Ladykiller (27 page)
Burrell met up with old Goulburn friends twice in late 1996, at the fifty-year reunion of his old swimming club in November, and at the Goulburn Club Christmas Party on 14 December, organised by his childhood friend, the Goul-burn accountant John MacCulloch. At the swimming dinner in the Goulburn Soldiers Club, Burrell sat at a table with Mick Maclay and Cathie Tulloh. At first, Mick did not recognise the round, balding man, thinking, ‘Shit, that’s not right, that can’t be him.’ The last time Maclay had seen him, twenty-five years earlier, Bruce had long blond hair and, while he was never lean, he had a muscular physique.
Bruce asked Cathie Tulloh about her relationship status. They were around the same age. Bruce told her, ‘I have made and lost two fortunes and two wives.’
Tulloh quipped, ‘I have two children and my husband has gone to God.’
At midnight when the club closed, Bruce and Mick decided to kick on at a nightclub. Tulloh declined Bruce’s invitation to join them and the men drove off in Bruce’s silver Jaguar.
‘Gee, you’ve done all right for yourself, mate,’ Maclay said.
‘Yeah, mate, not bad. I’m in advertising,’ Burrell said.
The pair drank until 3 a.m. and arranged to meet up the following Friday. Burrell picked Maclay up from his house in Goulburn and they went to the Astor Nightclub. This time Burrell was driving a four-wheel drive Pajero. Maclay left his leather jacket in Burrell’s vehicle and never saw it again.
A week later, Burrell called Tulloh and invited her to lunch. They had a second date in the new year, when Bruce took her out to a Thai restaurant in Goulburn. Tulloh remembers a strange conversation over dinner.
‘Have you been to Tasmania?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been looking for a property to purchase in Tasmania . . . would you consider living down there on a farm?’
Tulloh was a bit taken aback, but recovered well. ‘No, there are not enough heated pools down there,’ she said.
Two days later Bruce called her and cancelled an arrangement they had to meet, saying, ‘I fell off my motorbike and hurt my ribs.’
‘Are you all right?’ Tulloh said.
‘Lucky, I was here by myself and I managed to get to my neighbour, who is a doctor.’
From then on, Burrell spent virtually all his time at Bungonia, occasionally staying in Sydney with his father or one of his sisters. One friend who drove down to Hillydale for the weekend with two others remembers his obsession with the ‘backpacker murder’ case. In July 1996 Ivan Milat had been sentenced to life imprisonment for the murders of seven hitchhikers, whose bodies he had buried in the Belanglo State Forest around 50 kilometres north of Bungonia. Bruce spoke animatedly to his guests about the weapons cache police found at Milat’s house.
On the Saturday evening, the men were standing around the barbecue discussing the backpacker murders again. Burrell gestured to the forest beyond the property. ‘You could hide a body so easily out there and no one would ever find it,’ he said. ‘I know that area like the back of my hand.’
In January 1997 Bruce telephoned his old colleague, Peter Buckley of Ultra Tune in Parramatta. Buckley used to think Bruce was pleasant enough, an affable person with a large group of friends, a good lifestyle, everything a man could want or buy, but the series of conversations he was to endure with Burrell would forever change his opinion. There was a vicious streak in Bruce, and Buckley began to formulate a new picture of Burrell in his mind: ‘a loner, a lonely man, a planner [with] a very black side to him’.
The illusion Bruce Burrell had built up around himself had all but crumbled. The wealthy gent with the smart wife, the Jaguar, the seaside townhouse and the rural estate was really a man bordering on bankruptcy. He drove stolen cars and lived off the money of his wife and any other person he could fleece. The country seat was a motley spread bordered by a dense, ugly forest. Its country squire was mortgaged to the hilt and—brooding and lonely with only his dog and his guns for company—he was descending into a violent desperation and a kind of madness.
Bruce Burrell’s financial situation had been bleak for some time. By January 1997, it was perilous. The divorce settlement had come through just before Christmas 1996. Burrell did not fare too badly, considering he had contributed little to his eleven-year marriage. Dallas had not disputed the claim, glad to be rid of him and also scared of what her ex-husband was capable of doing if he did not get his way.
Burrell kept Hillydale and the dog, Rebel, while Dallas took the seaside apartment in Sydney’s eastern suburbs. However, they both needed to take out a $125 000 loan to pay out Dallas’s parents, with whom they had bought the 195-hectare farm in the late 1980s. Burrell had secured his loan by lying about his employment and submitting false income documents. His monthly repayments would be $1016, which he could not possibly afford. His father had recently lent him another $15 000, but it was almost gone. Burrell could sell a few bits of machinery, a tractor perhaps, and the few remaining cattle. But he was becoming desperate; his personal fantasy of being a rich country squire was fast slipping away, and he could not bear to be exposed. Burrell would lose Hillydale unless he acquired money. He needed cash. Lots of it, quickly.
Any other person would have sought work. Not Bruce. He had a grander plan. It would be an ambitious and elaborate venture, which would be more daring than anything he had done before. He would use intimidation, and violence if necessary, to regain power and control. But it would make him rich. Burrell would take his time; this would require patient and meticulous planning. It would be similar to a contract killing, except he did not need a hit man. Burrell would do the killing himself. On hot January nights at Hillydale, Burrell sat drinking beer on his verandah, and writing outlines for a kidnap and ransom that would captivate a nation. It would go down in history as one of Australia’s great unsolved crimes.
On 14 January 1997, Burrell called the help desk at Canon Australia, which dealt with customer enquiries about Canon typewriters, printers and other devices. Details of the call were not logged, but police believe Burrell was enquiring about the ‘daisy wheel’ in his Canon typewriter.
Around the same time, Burrell was trying to get his hands on a boat. He asked his former boss, Peter Buckley, if he knew anybody who owned one.
‘What do you want it for?’ Buckley said.
‘I want to go fishing, about eight to ten kilometres from shore.’
Burrell had never shown an interest in boats or fishing. His question surprised Buckley, who could not help him, and did not want to. He had started to become wary of Burrell. He did not quite trust him. In January 1997 Burrell had asked Buckley for help in refinancing a loan. ‘Maaate,’ he said, ‘can you write me a letter and say I work for you and earn sixty or seventy thousand?’
‘I don’t want to do that sort of thing, that’s fraud,’ Buckley said. Over the next few months, Burrell approached Buckley again, pestering him for a loan of $15 000. Four times he asked, saying, ‘You’ve got to help me out. I need some money. I promise you, I’ll pay the money back.’ When Buckley turned him down for the last time, Burrell became threatening: ‘Get me the fucking money, right, just make it fucking happen.’ Not many people scared Buckley. But Burrell had. He severed all contact with Burrell, refusing to take his calls.
Oddly though, while Burrell was desperately seeking out cash, he was making plans for big-buck ventures. On 28 February he phoned the Tasmania Development and Resource Office in Hobart and spoke to Benjamin Wagner about setting up a winery in the region. Burrell said he intended moving to Tasmania and wanted to know about costings and the viability of growing grapes there.
‘You’d need a minimum of $400 000, sir, and that’s not including the associated costs.’ Mr Wagner said the total outlay would be a million dollars and Burrell did not make any protest at the amount.
By April, Burrell’s funds had drained. His bank balance read $1650. Another mortgage repayment was due to be deducted soon. Burrell picked up the phone and punched in the number for Crown Equipment. Burrell had not spoken to his former boss, Bernie Whelan, in four years, yet he knew Bernie would be polite and forthcoming. Burrell took notes as Bernie explained that he travelled to Adelaide every second Wednesday for work. ‘And how’s Kerry and the kids?’ Burrell asked before hanging up.
Burrell put down the phone and looked at his diary circling Wednesday 16 April. Before then, however, there was much to do. With gloves on, he typed the ransom letter. He had spent days crafting it. He thought it was brilliant. He threw the daisy wheel and ribbon in a fire he lit in the yard.
Burrell would need to create an alibi. He decided to stay at his father’s house at North Balgowlah, on Sydney’s northern beaches, on 15 April. The next morning, he told Allan Burrell he was going to a demonstration at the Macquarie shopping centre. He laid a large sheet of plastic in the boot of his Jaguar, and then drove his car towards the Whelans’ property, the ransom note in his top pocket. At Kurrajong he discovered an unexpected obstacle: Amanda Minton-Taylor and James Whelan were at home with Kerry. It was bad luck, but Burrell prided himself on thinking on his feet. He was flexible and resourceful.
Whatever Burrell told Kerry, it was enough for her to agree to meet him on 6 May at Parramatta. Burrell drove back to his father’s house. He decided not to redo the ransom letter. Too hard—besides, he reckoned it was a work of genius.
Burrell was isolated down on the farm. Occasionally he saw his neighbours, the Coopers. He sometimes phoned Dallas, although she always tried to end the conversation quickly. She had recently confided to a friend, ‘It’s funny how you can live with someone for eleven years and not really know them.’
Dallas was due to fly to Italy on 7 May. She had been diagnosed with cervical abnormalities and wanted a rest before surgery. Two days before she flew out, Burrell called her. He was angry and she could not make sense of his tirade: ‘Slow down, Bruce. What are you talking about?’ Dallas said. Her ex-husband complained that the rates bill had arrived, and even though Hillydale was now mortgaged solely to him, the letter still had Dallas and her mother listed as the owners. Dallas told him she would sort it out. She could not wait to be on that plane and away from him. She had no idea, however, what she would return to.
Burrell was concocting a new alibi. This time it would be a sore back, which would confine him to bed for the first ten days of May. He set the alibi in motion on Sunday 4 May by visiting his neighbours, Kevin and Beryl Cooper, where he complained of a crook back. Burrell stood at the door talking to Kevin; he told his neighbour he was unable to sit down.
‘How ’bout a VB, Bruce?’ but Burrell knocked back the offer. Cooper was surprised—Burrell’s back must be bad, he thought.
Burrell had called his doctor two days earlier to report a sciatic nerve problem and ask for a prescription. On Monday 5 May, despite his supposed ailing back, Burrell drove into Goulburn and bought two cartons of VB, which he carried to his car. He also banked one of his few remaining cheques, for $150. He had just $634 in his bank account.
The next morning, 6 May 1997, Burrell left Hillydale at 8 a.m. and headed to the Parkroyal Hotel at Parramatta. It was a clear yet cool morning. It was time for Burrell to put his master plan into action. He would never have to worry about money again.
On April Fool’s Day 1999, Bruce Burrell woke up in new surroundings. He had been brought down to Sydney in a prison van the night before and taken to a cell at Silverwater prison and then on to the Sydney Police Centre in Surry Hills that morning. Dennis Bray wanted a word.
Dressed in prison greens, Burrell was ushered without handcuffs into the charge room of the centre’s homicide and serial violent crime unit. Bray and another detective, Nigel Warren, were seated at a rectangular table.
‘Mr Burrell,’ Bray began. ‘We are here to inform you that you are under arrest for the kidnap and murder of Kerry Patricia Whelan—’
‘What?’ interrupted a surprised Burrell. His eyes bulged slightly and he flushed red.
Bray continued: ‘… on May 6, 1997, at Parramatta.’ Burrell leant forward as Bray delivered the lines: ‘You are not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do or say will be recorded and used in evidence. Do you understand that?’
‘Yeah, I mean I don’t understand,’ Burrell said, clutching his hands together tightly. It was almost two years since Kerry Whelan’s disappearance and as far as Burrell was concerned, the case was closed. If police had evidence, they would have moved before this. So he thought.
Bray and Warren left the interview room, telling Burrell that a custody officer would speak to him. Thirty minutes later, they returned. Burrell had acquired the on-duty Legal Aid solicitor, Greg Meakin. Bray began the formal interview at 7.48 a.m., starting with the usual questions: name, current occupation . . .
Burrell deadpanned: ‘I’m an inmate of the New South Wales prison system.’
As soon as Bray turned to questions about the kidnap and disappearance of Mrs Whelan, Burrell became defensive. ‘I’ve got no comment,’ he declared.
‘Do you intend to answer any questions in relation to this matter?’
‘I don’t believe so. No, on legal advice,’ he glared at Bray.
Bray stared coolly back. ‘Would you like me to show you a number of items of evidence in this matter?’
‘Yes.’ Burrell seemed astonishingly confident. Almost smug. If he thought that Bray could not have much on him, he was wrong.
Bray played the footage from the security surveillance cameras at the Parkroyal Hotel in Parramatta, which, he told Burrell, had recorded activities within and outside the hotel on the day Mrs Whelan vanished. Nigel Warren paused and rewound the tape as Bray pointed out people and movements to Burrell.
Burrell remained expressionless, although, until this moment he had not been aware of the film’s existence. Yet he did not flinch. He refused to agree it was his vehicle in the video, repeating only, ‘I’ve got no comment to make at all. On legal advice.’