by Megan Norris
With David Reid’s permission, detectives also searched the house on the property and more items were taken for closer scrutiny.
Back in Melbourne on that Saturday morning, the police began to interview Caroline again. Her lawyer was now present and, apart from confirming her name, age, address and residency status, she had chosen to exercise her legal right to refuse to answer any further questions. That interview was suspended after a few moments. In the interim, Paul Ross was updated on evidence discovered during the search of Caroline’s flat. During the night another collection of deeply disturbing writings relating to Rachel Barber had been found. The handwritten notes were sometimes clearly written and easy to read, sometimes scrappy and incomplete. Some apparently innocent and empty notepads may have held vital clues to other missing pages, so these were sent to the Victoria Forensic Science Centre in Macleod for closer examination. Later that Saturday evening Paul Ross seized more items from the flat, including forensic samples, receipts, clothing, a telephone answering machine and assorted books on the occult.
It appeared that the suspect did indeed harbour some sort of unnatural interest in Rachel Barber. Why though? It hardly seemed credible. Caroline was just twenty years old and had no kind of criminal record. But the evidence suggested a sinister scenario beyond the comprehension of even the most experienced Homicide detectives. More disturbing still was the discovery of an application for a birth certificate bearing Rachel Barber’s details, apparently in Caroline Robertson’s handwriting. And there were notes recording very personal observations on Rachel and her family.
It appeared to the officers studying the notes that some kind of plan might have been formulated by Robertson to lure the young girl to the flat.
The police were keen to speak further with Caroline. They wanted to ask her about her movements on the day of Rachel Barber’s disappearance. And they wanted to question her about the handwritten notes. She had already volunteered a confession in hospital, but today, as was her right, she was saying little more.
At 1.19 p.m. on Saturday, Detective Sergeant Ross turned on the videotape and began a second interview, during which Caroline admitted that she had changed her name by deed poll. But this was the only question she answered. To everything else she responded, ‘I don’t want to answer any questions.’
After Ross had suspended the interview he received a telephone call telling him that a body believed to be that of Rachel Barber had been discovered buried on the property at Kilmore.
Later that afternoon he recommenced the videotaped interview and again it was suspended to allow Caroline to speak to her lawyer. By 4.54 p.m., when the interview was recommenced for the final time, Caroline had developed a headache and had received medication. She was told that Rachel’s body had been found at Kilmore and was asked if she had anything to say about that. Her response was the same: ‘I don’t want to answer any questions.’
Paul Ross had shown Caroline samples of the handwritten documents seized from her flat. He asked if she had seen them before. He asked who had written the notes in the diary planner. Who had filled out the birth certificate in Rachel Barber’s name? Who had made the jottings and lists about Rachel Barber? Was that her handwriting? He showed her the size 8 clothing taken from Trinian Street. Did she know anything about these items? Did she know Rachel Barber’s mother’s maiden name? Had she ever rented a post-office box? Caroline refused to answer.
The detective ended the interview, telling Caroline she was the suspect in a murder case and warning her that she was shortly to be charged with killing Rachel Barber. He then requested permission for the police to obtain samples for forensic testing. These would include fingerprints, together with samples of hair, dental impressions and blood samples taken in the presence of a doctor of her choice.
Caroline asked to speak with her lawyer, though it had been explained to her that as she was a suspect in a murder case, police could obtain a court order forcing her to comply with the request.
After being cautioned in relation to the pending charge, she was allowed a brief discussion with her lawyer. Permission was given – for the fingerprinting only, not the biological samples.
By evening, Caroline Reed Robertson had been formally charged with the murder of Rachel Elizabeth Barber and remanded in custody at the Fitzroy police station to appear in court on the following Monday morning.
22
SUNDAY
Early Morning, 14 March
I woke around 4 a.m. The doctor had left Temazepam tablets to help us sleep. The family had insisted we take them. But I was awake, lying beside Mike and two sleeping daughters.
Rachel, I thought. Rachel, come home.
We had said prayers for Rachel. The Salvation Army had been present because Lindsay and another Captain had tried so hard to find our lovely girl. They’d offered to say prayers and everyone had sat in a circle, even those who were not Christians. And we’d prayed for Rachel’s soul. We’d thanked God for bringing her home. Only Ashleigh-Rose had left the room; she’d busied herself arranging flowers.
And then John Blacker, a priest friend of my parents who hadn’t seen me since primary school, came too, and had said prayers.
I lay there in our bed, thinking and not thinking. Lying with my eyes closed. Lying with my eyes opened in the dark room, shadows slowly becoming distinguishable.
I got up and walked down the hallway. I opened Rachel’s door. My mother rested in her murdered grand-daughter’s bed.
I quietly lifted the corner of the doona and slithered in.
‘Roll over,’ came a soft voice.
I rolled over, my mother protecting me in her arms. We lay together, looking at Rachel’s night sky.
‘Oh, Mummy,’ I cried, ‘I’ve lost my baby.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’
We sat on the back veranda. It was about eight or nine in the morning. Our search really had come to an end.
My sister Robbie came out with her smoke and coffee, pen and paper.
‘The press will want to see you,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ answered Mike. ‘I never thought we’d find ourselves in such a bizarre predicament.’
‘I don’t know what I can say,’ I said, ‘apart from saying thank you to everyone who helped.’
‘I’ve put together a statement,’ said Robbie. ‘It says everything you’ve expressed in the last twenty-four hours. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, I don’t mind, Robbie,’ I said. ‘Don’t you realise how much we need to depend on you?’
Robbie doesn’t like to accept compliments, so she ignored my comments. ‘How does this sound …?’
Statement for the Media by Robbie Glover (Aunt of Rachel Barber)
Elizabeth and Michael are endeavouring to bear the unbearable. They are being supported by loving family and friends. We have all been devastated by the death of their beloved daughter Rachel.
Elizabeth and Michael want the family of the woman charged with the murder of Rachel to know that they feel nothing but compassion for them.
Rachel’s burning light has been dimmed but will burn bright in our hearts for ever. She will always be young, beautiful, happy, smiling and dancing in our hearts.
We would like to thank Elizabeth and Michael’s family and friends; Emmanuel, his parents, brothers and family; students and teachers of the Dance Factory; shopkeepers of Richmond; Rachel’s school friends old and new; the Salvation Army; the Missing Persons Squad and Homicide Squad; the Crime Department of Victoria Police; our friends David and Cathy and everyone who helped with posters; and the street kids of Melbourne.’
‘That’s just perfect,’ said Mike, getting up and giving her a cuddle.
She started to cry. But could she have realised how caring we had found our family? How supportive? How ready they were to pick up our pieces? To take phone calls, to arrange house cleaning, arrange visits with the funeral director and the ministers? Our family organised our lives for us.
&nbs
p; Ian, my cousin, organised the bills. Little things we had never thought of. Little things which would have developed into big things, like the run-in I had with the credit card lady …
‘I’m sorry I haven’t paid,’ I tried to explain. ‘I forgot.’
‘What, for two months?’
‘My daughter’s been murdered.’
‘So, that’s not my problem. I just want you to pay.’
Some time in the afternoon the phone rang yet again.
Mike answered it and after a short while came out saying, ‘It’s Jeff Kennett.’
This Sunday afternoon was such a haze that I can’t remember Mr Kennett’s exact words. But the Premier of Victoria said how devastated he and his wife Felicity were for our family, and wanted to express their sympathy. They had been following Rachel’s story in the press. If there was anything they could do for us, just ask, and Mr Kennett would see if they could help. We could contact him by ringing the Chief of Staff at his parliamentary office.
This was a caring phone call from another empathising parent. It meant a great deal to us.
When I told my sister Robbie she became very animated. ‘Did he really say that?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Do you know what you need him to do?’ She grabbed a pen and an exercise book. ‘You need to ask him for funding for a special police liaison officer to be attached to the Missing Persons Unit to help parents from day one when their children go missing in suspicious circumstances.’
‘Yes,’ responded Mike enthusiastically.
We were not concerned with internal police politics, not then. It is something we have come, in time, to learn about and accept. But on that Sunday all we could think of was, yes, that’s it. That’s where we can help. We didn’t want other parents to encounter similar struggles with the local police. So Robbie contacted Jeff Kennett’s Victorian Parliamentary Chief of Staff who conveyed our thoughts to the Premier.
The next few weeks were a blur of funeral arrangements. We had to cope with two cancelled funeral dates because the coroner’s office required further autopsies. We had DNA tests to prove we really were the victim’s parents. This was because, firstly, Rachel’s dental records were not up to date and, secondly, because we were strongly advised for the sake of the trial not to view her body.
In between the horror of ‘life with no meaning’ and readjusting to the absence of the person who really was the dynamo in our family, we discovered that the world really did revolve around Rachel Barber. ‘Rachel, the world does not revolve around you,’ said Mike when she was in one of her demanding ‘notice me’ moods. But the truth was, she really was the organiser of events – the centre of daily concerts, the reason for outings to the city. And now she was gone.
23
BURIAL
The third week of March
We were driving past the old Lilydale Cemetery in the foothills of the ranges east of Melbourne, looking for somewhere for Rachel’s burial. Burial. An odd-sounding word considering the activity was going to involve one’s dynamic fifteen-year-old daughter.
‘Why don’t you go and look at the new cemetery in Lilydale?’ my mother had said. ‘A friend of mine was buried there recently. It has a lovely outlook.’
So my brother Drew drove us, with Robbie and Ashleigh-Rose, to the cemetery. We drove past the crematorium, past the lawn burial sites which were marked with simple loving flat plaques. Past the ornate miniature mausoleums, past the lawn burials with headstones, and on to the cemetery office.
A short while later a woman led us to a new area where there were only two or three headstones in the row. The headstones bordered native gardens that were watered by underground hoses. I noticed that a 28-year-old man was buried near by. So she’d be close to another young person, I thought.
‘There’re not too many people here,’ I said. ‘She may be lonely.’ An odd thing to say, but we were in an odd situation.
‘It’s a growing business,’ the woman replied. ‘She won’t be lonely for long.’
I laughed nervously.
‘What do you think, Ashleigh-Rose?’
‘There’s a lovely view through to the mountains,’ she replied.
‘Yes,’ said Robbie. ‘And that will be nice for you when you visit.’
‘And when we’re old we can sit in that gazebo or shelter from the sun.’
‘Yes, it’s a lovely spot,’ said the cemetery woman.
It felt as if we were making a land purchase. Small as it was, I suppose we were.
‘Would you like the plot to be one deep, two deep or three deep?’ the woman asked. ‘Often when young people die we find parents like to buy a three-deep plot so they can join their child. After all, you are going to be your daughter’s only family.’
Until my 96-year-old grandmother died about ten years earlier and was buried on top of my grandfather in the same grave, I had always had the impression that people were buried individually.
‘And if you wish,’ she went on, ‘other family members who have been cremated may be interred here as well.’
It almost sounded like one of those sales on television where you hear a voice-over: ‘But wait, there’s more. Order now and receive a free set of …’ interments?
‘Three-deep,’ I said, looking at the spot, feeling peculiar. The sensation was something I had never experienced before and hopefully never will again. It was like a birth – in reverse – only more painful, and a pain shared by Mike who held my hand.
‘You know, Mum and Dad, Rachel wasn’t afraid of dying,’ eleven-year-old Ashleigh-Rose said.
‘Pardon?’ said Mike.
‘Well, Rachel said that I should never fear death. She said when we die Jesus is there to look after us, even if we die as little children. She said so in one of our sister chats. You know, when we used to sit with our legs crossed on our beds.’
I thought, good on you, Rachel. Bravo. That’s my girl. It was as if she was already speaking from the grave.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘even though Rachel said she wasn’t afraid of dying, I think she would have preferred to have lived a lot longer, but isn’t it lovely she had the opportunity of sharing this thought with you?’
We selected the only plot of land Rachel will ever own and looked across the sun-parched valley which, in years to come, as we stand before our daughter’s grave, will change. An eagle flying high in the sky came to rest on a gum tree. The same gum will probably grow twice the size, be struck by lightning, and be bulldozed with two dozen others to one day make way for a housing estate. Wasn’t Burwood cemetery once surrounded by pasture and apple orchards? And now it is in the middle of suburbia. Everything changes, I thought. Everything.
We were conscious that a lot of young people would be present at Rachel’s funeral and that for many it would be their first experience of a funeral. We didn’t want them to be scared, and directed one of the ministers of St Hilary’s to help us create a funeral that would celebrate Rachel’s short life rather than centre on the heartbreak. Let her friends choose some of the music, I suggested, and please involve the minister from Balwyn who had known Rachel for four years.
I deliberately chose not to wear black at Rachel’s funeral. Sometimes I have regretted this decision, but we wanted it to be a beautiful service in memory of a beautiful person.
The greatest honour Ted did for Rachel was not to wear his cap to her funeral. I do not think he realised how much I appreciated this display of love for her. Over the seventeen years we have known Ted, and out of all the visits we had shared, I had not once seen him without his denim cap.
Many friends of Rachel knew she was a spiritual girl. A minister who had first met Rachel while teaching her religious instruction in Grade 6 said in his condolence letter:
… A few years ago the son of a friend of mine died and he said that Michael left behind a sweet fragrance. At the time I thought it an odd thing to say in the midst of grief but now that we have been thinking of Rachel every day and r
emembering the part of her life we knew, I am beginning to understand what he meant. She was such a sweet child and there is a fragrance in recalling her personality …
Then she began going to St Hilary’s and one consequence of that was the loveliest memory I have of her: kneeling and leafing through my prayer book. She said she thought that with the help of some friends she could start an evening youth service at St Augustine’s: a band, with catchy choruses just like St Hilary’s, with Rachel pulling focus somewhere up front. I was very encouraged and I loved her optimism. It was easy for her to believe that it could happen. I would hate to think it hurt her that this particular plan came to nothing. I rather think she simply moved on to other things.
My lasting memory of Rachel is of an adolescent who showed no awkwardness with older adults. She always seemed genuinely pleased to see my wife and I, on our afternoon walks, and there was never a sign of an inward sigh that said, ‘Here come those wrinklies again.’ She was on the level we knew her, easy, humorous, polite and very smiley …
And then there was a youth group leader at St Hilary’s who said, ‘Rachel had this ability to make people she knew feel so special and through her hugs, huge smile and open nature she made me feel very close to her, and really loved … Over the last week as I prayed for her and you both, and (like so many others I’m sure) spent time driving the streets of Prahran at night looking for her, I was able to reflect on how special Rachel is to my life, and how vividly her many qualities came flooding to mind. Please be constantly reminded of the joy and friendship she gave to so many, including me.
‘As I remember how tightly Rachel used to hug me, I love to think of how much tighter God has his arms wrapped around her right now …’
The funeral was somewhat of an anticlimax because it took so long to happen. We even withdrew from our family to Harmers Haven the weekend before the funeral, where we took long walks. There was time for private reflection – and I screamed across the ocean from the edges of the rockpools.