Ladykiller (2 page)
Already, Burrell is eying off his next victim, someone with an untapped pot of gold. His crime is still in the planning stages. For now, he just enjoys this reunion. The charming front Burrell presents on this fine day belies his terrible temper and a mendacious nature; he is a manipulator with a greed for both money and control. If Poido is Goulburn’s proudest, Burrell may turn out to be its most reviled.
As the penultimate weekend of March 1996 draws to a close, the newspapers are preoccupied with the forthcoming trial of the serial killer who murdered seven young backpackers and buried their bodies in the Belanglo State Forest, just 60 kilometres north-east of Goulburn. Barrister Mark Tedeschi, QC, is at his Sydney home, rehearsing his opening address as Crown prosecutor in the trial against the accused, road worker Ivan Milat.
The backpacker murders fascinate and excite Bruce. He loves to discuss the case with friends; in particular, Ivan Milat’s secret arsenal of guns and his skill in hiding his murder victims. Bruce brags that he, too, knows a good place for hiding a body—an ‘Aladdin’s cave’ he calls it. Everyone laughs at the boast. They don’t really know what makes Bruce tick. They have no idea what he is capable of doing.
As the months go by, Bruce’s desperation for money will escalate and, besides, May is coming; Bruce Burrell likes to kill in May.
Tuesday 6 May 1997
Kerry Whelan was dressing for a secret meeting. She ignored the row of designer clothes and went straight to her new Trent Nathan suit. The 39-year-old loved clothes; her wardrobe spanned half a room. She had bought the purple outfit a week earlier at a boutique near where she lived in the country village of Kurrajong, 80 kilometres north-west of Sydney. Kerry knew she was not unattractive, but as she approached her fortieth birthday, the mother of three was self-conscious about her weight. She told her husband, Bernard, she wanted to lose a few kilograms in time for their joint ‘100 years’ party. Bernie would turn sixty a month before Kerry and the couple planned a large celebration with their family and friends.
Her husband of seventeen years came into the room as she was zipping up her pants. ‘Got to run, darl,’ Bernie said. ‘I’ll drop the kids off . See you around four o’clock.’
Kerry told Bernie she had a 9.30 a.m. appointment at the beautician in Parramatta.
He pecked his wife on the cheek—easy affection—and was gone.
The Whelans lived on a 30-acre property at Kurrajong, Willow Park, on which was a modern, red-brick house, large without being ostentatious. It had five bedrooms and five bathrooms, a tennis court, a pool, horses out in the fenced paddocks and enough room to build a motorbike track for the three Whelan children, Sarah, Matthew and James. The children’s nanny and horse trainer, Amanda Minton-Taylor, sometimes stayed at a small cottage at the back of the house.
Bernard, as Kerry preferred over the more familiar ‘Bernie’ that everyone else used, was an astute businessman in charge of the Australian and Asian arm of Crown Equipment, a multinational company which sold forklifts. He frequently travelled interstate and overseas, and two days earlier had returned from a business trip to Singapore. He and Kerry were scheduled to fly to Adelaide later that afternoon. Bernie had some business to attend to but once those meetings were out of the way, he and Kerry planned to explore the vineyards of South Australia’s Barossa Valley. The couple wanted some time together, without the children.
Bernie left the house a little after 8 a.m., driving Sarah, fifteen, and James, who had just turned eleven, to their school, Arndell College, at nearby Oakville. Thirteen-year-old Matthew stayed at home, having woken with a rash and a temperature.
‘Matt’s sick,’ Kerry yelled from the kitchen to Amanda, who was heading out the back to work in the stables.
‘Is he okay?’ Amanda called back.
‘Got a bit of a rash. Don’t worry too much about the horses. Keep an eye on him, maybe watch a video or something,’ Kerry said. She grabbed her keys and handbag and left .
Tuesday 6 May 1997 was a crisp day and there was frost on the ground. The temperature would rise to only 16 degrees Celsius; Kerry was dressed for autumn. She drove to the neighbouring village of Glossodia, to the home of Amanda’s mother, Marjorie. The two women were close, their friendship forged through Sarah Whelan’s love of horses. Marge was a highly regarded horsewoman. She had taught Sarah to ride when she was a child and the two families spent most weekends at horse events, with Sarah competing. Kerry couldn’t ride, and instead she provided the food and wine with an enthusiasm and good cheer that were infectious.
‘Excuse the mess,’ Marge said as she opened the door to Kerry. ‘I’ve been cleaning out the cupboards. God! You look a million dollars. Where’re you off to?’
‘I’ve got an appointment at nine thirty in Parramatta,’ Kerry said. She didn’t elaborate further.
‘What time’s the flight?’ Marge enquired.
‘Half past five. I’ll have a wander round the shops, some lunch, then drive over to meet Bernard.’
Kerry was in a good mood. She was excited about a London trip she and Marge were planning. Generous Bernie had decided to treat the girls to a holiday, first class all the way.
‘We’ll go to the travel agent when I get back and book the flights. Bernard thinks he’ll meet us now, towards the end. He’s got a business trip,’ Kerry said.
The phone rang and Marge answered. When she hung up she was grinning. ‘That was Helen Cassidy.’ Marge was talking about the wife of Melbourne Cup-winning jockey Jim Cassidy. ‘You’ve just sold your first horse.’
The horse was a mare called Peaches. Kerry had paid $30 for her the previous year. It was a tiny outlay, but since then the horse may as well have been grazing on hundred-dollar bills for what she cost in maintenance and feed. Kerry decided to sell her. Peaches had just netted Kerry a $2000 profit. Kerry was thrilled: ‘We’ll have to celebrate when I get back. Tell Helen I’ll take her to lunch. Bernard will be happy.’
Kerry glanced at her wristwatch as well as the clock on the stove. ‘How long will it take me to get over to Parramatta at this hour?’ she asked.
‘Peak-hour traffic. You shouldn’t leave any later than eight forty-five.’
‘God, Marge, I’ll have to make a move then.’ Marge had agreed to babysit the Whelan children while Kerry and Bernie were in Adelaide. ‘Let me pay you for babysitting?’
‘Kerry, we’re friends. I love the kids. They’re no trouble.’
‘Thanks. I’ll ring you tonight to see how the little horrors are. Please don’t cook, just buy Chinese or pizza.’ Kerry folded two fifty-dollar notes into Marge’s hand and squeezed it.
‘Don’t leave yourself short, Kerry.’
‘No, I’ve got five hundred on me.’
Kerry caught a glimpse of herself in the entry hall mirror. ‘Do I look overdone in this?’ She seemed anxious.
‘Slightly,’ Marge said, tucking Kerry’s heavy antique fob chain inside the neck of her top, ‘but you look fantastic.’
Whenever Kerry travelled she wore her most expensive jewellery. It was a deliberate safety precaution. On a previous trip to London she had lost a bag containing more than $30 000 worth of valuables. Today she wore a custom-made diamond bracelet and hoop earrings. She never removed her gold engagement and wedding rings, for sentimental reasons. All up, she was wearing more than $50 000 worth of jewellery and felt slightly conspicuous. ‘I don’t want other men’s wives to think I’m overdoing it’, was her mantra.
She got behind the wheel of the silver Land Rover Discovery.
‘Have a good day and enjoy the break with Bernard,’ Marge said from the front gate.
Kerry waved at her friend and backed out into the street. At around 8.50 a.m. she phoned Bernie to tell him about Peaches.
‘That’s great news, love,’ Bernie said.
Four minutes later, Kerry rang again. ‘I’m just a bit worried about what I’ve packed for Adelaide. Do you think I’ll be warm enough?’
‘I put your coat in, don’t worry,’ Bernie said.
Before signing off , Kerry said, half laughing: ‘Darl, what time’s the flight again?’ Kerry was routinely late for appointments, in particular flights, and it had become a running joke between them.
‘You need to be outside my office at 3.45 p.m. Don’t cut yourself short. We can’t be late,’ he said.
‘I’ll be there, darl, you know me.’ Kerry put down the phone.
She made good time and at 9.35 a.m. turned the Land Rover off Phillip Street and down a ramp into the underground car park of the Parkroyal Hotel. The sign to Premier Parking read ‘Full’ but Kerry ignored it. She scraped an overhanging signpost with the roof of the car as she descended.
Kerry yelled out to the car park attendant: ‘I’m in a hurry, got a space for me?’
Mark Mascari, recognising her as a regular, obliged and lifted the boom gate. He directed Kerry to reverse in front of a Nissan Pulsar sedan which was parked in bay number 49. ‘Just double park and I’ll move it,’ Mascari said. He scribbled ‘9.37 a.m.’ on her docket and handed it to her.
Kerry pulled on her jacket and buttoned it as she rushed from the vehicle.
‘Leave me the keys, madam,’ Mascari said.
‘They’re in the ignition,’ came her reply.
To Mascari, she seemed stressed and in a hurry, not unusual for one of his customers.
As Kerry walked up the ramp, a security camera recorded her movement—fifty steps—frame by frame. She was already seven minutes late but the man she was meeting did not care. He was waiting. As patient as a spider. He pulled his green Mitsubishi Pajero into the kerb outside the hotel as he caught sight of her.
As Kerry disappeared from the security camera’s view, she rushed over to his vehicle, opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat.
True to form, Kerry was late. Bernie was accustomed to his wife’s tardiness and waited outside his Smithfield office. Quarter to four came and went. Then 3.55 p.m. By four o’clock Bernie was getting shirty. He dialled Kerry’s mobile. It went to voicemail. When he tried the house, Amanda picked up. She hadn’t heard from Kerry all day. Nor had Marge. This was not like his wife. She always kept in contact. ‘The phone might as well be glued to your ear,’ Bernie used to say to her. He spoke with Kerry on the phone at least three times a day. His wife was rarely on time for anything, but she always rang him.
Bernie kept calling, every two minutes. Nothing. He asked his secretary, Mary Brady, to reschedule their 5.30 p.m. flight while he headed to the Parkroyal Hotel, where Kerry parked during trips to Parramatta. The drive from Smithfield to Parramatta seemed unusually long. In his rising panic, Bernie could hear his heart thumping. As he manoeuvred his Mercedes through the clogged traffic on the Cumberland Highway, Bernie’s mind swirled with scenarios. Had her car broken down? Had she fallen ill and been taken to hospital? Maybe she had been mugged, wearing all that jewellery? Bernie knew Kerry had had a beautician’s appointment at 9.30 a.m., but he had no idea which one.
At the Parkroyal he turned into the car park and spotted her silver Land Rover Discovery. For a second he breathed more easily, but it was short-lived. The keys were in the ignition. No sign of Kerry. At that moment he felt frightened. Something terrible had happened to his wife. The time was 5.23 p.m. Bernie dialled triple-0.
At the police communications centre, operator Derek Manning picked up the call. ‘Police emergency. What is your emergency?’ he said.
Bernie couldn’t get the words out quickly enough: ‘Look, I have a lady that hasn’t arrived, she is missing, a car, we have found her car, um, I’m her husband in Parramatta at the Parkroyal Hotel. She was to be on an aeroplane flight a couple of hours ago. She didn’t show up and I knew where she was going and I’ve come and found the car here . . . Um, hello?’
‘Yes, I’m listening, sir. Just a little calmer for me, please,’ Manning said patiently, as though to a child.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry.’
‘Your wife is missing?’
‘Correct.’
‘And she was due to take off for a flight two hours ago?’
‘Yes, correct, yeah, she was to meet me for an aeroplane flight . . . um . . . but I knew where she was going prior to that, shopping . . . um . . . and I’ve come, driven to that place and her car is locked in a car park.’
‘I see—where you anticipated it would be?’ Manning was used to panicky callers. In most cases the matter was quickly resolved. He hoped this one would be.
‘Yes, yes,’ Bernie replied. ‘I’d just taken a guess, it was the last known place of, yeah.’
‘All right, I’ll just take some details, sir.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
‘Just calmly answer the questions.’
‘Okay.’
‘And we will get there as quickly as we can.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your name is, Mr . . .?’
‘Whelan, Bernard Whelan. W-H-E-L-A-N.’
‘You’re on a pay phone now?’
‘I’m using the car park’s, um, phone. It’s not a pay phone.’
‘Where will you meet the police, sir?’
‘Um . . .’
‘Firstly, where do you live?’
‘I live at Kurrajong.’
‘All right, so this is a normal place for her to come down and do the shopping, is it?’
‘Well, no it’s not, no, but she told me she was coming here.’
‘I see. Where would you prefer to meet the police?’
‘Well, probably here where the car is, I guess. We would start from here, wouldn’t we, looking for her?’
Manning could hear the distress in Bernie’s voice. He put on his kindest tone: ‘Unfortunately it’s not a matter of us getting the dogs out and making a search.’
‘I realise that. Um . . . I thought when I found the car I should at least alert you.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Because, I mean, should I start checking hospitals or, you know, seeing if she has been assaulted or something?’
‘If I could just . . . I understand it is difficult—can you hear me clearly?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘It would probably be to your advantage to go to the police station.’
There was a pause.
‘Right,’ Bernie said.
‘And start from there.’
‘Okay, I can do that. I’m in Parramatta.’
