Stalked

by Chris Smith

  ‘Go away!’ she yelled. ‘You sick bastard—go away!’

  Her father came racing in to her room to see why she was yelling so soon after the men had left. He saw her huddled up against her bedhead, staring at the windows on the side wall. He couldn’t see any light, or any other sign that Hopkins was there, but this time he fully believed her story, angered by her endless torment.

  Over that weekend, the police sifted through a copy of our tapes. There was more than enough for a warrant, and a raid on Hopkins’ work and home was planned for the middle of the week. The timing suited both camps. In the meantime a forensic crew worked on Libby’s back fence, looking for fragments of clothing that may have matched Hopkins’, to place him at the scene on the previous night. The fact that police had witnessed the the appearance of his balaclava under the infra-red would strengthen the case, but the scientific team had to come up with fibres or footprints to nail their suspect. They would eventually obtain both, after matching physical evidence with that obtained in the forthcoming raid. As for Libby, she could tell that the police were moving mountains because of the pressure exerted by the television program. It was power she could only marvel at. While everything seemed to be moving at breakneck speed, she remained anxious about the airing of her story.

  The feature report was to run in two parts, substantial coverage by prime time current affairs standards. It had been highly promoted over the weekend and the story contained more than enough salaciousness to promise compelling viewing. In the end, the show’s senior producers elected not to identify Hopkins. There was still no forensic evidence to link Libby’s stalker definitely to the man Phillip Hopkins. There was, however, plenty of time to make the link.

  The images of his mask were so mysterious, so integral to the story, that it was felt that by not revealing his identity, the intrigue would entice viewers to come back for more. The first report was aired at 6:32pm, on 1 July 1996.

  14

  A LITANY OF COURAGE

  Within ten minutes of the report airing, both A Current Affair and Manly Detectives received at least two dozen calls from women who thought they knew who the stalker was. They were mostly victims, some in tears, telling the phone operators that Libby’s story resembled their own. These were harrowing stories of abuse, terror, persistent fright and, the common thread, frustration over the ineffectiveness of the countless AVOs they’d taken out. Most of them knew their man only too well. ‘That’s Phillip Hopkins, I know it is,’ said one woman, who demanded to be put in contact with Libby.

  ‘This is exactly what that nasty bastard did to me. That’s Phillip for sure,’ said another, happy to be interviewed for the follow-up report.

  A wealth of information came in on Hopkins’ nocturnal exploits and Peattie and Jane Hansen exchanged the names and details of the callers. Once the information had been examined, it transpired that at least four young women, all former girlfriends of Hopkins, could accurately identify their stalker. They’d all experienced the same violations and wanted to seek revenge. Between the show and Detective Sergeant Peattie, the girls were kept busy in the days that followed. They had to take time off work to make statements to the police or record on-camera interviews with Jane Hansen for Channel Nine. For all of them it was a rather hectic and nerve-racking couple of days, but one they all hoped would finally bring justice into their fractured lives.

  Ashley Merton’s story had some eerie similarities to Libby’s. Phillip picked her at her friend’s party—a fancy-dress affair, with bondage as the theme. During the party, Phillip stared at every woman who walked his way. Ashley remembered being attracted to his eyes, the same eyes she now hated. The night turned lustful, and she’d had too much to drink to drag herself back from the inevitable. The pair left at around 2:30am. He drove her back to his place. It was a night of sex, during which Ashley felt that Phillip was a bit too full-on, too dominant in bed. That included treating her roughly.

  Interestingly, Phillip had a sidekick with him that night. His friend had taken a woman from the party home too, a woman who later told her girlfriends that Phillip’s friend had a cruel appetite for full-on bondage sex.

  Ashley had been seeing Phillip in the month immediately after Libby had been assaulted, when she’d first taken out the AVO. The police realised that if Ashley’s recollection of events during her time with Hopkins was accurate, they could match up his movements to his nights off from stalking Libby.

  Ashley told of a wild month and a relationship primarily based on sex, in which Phillip could never deal with rejection. He was short on talk, and focused on the physical. Even during a cup of tea, it was clear where his mind was heading. ‘He wouldn’t take “no” for an answer,’ Ashley explained.

  Ashley was never able to find out too much about Hopkins. He hardly mentioned his past. His background was largely a mystery to Ashley, although she’d established how wealthy his parents were and how pressured Phillip felt to succeed.

  She then learnt through a discussion with a mutual friend, that Phillip was two-timing her, probably right from the start. His drunken conversations gave him away; he talked about a Louise Dent, an old girlfriend, and Ashley was immediately suspicious.

  His persona too began emerging as fake. All too often, in response to Ashley sharing stories of old loves or outside interests, Phillip would simply agree with her observations, again and again, in order to highlight how compatible they were. But she could see through him, and she felt he didn’t even really believe himself.

  ‘He began turning up drunk and late, which is when I ended it,’ she revealed. ‘But he wouldn’t accept the end, and became quite aggressive.’

  Soon after, he began to stalk her, in spite of her repeated calls, telling him to get out of her life. He’d wait for her in the shadows outside her home after work. He’d turn up in car parks, emerging from between cars to taunt Ashley about ‘losing out’. He’d enjoy scaring her when she least expected him to be there. Late at night, his face would appear from nowhere at the kitchen window and she’d drop the dishes she was washing in the sink, breaking them in fright. Even when the neighbours heard a noise and scared him away, he’d be back for more, for another chance to frighten Ashley again.

  ‘He had me shaking like a leaf … and when I screamed “What do you think you’re doing?” he answered, “I’ve never done this before; it’s the first time.” A strange thing to say at any time. It was as if he supsected I knew he was an experienced stalker.’

  The almost daily—and nightly—intrusions forced Ashley to move out of her unit to escape from him. But her ordeal also coincided with his arrest for stalking Libby Masters, cutting her treatment short.

  Ashley couldn’t explain why Hopkins was so compulsive and intense towards the end. Maybe it was his fear of being alone. After all, he had women lined up one after another, and in the gaps between. To her, he had an ego that could not handle rejection.

  As the police questioned Ashley further though, bits of the puzzle, clues as to Hopkins’ movements on notable nights, were falling into place. Asked about his predilection to arrive late, or not at all, Ashley told them of the series of nights when he’d arrive at her flat late, using the excuse that he’d been swimming at Willoughby Leisure Centre. This was early in their relationship, and Ashley was not comfortable about quizzing his story, but she knew something wasn’t right. There was no smell of chlorine in his hair or on his body.

  He was lying, and the dates she supplied matched perfectly with the nights he came to Libby’s, only to take off without reason and without attempting to gain entry to her property. It made sense, he had other commitments but all the while, squeezed as much out of his nighttime schedule as possible to be with as many women as possible, even as their unwanted visitor.

  ‘I’m terrified of him,’ she told them.

  Then there was Louise Dent, 24, a corporate finance executive, another victim from the lower North Shore, who’d met Hopkins at the funky inner-city club called CBD. The p
air met after a friend of his hooked up at the bar with one of her friends. They had computers in common and got talking about the use of breakthrough software for various purposes.

  She accepted a lift home and he came inside for coffee. It seemed Hopkins rarely used his own apartment to entertain his chosen women. Conversation on the lounge led to kissing and the dalliance ended lustfully, in her bed. The sex infuriated Phillip, because Louise failed to reach orgasm, a failure he took personally.

  They did find common ground in their relationship, Louise thought, with both enjoying the other’s professional determination and capacity. Louise felt that she had a similar personality to Phillip and she respected his proclaimed love of drama and singing.

  Hopkins seduced Louise Dent at about the same time as Ashley. They both just happened to have friends and acquaintances that blew the lid on Hopkins’ bed-hopping ways. Louise’s tale was not one of stalking, just shonky stories, shocking lies.

  ‘He lies a lot; it’s his standard way of living,’ she told police. ‘I’ve just found out that he was also seeing Ashley, a third person let it slip the other day. He’d say he had to go away for the weekend. For instance he once claimed he was going down to Bendigo for a seminar, but he must have been with her. I couldn’t find him where he said he’d be. I know he was with her. We never really officially broke up, but I’ll never see him again.’

  Frances Mallard was a little older, 28 years old, a teacher. She’d met Hopkins a year earlier. Of all the women who came forward from the television story, Frances was the most livid.

  Although their relationship was not strong, nor continuous, she had slept with Hopkins on one of the nights he’d been recorded turned up at Libby’s. She recognised the dark sloppy joe and pants—he’d worn them to Frances’ house that very same night.

  The links didn’t end there. In a comparison of events and dates, it emerged that Frances was indeed the woman Hopkins had been going out with when he first met Libby at the Oaks. It was she he’d spoken to at the bar.

  Frances described a man not to be trusted. She never felt comfortable around him. He was supremely jealous, and his third-degree interrogations drove her insane. And although she was not a prime stalking target, he did refuse to accept that their relationship was over and pestered Frances with phone calls, public abuse and unwanted late-night appearances on her doorstep—often engineered to terrify. What was even more deranged was his frequent delivery of flowers, several bunches of them, even during periods of abuse and stalking. Frances told Detective Peattie that he’d once made a significant comment: ‘We met a private investigator together, and Phillip said “I’d be good at that”.’

  There were now Libby, Ashley, Louise and Frances, all linked to Phillip at about the same time. His schedule was crammed with appointments, and even Peattie was stunned at his deception.

  But there was one final interviewee, a woman who in the end didn’t have to be persuaded to go public. She came forward to join forces with Libby and slam Phillip Hopkins so he could never dish up his foul treatment of women again. Simone Crowe had watched Libby’s courage on television at home the previous night, and tears of pride rolled down her face. She was infused with determination. It was time to lend a proper hand and go public with her story too—a story as terrifying as Libby’s, albeit past history now. It had to be told, not necessarily to verify Libby’s testimony in a court case, but Hopkins had to be outed forcefully to the public and those close to him, for the last time.

  Simone was interviewed and featured prominently in the follow-up story that would air two weeks later, which included the naming of Phillip as the stalker. She detailed everything, from the time he entered her life in 1987, the initial abuse and violence, to the jealousy, stalking and her own flight into the country and ultimately overseas. Simone’s words were carefully chosen and she didn’t skip details. She recalled working in a pub, Hopkins tailing her in and out of work, throwing beers at her, abusing her, never leaving her alone. Simone explained how her flatmates over those years moved out in fear, and friends simply vanished because of the torment he heaped upon anyone close to her. He threatened to commit suicide. The picture of terror she described was compelling. Her demeanour on camera was focused but relaxed. This was an exorcism, victims gathering together for a common purpose. The power was all theirs this time; the thunder of the law was only a step or two behind them.

  Late on the afternoon of Tuesday 2 July, Jane and her television crew were called to Hopkins’ apartment. They’d been close to the location for several hours, waiting for the police. Earlier, in front of an office full of colleagues, police had raided his work premises, seizing his computer terminal and arresting him without regard for the embarrassment it was causing. His workmates were in a state of shock.

  Back at Hopkins’ apartment, police weren’t leaving anything to chance. With the eyes of a national audience on the case, this was a warrant that had to be justified. Even the smallest piece of evidence had to be uncovered. To that end Peattie brought Hopkins back to his flat, and requested another member of his family be informed and attend before items were taken from the premises. Hopkins was initially against informing anyone until Peattie spoke to him about what lay ahead. ‘This is not another fun AVO, son,’ Peattie said quietly. ‘We now have witness statements a mile high … allegations beyond what Libby has against you, mate. Not to mention physical evidence which the scientific team here will clobber you with by the end of the week. There are no secrets anymore, son. The media is about to reveal who you are to millions of people. It’s over mate, you’re goin’ to jail, so call your mum now before it’s too late!’

  When Kathryn Hopkins arrived, Phillip and his mother embraced, close to tears, in the lounge room of his unit. But Phillip remained bolshy towards the police, using less than convivial language as they took him into the various rooms of the house.

  They found a black balaclava, several private investigator’s handbooks, two torches, three surgical gloves and the newspaper article featuring a disguised photo of Libby. The forensic crew removed three pairs of running shoes from his wardrobe and several Sloppy Joes from the drawers and dirty clothes basket.

  As the items were seized, bagged and marked in the main room, Hopkins became irate, shouting that the police had ‘loaded him up and put the items in his room’. Peattie ignored his protests and spent almost an hour completing the search.

  As officers escorted Hopkins from the apartment block, Jane was there to fire questions at him and film his arrest. Detective Peattie gripped Hopkins’ handcuffed elbow. There’d be no hitch in this arrest, not in front of the cameras. The original story had created an enormous amount of interest, including much discussion on talkback radio. It wasn’t Detective Sergeant Peattie’s biggest brief, but it was shaping up to be the most closely watched, and, although he was not one for the media spotlight, he had no choice but to follow this through to the end. Apart from ensuring that the preparation of evidence and prosecution was seamless, he’d also begun to develop a rapport with Hopkins’ victims and was determined to secure a conviction.

  Back at Manly Police Station, Hopkins was taken to the central interviewing room at the detective’s office. As soon as Peattie returned to the main part of the office, the supervising uniformed sergeant was waiting to see him. He gestured that the pair needed to talk privately, inside Peattie’s own office. The officer in charge told Peattie that he was required to answer what is known as a ministerial memo that had been faxed to the station soon after the Hopkins family was informed of Phillip’s arrest. The officer informed Peattie that the Police Minister wanted an immediate response. Either someone had made a complaint regarding the raids or the minister was anxious regarding the media attention the arrest was about to attract. Peattie saw red. He’d had to answer complaints before from well-heeled individuals whose family members had found themselves on the wrong end of the law, but never had he received a ministerial memo so soon after an arrest.

  �
��Tell them I’ll handle it later. I’ve got a crook to interview.’

  ‘Not gonna happen, Ray. The fax was followed up by a call from the commissioner’s office. They want a response now. They want you to answer the memo immediately mate—interview the crook afterwards.’

  Peattie knew he was snookered and thought about the distraught and angry women he’d interviewed in the past few days. He couldn’t let them down and wouldn’t allow this brief to be taken out of his hands. It dawned on him how seriously some in Macquarie Street were treating the case. The media pressure no doubt added to their interest. He was more worried at this point about getting Hopkins into the interview room than saving his backside, before his family or legal team had time to talk him out of cooperating.

  This is putting the bloody cart before the horse, he thought. He was angry but had no alternative. He cobbled together a rough response to the minister, defending the legitimacy of the arrest and search of Hopkins’ flat. As he frantically signed the response, forensic police gave Peattie the last piece of the puzzle: confirmation that clothing fragments taken from Libby’s fence visually matched those seized in the raid on his apartment. Hair strands taken from the same clothing would undoubtedly synch up with several caught on a rough part of the palings. That left his footprints; they were able to make a clear match between the soul prints on shoes at his apartment to those removed from the muddy prints inside her property, where he’d jumped onto the ground. Together with the damning evidence of phone-line tampering under Libby’s floorboards, these last pieces of the puzzle completed a compelling scientific picture. A court could not ignore the facts—if assembled properly. The police had even kept that old piece of pizza, which roughly matched dental records obtained by court warrant.

  Two national media stories had been aired, a long list of witnesses interviewed and the police brief against Hopkins was strong. His charges included a series of stalking counts under the new legislation, which carried a maximum five-year jail term or $5000 fine. He was also charged with contravening a domestic violence order—taken out by Libby—on three occasions, unlawful entry three times and being disguised by mask with intent to stalk.