Ladykiller (9 page)

Couch began gathering a team and arranging equipment and vehicles for the mammoth exercise. The search commander called on Gary Duncan, a no-nonsense, hard-arsed type, to be the search coordinator. Duncan had spent the past few months tracking down and eventually arresting the gang who murdered David Carty, an off -duty police officer. He had been working fourteen-hour days on that investigation and was enjoying a break when Couch’s call came. The pair had worked together at Belanglo.

The OSG was made up of operational police who would require permission to leave their station duties. Some bosses could not afford to lose their staff; others fiddled with rosters to accommodate those keen to go.

‘I want you in Goulburn by 6 a.m. Wednesday morning for an operation,’ Couch told each officer on the phone. ‘I can’t tell you what it is or where we’re going. For God’s sake don’t tell anyone where you’re even heading. Tell them it’s a training exercise. Got it?’

By Tuesday morning, twenty-seven officers aged between twenty-five and forty-three years were making preparations to head to Goulburn. All but four were men. Meanwhile Couch and Duncan were already checking into Goulburn’s Alpine Heritage Motel.

‘Watcha doing up this way?’ the motel owner wanted to know.

‘Training exercise, mate,’ Couch said. ‘The rest of them will be here in the morning.’ It was plausible, given the Goulburn Police Academy was nearby. ‘We’ll keep out of your way,’ Couch promised.

Early the next morning Couch and Duncan met investigators from Taskforce Bellaire for a briefing at Goulburn Police Academy. Detective Sergeant Henderson went through the drill and showed them a property map of Bungonia obtained from Goulburn post office. On the map, Hillydale looked to be around 10 hectares (24 acres) of gently rolling terrain; two dams lay on the edge of the farm, near the cattle yard and hayshed. The entire property had to be treated as a crime scene. Police divers would search the dams, and the forensic squad would bag anything, no matter how small the piece of evidence. One earring or a button belonging to Kerry, and Burrell would be in handcuffs.

By the time Couch returned to the motel, his team was kitted and waiting in the breakfast room. They were tense, although still unaware of the task. Couch explained the purpose of the raid and showed them photographs of Kerry and her jewellery. ‘We believe this man, Bruce Burrell, may be holding her, or there may be clues that she has been there,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for anything—a piece of clothing, a button, a bracelet. Anything that places Mrs Whelan on the property. This bloke is a red-hot suspect.’

Couch stressed the need for the search to be carried out with absolute precision because the minute they went in, Kerry Whelan’s life expectancy was on a timer. ‘If Burrell is the kidnapper, the minute we go through that gate we’ve cut off Mrs Whelan’s food chain. Her supply of water has gone,’ Couch told them. ‘We’ve separated the kidnapper from her. So it’s absolutely imperative we get in there and get about our business very smartly. The conditions will be bloody difficult. It’s wet and in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s several degrees colder down here. Stay focused and please ensure communication between everyone is one hundred per cent. We should be able to get this done in a day, perhaps a day and a half max.’

At 8.50 a.m., the police convoy left Goulburn and made its way to Bungonia, along the unsealed Inverary Road. The Bungonians came out onto the street, shocked at the cavalry. Long-term resident Raymond Dole counted the vehicles— five, ten, twenty rolled past and turned down Inverary Road. One car stopped at the phone box and Dole shouted at him.

‘It’s just a training exercise,’ the policeman said.

‘Bullshit,’ muttered Dole.

Couch and Gary Duncan were in the first car through the front gate, and as they drove towards Burrell’s house, a figure appeared in the front window. By the time Couch had pulled up, a portly red-faced man was coming through a side gate, bellowing, his arms flailing.

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ the man screamed as he pounded towards Couch. He stopped less than a foot from the inspector’s face. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ the angry face said.

Couch could tell that this man’s rage was heavily laced with panic. Until now, Burrell would have had no idea he was being investigated over the Whelan matter, although his arrest a week earlier in Goulburn for car offences must have rattled him, surely.

Couch’s mind was filled with the urgency of finding Mrs Whelan. He had no time for Burrell’s temper tantrum. ‘Mind your manners or you’ll get an attitude readjustment session,’ he told Burrell, his voice patient and firm. ‘Now pull your head in.’ Couch pointed at a police officer who was stepping out of the next vehicle. ‘That’s Detective Allan Duncan. Talk to him.’

Burrell lurched around and strode towards Duncan. His agitation was such that it buoyed Duncan’s spirits—this could prove a fruitful day.

‘Are you Bruce Burrell?’ Duncan asked, knowing that he was.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘Well, Bruce, I’m Detective Sergeant Allan Duncan. This is what’s going on. We’re in possession of a search warrant to search these premises and your entire property.’

‘What’s this all about?’

‘It’s to do with the disappearance of Kerry Whelan.’ Duncan watched for a response or reaction.

‘What, Kerry? What’s happened to Kerry?’ Duncan marvelled at the man’s composure.

‘I have an occupier’s notice for you, which explains our powers and your rights during the search. Can we go into the house and I’ll discuss the whole thing with you?’

‘Yes, all right, come on.’

Burrell walked to the back door and ushered Duncan and Detective Sergeant Peter Walsh inside—Detective Constable Darren Deamer followed. The young cop had recently joined Parramatta detectives. His job would be to document the house contents and collect exhibits as another officer videotaped the search. The four men sat down at a dining-room table.

Duncan handed Burrell the occupier’s notice. ‘Read this first. Once you’ve done that we can then commence the search.’

Duncan also showed him the search warrant, which read in part: ‘Allan Duncan, a detective sergeant of Parramatta detectives (the applicant) a member of the Police Force of New South Wales and all other members of the Police Force of New South Wales to enter the premises known as Hillydale to search for typing equipment and stationery relating to the abduction of the missing person, Kerry Whelan.’ It listed the house contents, including the crossbow, the firearms, ammunition and a set of vehicle registration plates. ‘This search warrant expires at 6.30 p.m. on May 23 and must not be used after that time.’

Duncan kept his tone light. It was his job to build a rapport with Burrell in the hope he might disclose something of significance. ‘Bruce, we’re going to start with the inside of your house first, then begin a search on the outside property. I want you to remain with us during the entire search of the house.’

‘Fine,’ Burrell said. ‘But the property is four hundred and eighty-four acres. The search will take forever.’

Nearly 500 acres? Duncan tried not to seem alarmed. ‘We’ll try to get it done as quickly as possible.’

Outside, Couch had also learned Hillydale’s true size. Gary Duncan had radioed in from the perimeter fence. ‘Christ, mate, this ain’t twenty-four acres. It’s got to be at least ten times bigger than what we expected. The map we’ve got is shithouse. We’ll have to sit down and sort this out.’

An officer asked Burrell for a map. Hillydale comprised the house and sheds, a flat dry expanse, then rolling hills which extended to the edge of the dense woods of the Bungonia State Recreation Area, a caver’s paradise of almost 4000 hectares, and part of the vast Morton National Park. Much bigger than the Belanglo Forest, Gary Duncan told Couch, and probably rougher terrain.

What a bastard, Couch thought. He ran it over in his mind: the search of Hillydale itself could take a week or more, yet there was an unspoken resolve that it could and would be done.

If Burrell was shocked at the arrival of the troops, he was not showing it. His rage had evaporated; he was being terribly cooperative.

‘During our search of your house I want to have it recorded on audio and videotape by Senior Constable Lebreton of the police video unit,’ Allan Duncan told Burrell. ‘Do you agree to allow this search to be recorded?’

‘Sure, why not,’ Burrell shrugged. They might as well have just asked to borrow his barbecue for cooking snags, for all his apparent nonchalance.

‘We can turn the audio part of the recording off so no sound is recorded, if you wish,’ Duncan told him.

‘No, I’m happy to have everything recorded,’ Burrell said. Cool as a cucumber, Duncan thought. He would try later to get a rise out of him.

‘As you can see from the warrant, we’re carrying out an investigation regarding the disappearance of Kerry Whelan. You know her, don’t you?’

Burrell did not flinch. ‘This is such a shock,’ he said without emotion. ‘I don’t have a clue where she is.’

Duncan informed Burrell that following the house search, he would be taken to Goulburn police station for a formal interview.

‘Yes, all right.’ Burrell seemed unperturbed.

As Duncan cast his eye over the interior, he saw that not much had changed since their secret visit. Papers still strewn everywhere. Décor, country comfortable: mismatched furnishings, floral curtains and dishes in the sink. It did not look like a woman had been here for a long time.

Over the next hour, Burrell watched as officers went from room to room, recovering items. He did not question how the search warrant had come to contain such a full list of his house contents or how police knew exactly where to find them.

In the main bedroom’s walk-in wardrobe, Ricky Agius found crossbow bolts in a plastic bag. Behind some clothing in the wardrobe was a Bennett brand crossbow. In a locked metal cabinet on the floor of the wardrobe were numerous firearms and ammunition. Among them was Bernie Whelan’s .223 Ruger rifle, the one Burrell had said was stolen. The police retrieved the typewriter and the empty chloroform bottle. In total, eighteen items were seized.

Outside, the property now resembled an army compound post. Next to Burrell’s weatherboard house was a large bus equipped with computers, telecommunications equipment, maps and desks. Four large army tents had been erected alongside, with Portaloos, a kitchen and a generator.

Couch directed senior officers to search the most obvious hiding places: a separate single garage, a shearing shed, a disused slaughterhouse, a backyard toilet and a hayshed. Nothing. Not even the angry wombat.

Gary Duncan did a general sweep of several steep gullies on the far expanses of the property. At 10.50 a.m., he announced the first exterior find: a Yamaha quad bike, which was found in paddock number 6. Agius and Allan Duncan took Burrell over to it to formally question him.

‘I honestly don’t know anything about it,’ he said. ‘It looks like my neighbour’s, Kevin Cooper. He had one stolen.’ Burrell put on a concerned frown.

The Coopers had reported the bike stolen six or seven weeks earlier. It was taken from the shed where Kevin Cooper always parked it, with the keys hanging from a nail. The thief had also stolen three cases of beer from an old fridge beside the bike.

As Burrell was signing the police record of interview, OSG officers were following an eerie trail through thick woods. They were some 200 metres off a dirt track west of the homestead when they came upon Burrell’ s Jaguar Sovereign. It lay beyond an old gate, invisible from the roadway, and they rushed to look inside. No sign of Kerry. Again.

Burrell was led from the house to the Jaguar.

Before questioning him, Allan Duncan read Burrell his rights—under common law—to remain silent. ‘I want you to understand that you’re not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so as anything you may say or do will be recorded and later used in evidence. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who owns the Jaguar?’ Duncan asked.

‘I thought I did. No I don’t know who owns it.’

‘How did the vehicle come to be parked here?’

‘I brought it up here to be able to get out because the road was getting slippery.’ Burrell said he did not know it was stolen—he had acquired it from ‘a bloke called Tony’ who he met in a pub.

‘Mr Burrell, I now advise you that you are now under arrest for what I believe to be a stolen vehicle,’ Duncan said. ‘Do you understand that?’

‘I do.’

Back at Goulburn police station Burrell would be charged with six car and firearm offences.

It was 1.23 p.m. and there was still much of Burrell’s property to be searched. For the moment Burrell was not handcuffed. The police wanted to keep him friendly, if that was still possible.

In the house, Burrell banged cups and slammed cupboard doors as he made the officers a coffee. A reaction at last, thought Duncan.

‘Do you really need to turn the house upside down?’ Burrell said. His voice was whiny, like a spoilt child. ‘What will the neighbours think? I’ll have to move after all this is over.’

Duncan said nothing, but thought the words revealing. Burrell was concerned about his own well-being, but not a word had been uttered by him about his so-called friends, the Whelans. No enquiry about how or when Kerry had gone missing, nor of how Bernie and his children were faring.

At four o’clock, Burrell was told to grab his coat and accompany Duncan into town for further questioning. The OSG was also packing up. A wintry dusk had cast a heavy shadow over Hillydale and it was unsafe and unwise to continue the search today. Couch and his team would come to learn that the weather would dictate their working hours. Four officers remained on Hillydale overnight to ensure the currency of the search warrant and to keep an eye on Burrell’s movements once he returned from Goulburn. The rest of the team returned to Goulburn to wash their vehicles, conduct equipment checks and meet for a debriefing.

By this time, the Alpine motel’s owner was bristling with suspicion. This was more than a training exercise, he reckoned, and he probed Couch. ‘Whatcha really up to, mate? Is there some sort of drug raid?’