Ladykiller (20 page)
Carleton looked at Burrell with something that amounted to respect. His coolness was extraordinary. The reporter asked about his relationship with Mrs Davis.
Burrell: ‘Dottie Davis was a good friend of my wife’s parents. My wife thought a great deal of her . . . we basically all got along very well.’
Carleton: ‘You were a suspect in her case?’
Burrell: ‘No, I don’t accept I should be a suspect.’
Carleton bared his teeth: ‘If they are digging up your backyard at Lurline Bay, you are a suspect.’
Burrell: ‘There were areas they were searching around this vicinity I didn’t even know existed. What police do or don’t do is something I have no control over or ability to comment on.’
Burrell was too comfortable. Carleton threw in a curved ball. ‘Why did she give you a cheque?’
Burrell began to blink rapidly, but his voice was calm. ‘Dottie first spoke to me in late 1993 and asked me if I’d do her a favour and I said “yes, sure”. In the middle of 1994 I did conduct a financial transaction on her behalf . . . I have been asked by police not to discuss this issue.’ This was not true, but Burrell continued, ‘I don’t know that I should canvass the issue on national TV.
’ Carleton beamed at him encouragingly. ‘I know the details of the transaction.’
Burrell: ‘I’m not imposing a gloss on it. I will give you the simple facts. Dottie asked me to deposit a cheque on my behalf in her name . . .’ Burrell’s story was that Dottie gave him $100 000 because she wanted to hide some money from her children.
Carelton: ‘You asked for a loan, didn’t you?’
Burrell: ‘False.’
Carleton: ‘She gave you a cheque for half a million, didn’t she?’
There was a slight pause before Burrell answered, ‘Correct, she did . . . the entire thing was bizarre.’
Carleton sparred with his subject for a minute. The interviewer was looking confident, smiling and jutting his chin forward, and peering down his elevated nose at Burrell: ‘You weren’t going to tell me about the half a million, were you?’
Burrell: ‘You didn’t ask me about it. And bearing in mind the police told me not to talk about it . . .’ This was another lie. Burrell made the tiniest of shrugs. ‘I rang my bank,’ he said. ‘They said, “Look, the cheque will not be honoured because there are insufficient funds in the account”, and that’s when Dottie said, “Well, that’s okay, we can do it with a lesser amount”, and I said, “Sure, not a problem”. She’d indicated to me that she wanted it kept very quiet. She didn’t want the kids to know. To me she was a wealthy eccentric family friend who wanted a problem resolved. She asked me to help her and I did.’
Carleton: ‘There was ten grand for your troubles?’
Burrell: ‘After there was a mix-up with the first cheque, she felt terribly bad about it. She said, “I only want ninety, that’s for you and your wife”.’
Carleton: ‘Would you concede that my account—that you got into Dottie Davis for a $500 000 loan—is more plausible?’
Burrell: ‘No, your story is not more plausible.’
Carleton: ‘Did you volunteer the information about the money to the police?’
Burrell: ‘Yes.’
Carleton knew this was untrue. He turned to Burrell’s unannounced trip to Willow Park three weeks before Mrs Whelan’s abduction.
If Burrell was surprised that Carleton knew, he kept a poker face: ‘I can assure you that between the date I spoke with Mrs Whelan in April and the date she apparently disappeared, I had absolutely no contact whatsoever of any description, by telephone, personally, by letter, nothing.’
Carleton: ‘Were you having an affair with Mrs Whelan?’
Burrell: ‘No, I was not. I had that put to me before and it’s just ridiculous.’
Carleton: ‘Did you feel uncomfortable alone in the house with a married woman?’
Burrell: ‘No, I mean, her son was there and the lady who looked after the horses was around as well, so there’s no reason to feel uncomfortable.’
Carleton: ‘Isn’t it true you schemed to see Mrs Whelan in her husband’s absence?’
Burrell: ‘Untrue.’
Carleton: ‘Do you think it’s strange that Mrs Whelan did not tell her husband that you called?’
‘I think it’s extremely strange,’ Burrell said, and paused. He looked confused. Carleton was baring his teeth again. ‘I’ve lost my train of thought,’ Burrell said, and called for his dog, Rebel.
Carleton: ‘What do you think Mr Whelan thinks of you now?’
Burrell: ‘I think unfortunately with the circumstances of everything that has occurred that his opinion of me at this point in time is not very high.’
Carleton: ‘Someone has got away with this?’
Burrell: ‘That is a major frustration from my point of view because whilst all the effort has been concentrated upon me, whoever has been responsible for this crime is out there laughing. I can assure you Richard, I’m not laughing.’
It was around midday. The crew wanted to have a break and get some footage of Burrell’s neighbours, the Coopers. In their car the Channel 9 crew followed Burrell over. In the Coopers’ kitchen Burrell donated some of his beer to Kevin. Burrell, an hour later, refreshed by a temperate two cans, had a wild story to relate for the Nine cameras, an utterly improbable tale.
Just last week, Bruce said, around nine o’clock one night, there was a knock on the side of his house and a voice calling out, saying it was ‘the police’. Burrell looked out into the blackness, he said, and saw the silhouettes of two people near the camellia bush. A voice said to him, ‘For reasons that will become obvious we will not be able to identify ourselves, but we are police!’ Then, according to Bruce, they said, ‘We believe you have been talking to the current affairs guys,’ and Bruce said, ‘Oh God, is nothing sacred to you guys? I know my phones are bugged,’ and they said, ‘If you were to consider not talking to
60 Minutes
there’s a possibility the charges you are facing could be dropped.’ As the camera kept rolling Burrell’s face and neck flushed a bright beetroot red. Perhaps he realised how ludicrous the story sounded.
Richard Carleton was listening intently, and then interrupted Burrell’s narrative: ‘What you are saying is very, very serious, Mr Burrell. It is not plausible because the police,’ Carleton continued, ‘are in favour of us talking to you in the hope that you will say something they can trap you with. They want you on
60 Minutes
.’ Carleton’s voice was gentle. ‘Did it happen?’
‘It definitely happened,’ Burrell said. The rosy blush had spread and was blooming on the top of his chest above his shirt.
Burrell looked relieved when the producer interrupted; the crew needed to get what the television industry calls ‘overlay’ footage, of Burrell the farmer with his dog, riding on the quad bike and talking on the two-way radio. Burrell relished the attention. Next to one of the outer buildings, he played woodsman for the camera. Barrett laughed to himself. For a man with a crook back, Burrell did a mighty job of splitting tree trunks.
The Burrell interview aired on Sunday 24 August and scored one of the highest ratings of any show that week. It sparked vigorous debate over his innocence or guilt on talkback radio the next morning. Dennis Bray ordered a search warrant for the
60 Minutes
office and the footage was seized.
The same day as the
60 Minutes
report, Sydney’s
Sunday
Telegraph
ran a report about Barbie Rogers, a former TV game show hostess and model, becoming embroiled in Taskforce Bellaire’s investigations. Ms Rogers had purchased the Lurline Bay duplex from Bruce and Dallas Burrell in 1997 and, following that, bizarre things had happened at her home. Her burglar alarm was repeatedly triggered, but there was no sign of an intruder. Her car was stolen and found dumped months later in Liverpool; its contents, including her mobile phone, were almost intact, although covered in cobwebs. And then in July 1997 the police had knocked on Rogers’ door with a polite request to dig up an area of ground under her garage. They were looking for the body of Dorothy Davis.
On 1 November, police officially expanded Taskforce Bellaire into a double murder investigation, but the main suspect was yet to be charged.
Detective Dennis Bray’s dreams were haunted by the Kerry Whelan case. He was not the only one. Kerry’s friends and family dreamed of her in various states . . . alive and well, held hostage, or speaking from the grave. Bray’s visions, however, were more technical than colourful. His wife, Narelle, watched him wrestle in his sleep with the unsolved crime. As the months wound on, the pressure was on Bray and the taskforce to make an arrest. Good detective work had progressed the case to a point where they had a decent brief of evidence against Burrell; just a few details were missing . . . in particular, the bodies.
In the new year, Bray consulted with the New South Wales Department of Public Prosecutions to see if there was enough evidence to convict Burrell. The chief prosecutor, Mark Tedeschi, QC, would lead the case if it ever got to court and Bray kept him up to date with its complexities. Tedeschi believed the evidence so far was strong, particularly Burrell’s phone call from a Goulburn phone box, but he wanted something more. Tests of the ransom letter and envelope had revealed nothing. Robert Goetz, a forensic biologist at the Division of Analytical Laboratories in Sydney, had even tested the back of the stamp on the ransom letter envelope, in case somebody had licked it. No DNA evidence appeared to link Burrell with the crime and the large number of hairs vacuumed up from his vehicles were mostly animal. Either Burrell had gone to great lengths to clean up, or he was plain lucky. Goetz explained that DNA deposits were not as ubiquitous as television crime shows indicated. From thousands of stolen vehicles he had examined, only a tiny proportion harboured DNA. ‘There are some people that are good shedders of DNA, others are not,’ Goetz said. If the vehicles had been left outside for two weeks, that could also have destroyed any DNA.
The taskforce was speculating on how Burrell had subdued Kerry. He had bought the chloroform found at his house from the Surfside Pharmacy at Maroubra, near where Dallas and Bruce had lived in their ocean-front duplex. Pharmacist John Roper told police Bruce and Dallas were regulars at his chemist shop. Burrell’s request for the chloroform had startled the old chemist, but he issued it on the basis that Burrell was of ‘seemingly good character’. Pharmacists could still dispense chloroform without a prescription; it was sold pure and was a general anaesthetic with the potential to cause death. It was often used for industrial or agricultural purposes.
Roper could not remember the reason Burrell gave for needing the drug; possibly, it was to eradicate rabbits on his farm. When questioned, Burrell told police he bought the chloroform as a cleaning agent. ‘I don’t know why it’s empty actually, but it was originally bought as a solvent,’ Burrell said. Burrell’s explanation for buying it was that his father-in-law, Les Bromley, had left a pair of trousers on the heater at their Hillydale home, which had burnt into the surface of the heater. ‘We used Jif and scourers and God knows what else and it wouldn’t come out and we were advised to use chloroform as a solvent,’ Burrell said.
As frustration grew within the taskforce, Commander Mick Howe, accompanied by Dennis Bray, decided to pay Burrell a visit at Hillydale. Bray found Burrell working in his backyard. Burrell initially thought Bray was on his own, and welcomed Dennis like an old mate. ‘G’day, Dennis, you fucking bastard. How are ya?’ His tone was very familiar and shocked Howe, who was behind Bray. ‘What you doing out here?’
‘I just want you to meet the boss,’ Bray said.
Burrell’s demeanor immediately changed when he realised Howe was with him.
‘This is Mick Howe,’ Bray said.
‘Oh.’ Burrell stood up straight. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’
Howe could not believe Burrell’s turnaround. In an instant, he had dropped the slang and adopted a formal, posh voice. He sounded very British, Howe thought.
‘To what do I owe this visit, Inspector?’
‘Well, Mr Burrell, you’ve indicated on
60 Minutes
that you want to help this investigation, so get your hat and we’ll go back to Goulburn and have a chat.’
Bruce looked perplexed. ‘No, I’m not answering any questions, on legal advice . . . what do you want to ask me?’
‘I think you may find the questions very interesting, and possibly very difficult to answer,’ Howe told him.
‘See,’ Burrell said like a child, ‘there’s an inference there that you think I may know something about Dottie or Kerry that I haven’t told you.’ Burrell, insolent, added: ‘You yourself, Inspector, describe me not as a suspect but as a person of interest.’
Howe was riled. ‘Well, let’s just set the record straight, shall we, Mr Burrell. As far as I’m concerned, and I speak for all taskforce investigators, you are directly responsible in some way or another for the disappearance of Dorothy Davis and the kidnap and suspected murder of Kerry Whelan.’
Burrell stood at the gate and made no reply.
Howe was taken aback by Burrell’s reaction; he appeared neither distressed nor perturbed that he had been fingered for two murders. Howe continued. ‘I appreciate you are acting on the advice of your solicitor. I imagine that our next meeting will take place in the Coroner’s Court.’
‘What do you, mean? What Coroner’s Court?’ Burrell looked confused. He took a step closer to Howe.
‘At some stage or another, the disappearances of both Dorothy Davis and Kerry Whelan will be determined in the Coroner’s Court. I propose to call you as a witness in those proceedings.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘You didn’t think that by refusing to be interviewed we’d call the whole thing off and go away, did you?’
Burrell stood mute as the detectives left . Howe prayed the case would make it to the Supreme Court, long before the need for an inquest.
The taskforce—which had been reduced to six investigators and moved to new headquarters in inner-city Strawberry Hills—needed hard evidence and a strong brief for the DPP. The taskforce believed that Burrell’s original plan had been to kidnap Kerry when he visited her at Kurrajong on 16 April. He had designed the ransom note for that day—instead of losing a day by posting it, Burrell would have left it on the table after he had bundled Kerry into the boot of his car. Had his 16 April plan succeeded, Bernie would have discovered the note on the kitchen table and would have taken heed of the warning that ‘at no time are the police to be brought in’. ‘Had you done so,’ Bray informed Bernie, ‘you would have been killed when you delivered the money. Two people would have just vanished off the face of the earth.’