Ladykiller (11 page)
‘What happened to your vehicle?’ asked Broadhead, who was unaware of the massive search operation underway.
‘I’m having problems with Dallas and vehicles.’
Broadhead had lived on the adjoining property, Hillyford, for forty-two years, but had no idea that Dallas had left Burrell a year before. He was at the house of his girlfriend, Diane, that morning, and told Burrell he would be home sometime after eight o’clock. At 7.20 a.m., Burrell headed over to Broadhead’s house. Senior Constable Warren Hamilton, who was stationed at the command post, saw him leave and recorded it in the police logbook: ‘7.20 am POI leaves the residence’. Burrell was waiting at the front gate when Broadhead arrived home, and he handed Bruce the keys to his Nissan Navara ute.
Unbeknown to the police, Burrell was feeling desperate. The pressure had got to him and he made a decision on the spur of the moment, without forethought, and without consideration for the consequences. He drove into Goulburn and at 9.20 a.m. and stepped into a phone box opposite the Empire Hotel. Believing that calls from public phone boxes could not be traced, Burrell dialled Crown Equipment.
Part-time receptionist Kathleen Pemberton was working on the switch. ‘Good morning, Crown Equipment. How may I help you?’
‘Mrs Whelan is okay,’ came the voice at the other end.
Mrs Pemberton gasped.
Before she could say anything, the deep, husky voice continued: ‘Mr Whelan must call off the police and media today. Tell him the man with the white Volkswagen—’
‘Let me transfer you to his office.’ Mrs Pemberton’s voice was high pitched now.
‘No,’ the man said, ‘stop and listen and write it down.’
‘What man and what Volkswagen?’ Mrs Pemberton’s hand was shaking.
‘Mr Whelan will know,’ the man said. ‘He must call off the police and media today . . . will be in touch in two weeks.’
‘Two weeks is too long!’ Mrs Pemberton cried, but the man had hung up.
Wednesday 21 May
At 10.45 a.m. the constable entered the office of Mick Howe, Taskforce Bellaire’s commander, to warn him. It was, the young officer told the inspector, ‘crazy out there’ in the media room. Hanging from the rafters, sir, the officer said.
Taskforce Bellaire was lifting its blackout on the Whelan case and every newspaper, radio and television outlet in town had converged on police headquarters in College Street, opposite Sydney’s Hyde Park. Television cameras on tripods were lined up like a battery of heavy ordnance aiming at the desk which was cluttered with microphones and tape recorders. Among the Australian contingent were stringers for British newspapers and a representative from
Time
magazine.
At 11 a.m. Mick Howe and Chief Superintendent Rod Harvey walked into the roar of voices. Reporters and photographers seemed to surge forward at them, then stop.
The room fell silent.
Mick Howe gripped the microphone. He would run through the basic facts of the case, but there was not a great deal he could say. His brief was to make an appeal for information and eyewitnesses without giving anything away. He spoke of Bernie and Kerry Whelan’s plans for 6 May, how Mrs Whelan had failed to meet her husband, and how police had found her vehicle at Parramatta. He explained to the assembled mob about the stalemate they had endured since. He said the police had conducted an intense investigation and were now seeking help from the public.
‘We would like to speak with anyone who has seen Mrs Whelan outside the hotel,’ he said. Howe declared it was possible Mrs Whelan had driven to Parramatta for an appointment with a hairdresser, beautician or skin specialist. ‘We would like to hear from any person in the community who may be able to assist in regard to whether she made that appointment,’ he said.
He ran through Kerry’s clothing and jewellery and asked that the public report any attempted sale of items matching her rings, bracelet, earrings and the TAG Heuer watch. ‘We have grave fears for the safety of Mrs Whelan given the nature of the demands,’ he said. ‘The investigation is at a critical stage.’
Rod Harvey gave little away about the ransom note, refusing to disclose the amount, or anything about the VW. ‘Mr Whelan endeavoured to meet certain conditions of that demand,’ he said, ‘but there has been no further contact with those people responsible.’
There was the faintest of pauses, then suddenly it seemed everyone was yelling out a different question. Rod held a hand behind one ear and frowned.
‘Why have the Whelans been targeted?’ a reporter asked.
‘There have been no previous threats and there’s no rhyme or reason why they would be selected,’ Harvey replied.
He had a photograph of Kerry ready for copying, but the media wanted one of Mrs Whelan wearing her jewellery. They had none. Howe knew Dennis Bray had had trouble even getting a picture of the camera-shy mother and Bernie was insisting a ‘nice’ photo of her be released. Eventually, they settled on one which was three years old, in which her hair was different. The image would frustrate news editors, who found it of such poor quality it was barely suitable for reproduction.
To the great distress of Leo Ryan, Kerry’s father, Channel 7 would run with another photograph of Kerry, taken by a neighbour. It was a clearer image, but in it she was wearing ghostly make-up for a Halloween night she had attended years earlier. No matter how many calls the family made to Channel 7, the station refused to change it.
After the press conference, New South Wales Premier Bob Carr made a statement from his office at Governor Macquarie Tower and urged the public to come forward with information about Mrs Whelan. ‘The anguish of the family would be unimaginable at this time,’ he said.
The
Daily Telegraph
splashed the story over the front page of its afternoon edition with a photograph of Mick Howe and Rod Harvey and the headline ‘SYDNEY WOMAN KIDNAPPED’.
News crews headed for Kurrajong. The Whelan home itself appeared empty except for a gardener and horses; inside, a lone detective sat by the telephone waiting for the kidnappers’ call. A high-security gate and fencing kept the media vehicles off the property; instead they were parked on the road while their occupants descended onto the neighbours. Most people in Kurrajong lived on two- to ten-hectare properties and they were country folk or families seeking refuge from city life.
The media tore through the previously sleepy village like a locust swarm—within hours a newspaper story would publish the headline ‘Mystery Shatters Peaceful Township’. Each human being in sight was stripped of every possible piece of information before the reporters moved on to the next local.
A journalist for the
Australian
newspaper, Diana Thorp, found Ken Bolton in his garden. He knew the Whelans well, although he did not disclose everything he knew about them. After his face appeared in the news, the police would invite him in for an interview. He described the Whelan family as ‘absolutely delightful’ and Kerry as ‘a mother who looked after the kids and did all the motherly things’. ‘Bernie just puts his whole life into his family. My boy and girl are the same age as two of their children . . . it’s always been Uncle Bernard and Auntie Kerry,’ Mr Bolton told Ms Thorp. ‘I just want her back.’ He described the suburb as ‘God’s country’ and said, ‘We just don’t get weirdos around here.’
Mrs Lola Wright said people would ‘be absolutely terrified’. Along Kurrajong’s main street, a woman in the newsagency said people were ‘shocked’ because ‘things like that don’t happen here’. However, the Whelans’ neighbours soon tired of the intrusions and kept their doors closed.
Telegraph
reporters tracked down Bernie Whelan at Crown Equipment headquarters, but he was not prepared to be interviewed. His friend and colleague Anatole Kowaliw said Bernie was ‘a very strong man . . . he would not let Kerry go without a fight’. Kowaliw said the forklift industry was riddled with competitive jealousies, gossip, rivalries and grudges. ‘This business is insidious,’ he said, ‘but Bernie Whelan is an ethical, straight-up, no-nonsense man.’
‘Bernie’s very friendly, well liked and very rich,’ another industry source said. ‘Bernie is one of the biggest names in forklifts.’
The national appeal encouraged hundreds of calls to Crime Stoppers. Twenty-four hours after the first press conference police scheduled another. They were determined to keep the story in the spotlight and the media were feverish. Rod Harvey decided to release the surveillance video of Kerry’s last known movements. Reporters strained to watch Kerry on the Parkroyal Hotel security footage. It was just twelve seconds of black-and-white film and showed her parking and then walking up the car ramp, a dark-haired man a few paces behind her. Rod Harvey said police had discounted the man as a possible suspect.
A mannequin, dressed as Kerry had been sixteen days earlier, was set up outside the hotel. Kerry’s hairdresser had prepared a shoulder-length brown wig with auburn highlights for the dummy’s head. Reporters reckoned the doll looked more like Elle Macpherson than the missing, plump housewife, but the photograph rang bells with people who called the Crime Stoppers phone number. Sightings were coming in from all over Australia. Kerry had been ‘seen’ at airports, in parks, at Parramatta, with a man in a limousine at a dozen different times on the day she disappeared.
Psychics rang in with ‘visions’ of Kerry.
The Taskforce was encouraged by the enormous public response, but the detectives knew the chance of finding Kerry alive was diminishing. The police hierarchy decided Bernie Whelan should make an appeal to the kidnappers, written in his own words. In order to protect him from the media glare, it would be pre-recorded.
On Friday 23 May, the media again advanced on New South Wales Police headquarters and at 10 a.m. Mick Howe and Inspector Warren Davis entered the room. The officers looked tired and disappointed. A junior officer slotted a video into the machine and pressed ‘Play’. The screen flickered and a man with grey hair, dressed in a navy jacket and dun-coloured trousers, came into view.
On camera, Bernie Whelan walked to a desk, sat down and glanced at a handwritten page. He twisted the gold wedding band on his finger and seemed sapped of energy and terribly sad as he looked up at the camera and began to speak. ‘I am here to make a public statement regarding the kidnapping of my wife Kerry Whelan,’ he said. ‘Two weeks ago Kerry was kidnapped and shortly afterwards a ransom note was received. For ten days we tried to comply with these demands, but for reasons unknown to us the kidnappers have stopped contact. On behalf of my family, I beg them to contact me again.’
Bernie’s voice had gone high with emotion. He took a deep breath and continued. ‘I will do whatever they ask and will go anywhere to ensure the safety of my wife,’ he said. ‘We appeal to the members of the public to report anything, no matter how small, to the police, that may help this matter. The crime against us can only be described as mental terrorism.’ In the media room, the journalists were grim-faced as they took notes.
‘The children and I have only kept our sanity due to the love we have for each other and the love from close friends who have been minding us,’ Bernie said. ‘I wish to thank the media for their help in helping to find Kerry, but I do ask that you do not approach my children. They are very vulnerable at this time and barely coping with this tragedy.’ Bernie paused. His eyes had the look of someone staring into a void. ‘I wish to thank the New South Wales Police for their extraordinary sensitivity to my children,’ he said. ‘It’s times like this when you find out what a professional police force we have.’
On the screen, Bernie folded his typed script and placed it in a pocket. Facing the camera again, his eyes awash with tears, Bernie pleaded: ‘Kerry, if you can hear what I’m saying, I want you to know that we all love you and we will do anything to get you back, but most of all, don’t give up.’ Bernie’s chin quivered. He stopped, swallowed and added a quiet ‘Thank you’ before the screen went blank.
Inspector Howe fielded the journalists’ questions. ‘We have had some reported sightings,’ he said in response to one. ‘Information has come from a variety of different sources. A lot of anonymous information that we are following up. Not one piece of information that comes in won’t be checked. There’s no chance of anything being overlooked.’
Sydney Morning Herald
reporter Greg Bearup asked whether Mother’s Day, 11 May, had been ‘the turning point’; he had a tip that police knew Kerry was in real trouble when that date passed with no new developments.
Mick Howe confirmed it. ‘Mother’s Day has just gone and she has got a sick child. I couldn’t see anybody leaving the family like that,’ he said. Rod Harvey told Mick Howe there was a problem brewing which could jeopardise the exchange of the ransom for Mrs Whelan. The
Daily Telegraph
’s advertising manager had taken Bernie Whelan’s call when he placed the last advertisement for the kidnappers. She was suspicious. It was a peculiar advertisement which she believed was written in code and she recognised the name of the man whose wife had just been kidnapped. She alerted the news desk. The paper was now determined to run a front-page story about the secret ransom arrangements for Kerry Whelan, Rod Harvey told Mick Howe.
Rod Harvey spoke with his Crime Agencies boss Clive Small. Exposing the details of the devil’s bargain might impel the kidnappers into action. The legal branch of the New South Wales Police prepared to file an injunction in the Supreme Court that afternoon. The police had a salient argument: if Kerry Whelan were still alive, the court order might preserve her life.
The white Commodore turned left on an unsealed road and drove past pine trees, more property gates, kangaroos and bush; the road was muddy and slow going. Now and again its occupants caught the faint wop-wop sound of a helicopter in the distance. At one point the driver,
Sun-Herald
photographer Jackie Ghossein, saw a vehicle come flying up behind them in the rear-vision mirror. The car passed them. Two police officers in blue caps sat in the front, but did not wave and the car sped away up the road. Ghossein and the two reporters with her in the car, Simon Crittle and Fia Cumming, pressed on. The helicopter noise had ceased and Ghossein reckoned the aircraft had landed somewhere ahead; that must have been the search area.
