christine and Allen stopped 70 metres from my front gate and nailed a sign on a telegraph pole, reading:
PIMP
Unaware of this I watched Guy and Troy spar with a former boxing gold medallist who’d been involved in the Milperra Bikie Massacre, and Dean fought a heavyweight near the end of his sentence who I considered coaching on his release, but he was to shoot two police and go back inside again. When the applause died, I thanked the prisoners for their support, told them I’d always feel part of their crowd, and invited potential boxers home to train. Officials took us round, we met other inmates and sat down to lunch on a Corrective Services table. I near choked with guilt. I wanted to pick up my plate and sit with the prisoners; I would’ve been more comfortable among equals.
Dean drove to his home to Wyong, intending to call on us for dinner and keep company with his friends who were staying the night. The rest of us got back to Kulnura at dusk and, tired, chose to spend a quiet night watching TV.
That bright moonlit night, a car crawled along and stopped, engine running, on our perimeter. Allen started to creep across a paddock while Christine stood lookout. They were there to ‘check on some horses’. Christine glimpsed me in my beanie at the kitchen window just as a car approached, and yelled to Allen. They zoomed off to Warnervale. But I never saw Allen or the sign, which police never found. Perhaps a neighbour removed it. If they wanted to be left alone, why provoke me? Was Allen armed, hoping for a shot at me as I prepared dinner and presented an illuminated target?
Thank goodness Dean arrived when he did, if his was the car Christine sighted. He and I re-viewed videos of his fight with Dave Russell to talk strategies missing at the exhibition bout that day. Damon was with us awhile, then left early. Shaun and Guy Mathews and Troy watched TV in another room. Guy was in his room with Sharon. At nearly 11 pm Dean yelled goodbye to all and drove home. It was lights out soon after.
At about 9.30 pm Allen and Christine were watching Clint Eastwood in Tightrope at home in Warnervale and Allen’s dogs started barking. Allen took his torch and investigated, coming back in unsure what had caused the commotion. When barking broke again 15 minutes later, he quietened them down. At 10.25 the dogs started up again and Allen, nervous there were intruders on his isolated property, went out again and cracked a whip to simulate gunfire.
About a minute later, Christine’s guts churned when three loud blasts, shotgun fire, came from the front of the house. She waited in fear a few moments, then went out to find Allen’s body face-up in the driveway, neck and chest covered in what looked like tomato sauce. She called his name—perhaps it was some kind of joke? But there was no pulse—he was dead. All was silent. A strong smell of cordite lingered in the crisp winter’s air. About two minutes later horses and dogs became skittish. An intruder she couldn’t hear was making a getaway—then a car drove off fast. Christine did a strange thing then. She unbuckled the watch on Allen’s limp wrist. She’d bought it for him that day and it had sentimental value.
She rang the police and told them she suspected I was the killer. The police knew they could reach my home before I could if I was fleeing the scene, so they called out police living nearby to put road blocks at both ends of Springs Road. No-one could leave or enter my place undetected.
Around 11.20 my phone woke me. An unfamiliar voice identified himself as an announcer from a local radio station. Was, he asked, everything all right? They’d heard there had been a murder ‘at Kulnura’. Not, I told him, at my place. The call had disturbed me, so I made a cup of tea, watched TV from my bed and dozed off. I woke at 2 am, restless and irritated by TV noise. I turned it off and decided to make more tea.
As I was fiddling about in the kitchen, my mind wandered back to my years as a rogue in Manchester and some of the pranks I’d enjoyed, the raids on the warehouses and goods yards, my revenge on the pawnbroker, and of course the jewellery heist. I laughed to myself how, back then, I was always in trouble with the police. It seemed like only yesterday.
I didn’t know it then, but about 30 police had gathered outside. When the go-ahead came through, bolt cutters snapped the chain on my front gate. Vehicles bumped down my driveway and stopped outside the house, headlights blazing straight through the kitchen window. Most of the dogs were caged at night. Startled and confused, they, began making a terrible din.
I froze with the cup midway to my lips. A chill swept through me. What was going on? Were these night visitors friend or foe? Car doors slammed and someone banged on the front door. When I opened it I was confronted by a detective waving a piece of paper, declaring he had a search warrant. He told me that Allen Hall had been shot dead and they were looking for weapons. I felt no emotion for what had happened, not even surprise; I knew Allen had a lot of enemies on the Central Coast. I said the police could go ahead and search; I had nothing to hide.
Police came in the house and gathered in the kitchen. One of my dogs, who was about to have pups, had messed on the floor in various places. The police began slipping and sliding in it. One went down the corridor and squelched in more dog manure. Another went into the bathroom and ended up getting it on the soles of his shoes too. They were disgusted, but it secretly pleased me no end.
The police were amazed to find so many people in the house. Plenty of witnesses to work on. They spent some time flashing torches around the property, looking for guns and clues. They checked my car’s engine: stone cold.
The phone rang. A policeman on the line wanted to speak to the detective in charge. I gave the phone to the detective who had a short conversation, then asked me if I owned a horse box. I told him where it was. I decided to follow them outside, but the detective put his hand out to stop me and said they could find the horse box themselves. I told them firmly I was going with them, concerned someone had planted a gun in the horse box or the police were planning to plant it themselves. Fortunately they confirmed the box was empty.
After their search of my premises proved fruitless, the police asked me to accompany them to the station. I refused, knowing they didn’t have a warrant for my arrest. Then they asked the two Guys, Troy, Shaun and Sharon to come down to the station for a chat. I pleaded with them not to go. The police tried to reason with them: `Look, you’re old enough to look after yourself and we’ll only keep you a short while.’ I warned the boys they’d be detained for ages. My sons said they had nothing to fear. I replied that they had everything to fear with these people, ‘Don’t go!’ Of course they didn’t believe me because they were innocent of the manipulative way the law sometimes works. My boys were kept at the station for four to five hours.
The following day, a convoy of police vehicles arrived at my place, mostly from the scientific squad. About 60 police swarmed over my property, searching every nook and cranny. Divers scoured the dam in case I’d been stupid enough to throw the murder weapon in there. Of course all their efforts proved fruitless.
Within a couple of days, the post mortem confirmed that there’d been two assailants: three shots from a .22 automatic pistol or rifle, one grazing Allen Hall, and three shots from a shotgun, causing fatal injuries. Police suspected Dean might have been involved; after all, he drove home that night. They searched Dean’s home, and were excited to find a pair of size 12 Adidas shoes
which matched a footprint found at the murder scene. They took the jumper Dean had been wearing on the night of the murder so their forensic team could go over it with a fine-tooth comb.
Indeed, if Dean had gone home through the Yarramalong Valley, it would have taken him right past the road that lead to Allen Hall’s property—although, according to my calculations, Dean would have been going past some time after 11 o’clock. Dean claimed he didn’t go through the valley. He took another route, via Sommersby, because at that time of night, he could get much clearer reception on his Citizen Band radio.
The murder made headlines and suddenly my sons and I were plunged into the thick of scandal and rumour, innuendo and suspicion, fuelled by Christine’s public accusations. Christine was saying I had forced her into prostitution, had physically abused her and threatened both her and Allen’s life. She was convinced I had masterminded the murder.
The weekend after the murder, Margaret came up as usual to feed her dog. She said with dry humour, ‘Have you got any more surprises for me?’ I instantly thought back to my life in England and the many villainous occasions I hadn’t told her about. It didn’t seem the right time to mention them, so I passed off her comment with a shrug.
As weeks passed, the only evidence the police had been able to get was the match of the sandshoe footprint at the murder site and Dean’s footwear. But it also matched Guy’s as well as hundreds of other Central Coast men who wore size 12 Adidas. It wouldn’t stick in court. The forensic team had been frustrated in their efforts to find any other evidence on the footwear or jumper, because both had been recently washed. Dean was the number one suspect because he’d been driving from my place to Berkley Vale about the time of the murder.
There were other circumstantial factors too. Dean had been seeing a lot of Kelly’s brother and they’d been going around together socially. Kelly’s brother reported virtually every conversation he’d had with Dean. He reported Dean had shown him a shotgun which resembled the one on display at the police station.
I’m sure Christine suffered greatly from her loss. Her hatred of me intensified so much she turned to the media with sensational claims. Jennifer Byrne from 60 Minutes, along with her director, Warren Max Stoker, took up Christine’s story and rang me for an interview. They said they wanted to discuss how I felt when the police came and searched my premises, question me about Allen Hall’s murder, make public my side of the story. On the basis of that, I decided it would be a good idea to set the record straight. Little did I realise how devious Jennifer and her team could be.
When the 60 Minutes crew arrived, I took them down to the back of our property near the boxing ring. Camera rolling, Jennifer asked me directly if I’d ever hit Christine. Remembering the incident when Christine threw Dean’s TV set on the floor, I was honest enough to say yes, then went on to explain why. During editing they cut my reason, so it came across as very one-sided. Needless to say, it turned into a very unpleasant interview. Jennifer accused me of threatening Allen Hall on a number of occasions, then produced the two letters I’d written, one unsigned to Allen and the other signed ‘Concerned’ to the police. She was hoping that I’d deny knowledge of them and I did, because I was so furious about the devious and dishonest way she’d set me up in the interview. Then Jennifer played her ace: police writing experts had proven I’d penned them. I realised with mounting dread how incriminating this sounded when she read out the letters. Jennifer also announced that Christine had accused me of knowing about her prostitution for 12 years. Worse, Christine alleged I made her do it. I was shocked that this misleading information should become public because I knew it would hurt my sons.
The 60 Minutes program featured Christine making these claims. She’d been one of the most respected mothers on the Coast before she blackened her name and brought embarrassment on my boys. She laid herself wide open to the ATO because all her earnings were taxable. And we’re talking about $1/2 million!
When the program went to air it had been edited in such a way that even I thought I was guilty. There was no way in the world you could think otherwise. It was criminally wrong the way they lied themselves onto my property. Their manipulations were so obvious I received a letter from a Woy Woy solicitor saying that he’d like me to bring defamation charges against 60 Minutes/Channel Nine because he felt I’d a wonderful chance of winning I would have taken him up if I had the money. After 60 Minutes went to air, my shocked sons believed Christine’s allegations and their attitude to me changed dramatically. Besides shattering her own image in the eyes of the public as the mother of the boys, she destroyed a lot of the feeling and trust my sons had towards me.
It became widely rumoured that I’d known for years that Christine was a prostitute and that I must have been pimping for her, living off her prostitution. Untrue: I only found out about her prostitution through the private investigator a short time before she left.
The program caused a tremendous stir on the Central Coast. Kelly was promptly dismissed from her job. I was arrested by State police and driven to Wyong Police Station. When Dean came to visit me, he was arrested too. We were both charged with conspiracy. Dean was placed in a cell next to mine; he seemed calm and controlled. I reassured Dean he’d get bail the next day and asked him to take care of the animals in my absence. We spent that night and the next day behind bars at the station.
Later that day a special court session was set up inside the station, where they read out my previous criminal convictions. These had arrived in an exceedingly long fax from the UK. While my criminal record was being aired, I could hear reporters standing at the back going `Oooh’ and `Aaah’ in surprise, even shock, because of the clean-living reputation I’d achieved since coming to Australia. I was remanded in custody and Dean was given bail of $50,000 because he had no previous convictions at that stage. This surety was paid by John Haag, a boxing manager.
The following day I was driven to East Maitland Prison, west of Newcastle. The one-hour journey was a bottom-thumping experience on a hard wooden platform in the back of a paddy wagon. The driver did everything to make me feel uncomfortable. He turned every corner on two wheels and went over every bump. I knew what his game was. By the time we reached the prison, one of the first things he said to me was, ‘Rough ride, wasn’t it?’ I replied, ‘No, I’ve had worse, but I do think you need driving instructions!’ He didn’t like that.
An inmate gave me an electric kettle, tea and sugar. Another lent me a small TV set. The prisoners and warders alike respected me, and it embarrassed me that my treatment should be better than others, something I never got in the UK. But I refused to share a cell; I didn’t want to listen to others’ troubles or endure their snores, and wanted to be alone. In the UK cells always contained one or three, and I found it strange Australian prisons allowed twos—threes make homosexual encounters awkward and unlikely. On my cell wall:
DON’T USE THE SAME NEEDLE TWICE
ALWAYS USE CONDOMS
Inside I met Bradley Scott Morgan, who said we had something in common. He was serving three years, one charge being belting Allen Hall. Bradley said he regularly bought drugs off Allen, who was a dealer, rip-off merchant and violent, thus widely hated. Christine, he said, put the drug money in a tin and he’d seen her smoking marijuana in a stable. Christine wasn’t a smoker when she lived with me. I started training some athletes who weren’t on methadone, but was moved to Long Bay after four days.
Bail was set at $100,000 and committal fixed for far-off March 1989. The sum was way beyond my means and I was concerned about my animals’ welfare, so was grateful when Ces Perkins, a Newcastle builder and boxing judge and referee, stood surety. I asked why he did this generous thing. He said: ‘Because you are one of the most respected men in boxing.’
Within a couple of days my bail was approved. I was read the riot act of rules and regulations and released. As Margaret only lived a street away from the jail, I went round for an affectionate hug, a cup of tea and a long chat.
Ian Batty recommended Dean and I hire lawyer Chris Murphy, a high-profile successful advocate in the New South Wales criminal court. Chris greeted me warmly. He was a smartly dressed man with fair hair and penetrating blue eyes. I was surprised that someone with a reputation for panache should have such a drab office. However, there was nothing drab about Chris, who impressed me as an intelligent quick-thinking man. He knew the police were holding the two letters I’d written to prove I had ‘evil intent’ towards Allen. If I denied writing the letters the prosecution could prove it was my handwriting and I was a liar. I told Chris I was prepared to publicly admit writing the letters. Chris was pleased because my honesty gave him something to build around. He said he’d be able to do the case for .between $25,000 and $30,000 and felt it would go no further than the local court. He was very confident that we’d win and sue the police for costs incurred.
I had to quickly find that sort of money. I was already heavily in debt. Banks and building societies would reject any proposals I put. There was one alternative source of finance, which I reluctantly turned to. I sold 10 per cent of the 25 per cent stake I had in Troy’s future earnings. Someone else lent me $2,000. The most I was able to scrape together was $22,000 which I gave to Chris Murphy. I was relieved when he assured me this would be sufficient to get the case underway.
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 32