Chapter 20

The Eye of the Storm

No one wanted Operation DALOA to close down, but it was inevitable. The police had been chasing ghosts and still had no idea where Lauren and Nichole were. Sadly, a good deal of time had been spent following up sightings of them all over the country. Clearly, the sightings had been false.

An inspector came from Batemans Bay to downgrade the search. All the officers were gathered and thanked by the Collins and Barry families before going home to their families. They had been away for a long time. It was time to catch up and get away from the stress, but the girls were still missing. No one felt good.

Delma Collins couldn’t believe they were going. She felt abandoned. Rationalising that they would all be called back if any firm leads were uncovered, she still couldn’t help feeling disheartened. There had been so many detectives and now …

‘Please don’t give up,’ she inwardly implored. ‘Don’t give up.’

Four detectives based in Bega remained on the case. Not one was aware how quickly this would change.

After Operation DALOA was scaled down, Graeme Collins decided that he and Delma needed some time away from searching to renew their strength. If they remained at home, the impulse to continue searching each day would be too great. A trip upstate to Wollongong, he resolved, would stop them going insane. It had seemed like a good idea, but as they drove along the windy coastal roads there seemed an interminable amount of bush. His daughter’s body could be anywhere. Hence, the trip offered little relief. The first thing they did as they drove back into town from Wollongong was head for the police station. Graeme found Detective Sergeant Mark Winterflood.

‘I’ve got a bit of information that might be encouraging,’ the police officer said, smiling at Graeme.

‘What, you’ve got a few ripples on the water, have you?’

‘No, got more than a few ripples, mate. I’ve got a bloody tidal wave.’

To Graeme’s mind, the softly spoken detective appeared laidback but was extremely astute. Since Operation DALOA had been scaled down, he and some of his colleagues had quietly continued to sift through any new leads and follow up old ones. Graeme and Detective Sergeant Winterflood had maintained contact throughout that time. The detective had wanted to be involved in the investigation from the beginning, but had been away on a training course and was denied permission to return. He joined the investigative team a week before it was disbanded. Being local, he now continued to work the case. Two pieces of information had come in over the last few days.

The first was that a known felon was now residing, courtesy of the Department of Housing, with his de facto in the area. His name was Camilleri. The second was that a man named Beckett had been picked up for driving a stolen car. The two were known associates. Initially, the detectives’ department in Yass had contacted the police in Bega with a list of reasons why Camilleri and Beckett should be monitored. They were a mini crime wave: including childhood offences, the two had almost 200 convictions against them, with 146 against Camilleri. In Yass, rumour had it that since the duo had arrived, within a year or so of each other, the crime rate had increased noticeably. There were fires set in town, cars stolen and burnt, break and enters and drunken brawls. Camilleri was seen to be the main instigator.

Born on 31 May 1969 in Liverpool, in Sydney’s west, Leslie Alfred Camilleri had first faced Minda Children’s Court in 1981. He had been 12 years old, and the charges had been for break and enter and stealing. He had continued to make regular appearances on the New South Wales juvenile circuit for a variety of misdemeanours, including motor vehicle offences, theft and carrying a weapon, until he had moved to Queensland around 1986. Three years later he had fronted a multitude of charges in Brisbane Magistrate’s Court. The charges had included 92 for stealing and 15 for an unlawful use of a motor vehicle. He had been sentenced to three years. It wasn’t until late 1994 that Camilleri and his de facto of just over two years, Helen, had moved to Yass, accompanied by her 11-year-old daughter and their five-month-old, Jade. It was there that he met Beckett.

Lindsay Hoani Beckett was also known as ‘Kiwi’, a nickname he had apparently given himself, and ‘Razormouth’, due to his jagged teeth, said to have torn many a knuckle punched his way. He showed an uncanny resemblance to the young Koori man who had previously been interviewed by Bega detectives about the girls’ disappearance. Born in Opotiki, New Zealand on 27 March 1974, he had fled to Australia from his abusive stepfather when he was 16. He never knew his natural father, who allegedly raped his mother when she was 15, leaving her pregnant with him. His stepfather had beaten him regularly, on one occasion stabbing him in his hand because he couldn’t find his shed keys. Two years before he escaped, Beckett began smoking cannabis. He had already been drinking for a year by then. He had left school at 15, and 12 months later he travelled over the Tasman to arrive in Australia.

Beckett found some stability in Australia through an uncle in Colac and then love, when he met girlfriend, Lauralee, at a refuge in Griffith. Their stormy and violent relationship would end in 1996, the year after his third natural child, Leeanzia, was born. His stepdaughter, Nikki, was a newborn when he and Lauralee met. Their first child together, Ethan, was born in 1993. Annaleese was born in 1994. During this period he allegedly subjected their mother to numerous beatings and rapes.

Until 1995, when he met Camilleri, Beckett had only gathered a small collection of charges, which included assault and malicious damage. The father of four appeared to have become the older man’s sidekick, helping him out with odd jobs he scrounged around town. Camilleri used his bulk to intimidate people. He was well known to the police and he was well versed in criminal rights. No connection had earlier been made between him and the missing teenagers, despite his both being on bail for multiple child-sex offences and having a complaint made against him by a local teenager. She had refused to press charges but had told police he had tried to sexually assault her after he had pushed his way into her flat. There had been no reason to link the various events. The Yass detectives’ suspicions were, however, eventually aroused while interviewing a local drug user about some cheque matters.

During the interview, as was common practice, the detectives sniffed around for any information relating to other crimes the young man might have known of involving his associates. The solid hint he had dropped on Camilleri and Beckett, with regard to the Bega girls, came totally out of left field. The informant had nothing concrete to offer, but enough of a tale that Yass police contacted what was left of Operation DALOA and began digging for more information.

At the other end of the Barton Highway, in Canberra, another series of events had also run their course, leading to the second piece of information. Just before 1.00 a.m. on Saturday, 25 October, two officers of the Australian Federal Police had been leaving the driveway of a service station in the suburb of Holder when they noticed a red Commodore travelling north along Blackwood Terrace. A registration check had confirmed that it was a stolen vehicle. Turning in the same direction, the police had tried to intercept the vehicle, and as its driver had refused to stop, a chase ensued. Speeds in excess of 120 kilometres per hour had been reached before the officers had momentarily lost sight of their target. When they found the vehicle again, it had been abandoned and both occupants had fled. However, inside the cabin, among other items, had been a black bag containing clothes and an A4 ring binder full of papers pertaining to the name of Lindsay Hoani Beckett. Back at Woden Police Station the property had been sorted and catalogued when the police had opened the boot and found a black ‘Bone Head’ canvas backpack containing maps of the South Coast and bloodstained denim jeans.

The following Monday, in the early hours of the morning, the two constables had arrested Beckett at Canberra Hospital for suspected motor vehicle theft. He had denied the allegations. The names of Lindsay Hoani Beckett and Leslie Alfred Camilleri were placed on the Bega detectives’ board for investigation.

The first port of call in researching the two was the police informant in Yass. The 35-year-old drug user had known Beckett and Camilleri for a few months. He had bought amphetamines and sold stolen goods with them, and now shared a unit with Beckett. The informant told the police he hadn’t seen his partners in crime the weekend of the girls’ disappearance, but on the afternoon of the Tuesday, 7 October, they had arrived at the flat. He recalled there had been a newspaper with the story of two girls missing from Bega. Camilleri had picked it up and said, ‘I bet the dogs try to pin this on me.’

The informant had remained silent. Camilleri had already threatened to break his legs and burn his parents’ house down. He wasn’t going to set him off.

‘That night,’ he told the policemen, ‘we had a conversation about going over to Canberra and stealing some cars.’ They had piled into Camilleri’s Telstar, which was a pigsty, and driven to the capital city. There, they had taken a Hyundai and a Laser, but had only driven one home to Yass. A day later, they had returned to the Canberra suburb of Belconnen to pick up the Laser and driven all the cars to Sydney. At 2.00 a.m. on Thursday, 9 October, the informant continued, he and Beckett had been told to help clean out the Telstar. The sun had risen by the time they had finished at the Carlovers Car Wash in Leumeah. They had shampooed the carpets and seats, vacuumed and Armor-alled everything. Even the boot had been shampooed. The trio had returned to Yass on Friday, 10 October, after a roadside sleep in the car. The informant recalled that Camilleri’s de facto had waited until she and the informant were alone and asked him if he thought Camilleri had anything to do with the disappearance of the girls. She hadn’t specified which girls, but he had known which ones she meant.

Camilleri scared him. He had seen him act violently before. In the past month, the informant had taken up the habit of dealing drugs for his newfound friend. More recently, the informant had pocketed the profits. Camilleri had demanded his money. In fear, the informant had run away. He had been in hiding that long weekend. His neighbour had rung to tell him that Camilleri and Beckett had stolen his clothes and television. When they had finally caught up with him on the Tuesday, Camilleri and Beckett told him that the television was somewhere on the beach. They had dumped it because it took up too much room. His clothes had still been in the boot.

The statement opened another avenue of investigation: Camilleri’s de facto. Initially, she agreed to talk to the police, confirming sections of the informant’s story. However, she refused to believe that her partner was involved. The informant’s flatmate, Lindsay, was another story. He was still being held at the Belconnen Remand Centre in Canberra for suspected car theft, where he had been since his arrest on the morning of 27 October.

On Wednesday, 5 November 1997, Detective Sergeant Mark Winterflood and his partner, Detective Senior Constable Stewart Gray, drove to Canberra to begin interviewing Beckett. A day later, Detective Sergeant Joe Mura would sound out Leslie Camilleri. He, too, was being remanded in custody. Three days after Beckett’s arrest, he had been picked up in Hall for breaching his bail conditions and the next day had been sent to Goulburn Correctional Centre pending a court appearance.

It was just after 1.30 p.m. on Thursday, 6 November, when Joe Mura cautioned Camilleri and began to ask his personal details.

‘Where do you reside?’

‘… East Street, Bega.’

‘Your date of birth?’

‘31 May 1969.’

‘And who do you reside with?’

The suspect had watery blue eyes and thin lips. His hair was a mass of loose curls and there was a ridge in his brow that made its lower section appear to protrude. One hundred and eighty-five centimetres tall, his broad frame was affected by drugs so was thin, yet his chin had a tendency to double. Both his disdain and apparent lack of interest in being questioned were clearly defined in his body language and his eyes.

‘Let me take you back to the long weekend in October … about a month ago. Do you remember it?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Are you able to tell me your movements?’

‘I’m not going to tell you where I was.’

The detective explained that he had been told that Camilleri was in fact in Bega on the afternoon of Sunday, 5 October. Camilleri agreed, but wanted to know who had told him. He claimed he had been with his friend Lindsay Beckett. The Bega long weekend festival was on, and having fought with his missus over her nagging, they had gone down the street with a case of beer to listen to some live music. Sitting in the park, under the bridge, they had talked until going to Yass. An additional 40 minutes driving time north-west of Canberra, Yass was quite some drive, but the 28-year-old claimed they had arrived at Yass just after lunch. He explained that they had been trying to catch a man who owed them money. Unable to locate him, they had a couple of shots of ‘goey’ or speed, and then travelled back to Canberra to put in a dole cheque.

It was a public holiday so the pair had not completed that task and had instead gone back to Yass. There, they had run into the man who owed them money. Words ensued, and all three had gone to Sydney and whacked up on an ounce of heroin.

‘A whole ounce?’ the detective repeated incredulously. That was just over 28 millilitres – he would have been dead before two millilitres hit his system.

‘Yeah. I was trying to kill myself. You know just …,’ his answer trailed away and then grew louder as he began to explain that he had read about the girls’ disappearance somewhere.

Steering the topic, the detective turned the suspect’s attention back to Bega and asked: ‘Which car were you in? A Pintara?’

‘Pintara … Pintara … I don’t …’

‘Sorry?’

‘White Telstar.’ He had been in a white Telstar with Beckett, and the alcohol they had bought in Bega had been with a cashed cheque. It was time to go over the story again. ‘So you don’t know what time you left … you left your de facto’s place?’

‘It was early …’ This time, Camilleri claimed he had left East Street and gone to the park, where they had bought a hot dog and some ice before heading to Yass to catch the man who owed them $700 for ‘goey’. ‘Do you know the Tathra area?’ he continued.

The day before, at lunchtime, Beckett told Detective Sergeant Mark Winterflood a similar story. He claimed he and Camilleri had gone to the Bega Festival when they were unable to find any videos they liked at the video store. Then they had travelled to Yass to see a man who owed them money. Beckett remained calm. He sat with his feet on the chair and desk as though he had nothing to hide. He was so unperturbed it was hard to believe that he may have been involved.

When the detective began to question him about whether he had been in a white car, Beckett replied that he had heard the car they were looking for was cream. Winterflood calmly continued to take him through his version of events, until he reached the topic of the television.

On the trip up to the interview, the detective had given his partner, Detective Senior Constable Stewart Gray, the statements made by Camilleri’s de facto and the man who owed him money to read. They had been heading up the Snowy Mountains Highway when the detective noticed a strange connection. Early on in the investigation, Gray had taken a statement from an abalone diver claiming he had seen a pink television set on the side of the road on Evans Hill early on the morning the girls had disappeared. A few hours later, as he had passed the same spot again, it had been gone. The sighting had seemed meaningless at the time, but they had recorded it anyway. In the car, in the statements before him, the police officer had read that a television and clothes had been taken as recompense for the money Camilleri was owed. And that a television and a slab of beer were on the back seat of the car when they had arrived at Camilleri’s place in Bega that long weekend. He had suggested to his partner that the two suspects could have removed the television from the car on Evans Hill in order to fit the girls in the back.

Winterflood had thought the idea was a bit far-fetched, but during his interview the cocky 24-year-old became agitated enough to sit up when the set was mentioned. In all, he was fazed by only a couple of things: the colour of the car seen leaving the scene and the television set. There had to be something in it. Eventually, Beckett confirmed to the detective that the television had been in the car, though he wasn’t able to recall what had become of it. The Telstar’s backseat had been a mess with bags of junk. He then went on to admit that he had helped clean out the car at about 3.00 a.m. on Thursday, 9 October, and to explain that the bloodied clothes the Federal police had discovered inside a stolen car hadn’t belonged to the girls. He claimed he had been in a brawl in Cooluncordia and the blood had come from one particular man’s nose and mouth. He had also received a split lip from the incident.

However, it was Beckett’s reaction to the mention of the television set that the police took into account a day later while they were interviewing his partner. From the beginning, Camilleri was reluctant to make all his answers audible for the tape. They had been over his movements on the long weekend a number of times. It was time, Detective Sergeant Mura, decided to ask him about the television set.

‘Mate, was there a television in the car?’

The silence was absolute. He sat and waited for Camilleri to decide when he was going to speak and what he was going to say. At that moment Mura knew two things: that he was speaking to the person who had taken the girls and that they were dead.

‘Dunno. Don’t know. I can’t remember. I give some stuff to St Vinnies ...’

Within minutes, he was describing the unit he had purportedly left at the op shop as ‘a fuckin’ square box, an old wooden thing’. ‘I don’t wanna do this any more,’ Camilleri finally insisted, ‘… just leave me alone, will you?’

Mura and his partner suspended the interview and returned to Bega. The two officers knew they had found the girls’ killer; now they just had to prove it. It was clear to the police that the informant in Yass was the key to the puzzle. He had been the owner of the television set. It was imperative that the police determine its colour. The only problem was that he was so scared of Camilleri and Beckett that he had once again gone into hiding. It was his mother who came to the rescue. She referred the detectives to the secondhand dealer from whom he had bought the unit.

The K and D Treasure Trove is next door to the Commonwealth Bank in Yass. Its owner, Kevin McCann, has a reputation as a reputable dealer who does things by the book. Once they had obtained the owner’s details, Mark Winterflood and his partner drove to Cooma Street, before entering the shop and introducing themselves.

‘Did you sell a television to our informant two or three months ago?’

‘Yes,’ Kevin McCann replied. A local himself, he knew most of the townsfolk.

‘Do you remember what colour it was?’

He thought for a moment. He knew it hadn’t been a modern black, perhaps it had been brown. Most televisions were either black or brown. ‘Brown. A wood grain television.’

His records didn’t list a colour, although he had details of the model and serial number, which he provided. The detectives thanked the secondhand dealer and headed back to Canberra. Meanwhile, in Yass, Kevin McCann continued to ponder over the television. Something wasn’t right. Half an hour later he had it. It hadn’t been brown; the unit had been covered in contact and painted with a dull pink plastic paint. He called the police. It had been what they were hoping to hear.

When the call came in, Mark Winterflood could barely contain his excitement. Two pink televisions, they had to be one and the same. Scrambling to get back to his station, the detective rang his boss and requested that Operation DALOA be reinstated. Permission was granted and a description of the pink television released to the media. It was important that they now find out what had become of it.

The next piece of evidence came not from the Sapphire Coast but from the agriculturally rich area of the New South Wales southern tablelands. The call the police took from there was to be from the most unlikely of sources. In Goulburn Jail, one of the prison psychologists had just received permission from the prison governor to convey information to the police that Camilleri had supplied to her. At the beginning of all of her interviews with clients, the psychologist explained that everything they told her was confidential, with the exception of three things. If clients related to her information with regard to harming themselves or someone else, or about breaching the security of the institution, she would be required to report it. That included telling her about escape attempts. In Camilleri’s case, he had offered both, intent to harm himself and particulars about harming others.

The psychologist had first viewed Camilleri on Monday, 3 November. He had been in an observation cell speaking to another officer. When he had finished she began to interview him about why he was being held in such a cell. Goulburn Jail has four observation cells. They are bare cubicles painted light blue. The beds are concrete blocks and the toilets are specially made to come straight out of the wall. There are no points in these rooms from which prisoners can hang themselves. The mattresses are made from foam and the blankets from calico, so they can’t be torn into rope. These cells are for prisoners who are at risk of suicide.

Camilleri had explained to the psychologist that he had tried to kill himself a couple of days before, by jumping off a cliff, but had been thwarted by his brother. He had also declared that he was being held unjustly because his stepdaughter had him charged with alleged sexual offences and that the police were harassing him. He had said that her lies and harassment had led to him being picked up for a breach of bail.

‘When the depression gets really bad I hear voices,’ he had continued.

The psychologist had observed his eyes darting from side to side as he spoke. It was normal when someone was having auditory hallucinations for their eyes to react in that way. Hallucinations come in stereo, and the patient will allow their vision to follow the perceived direction of the voices. Camilleri’s actions had indicated he was hearing something. The interview had proceeded, and he had told of bashing a mate who had stolen from him and later torching a car. In the end, she had decided it was best he stayed in an observation cell and had approached the dorm nurse about medicating him with Largactil, an anti-psychotic medication.

On the Thursday afternoon, when she returned to see him, the psychologist had a guard with her. The guard was appointed because while continually clicking a pen Camilleri had earlier talked of urges to bash the dormitory officer who had been interviewing him at that time. That day, the psychologist received a call at about 3.30 p.m. to say that Camilleri had just been interviewed by Detective Sergeant Joe Mura and appeared to be very ‘spun out’. She went immediately to speak to Camilleri.

The room the prisoner had been placed in contained only a table and two chairs. He was exceptionally distressed. Leaning back on the chair, he banged his head against the wall throughout the interview. Tears and snot ran down his face, but he made no attempt to wipe either away, or to keep up any form of appearance for her. At times he scratched at himself, tearing into his skin. Despite his intense reaction, the psychologist allowed the interview to continue. It was the beginning of the lock-in period. A maximum-security jail, Goulburn Jail restricts the hours that prisoners are allowed out of their cells. In the late afternoon prisoners are lined up, fed and locked away. The corridors are bare and the noise of the whole procedure echoes throughout the complex. Battling the noise she asked, ‘Have you spoken to the police?’

Camilleri nodded.

‘What about?’

Stuttering, he said that it was about the two Bega girls. Then, almost incoherently, Camilleri crossed from topic to topic, talking about a variety of issues, from his mate’s possible involvement in the girls’ disappearance, to how he had seen a demon, his de facto and some bloodied clothes he had burnt. Every so often he punctuated his diatribe with the line, ‘They know about the telly.’

The psychologist had no idea of the significance, if any, of the television. What she was sure of was that the prisoner was a risk to himself. Following the interview she walked to the officers’ station and requested that Camilleri be re-medicated and sent, naked, to the observation cell. She was aware that in the past prisoners had hanged themselves with as little as a pair of underpants. It was, in fact, standard procedure for ‘at risk’ inmates to be sent to observation cells without any clothes, but because the cells were cold and the blankets a non-warming calico mercy would often be shown. That Thursday, she didn’t take any chances.

Now, on the Friday morning, with the permission of her superiors, the psychologist dialled Joe Mura and told him what had transpired. Her main concern was that the prisoner not be granted bail that day. The risk of suicide was too great. The psychologist’s statement placed Camilleri at the scene. Snippets of information she provided were enough to fill some of the gaps in the existing evidence.

At the same time in Bega, the police were searching for anyone who had seen a pink television set. The first witness to arrive at the police station was a young unemployed man from Bega. He and a friend had found a pink television set on Monday, 6 October, near the local recreational grounds. The unit, which they assumed had been dumped, had appeared to be in good condition, so they had carried it back to his flat. Still unsure how it had arrived under the tree near the basketball courts, the two young men had put an advertisement on the local notice board. Two weeks later, when there had been no response, they had scraped off the pink paint and re-sprayed it with a can of black glossy paint. Following announcements on the radio and in the local newspaper, the young man had come to see the police. He no longer owned the unit. He had sold it for $60.

The police now knew that they might no longer be looking for a pink set. They re-advertised for anyone with information on a secondhand black television. The next witness turned up in a real state. He was a local council worker who was required, as part of his job, to drive around looking for dumped rubbish and to dispose of it. On Monday, 6 October, on the way back to Bega from cleaning Tathra public toilets, he had seen an old pink television on the side of the road. Circling back further down the road he had drawn alongside and thrown it in the back of his ute. It had been fairly heavy and looked very old. Once in Bega, the council worker had taken his load to the large bin they used for their rubbish in the recreational grounds. It had been full. He had placed the television beside the bin.

The police had now established how the television had ended up in Bega. What they needed to know was what had become of it since then. The licensees of the Bemboka Hotel Motel had been grocery shopping in Bega when they noticed the advertisement for a television on the community notice board. Calling the number on the card, they had arranged to go and have a look at it when they completed their shopping. A young, plump woman had answered the door and shown them the set. It had been an old black Kriesler television in working condition. The couple had agreed to purchase it for $60 and had installed it in room 4 of their motel. They called the police immediately when they saw the front page story in the local newspaper asking anyone who had bought a black secondhand television to contact police. Their television’s serial number matched the one in the paper.

Now that they had the television, the members of Operation DALOA were in a dilemma as to whether or not they should re-interview Beckett. The Superintendent in charge of the investigation had recommended waiting. There are restrictions on the number of occasions and the timeframes within which prisoners can be interviewed. The two prisoners were on remand awaiting sentence, so therefore had more privileges than a sentenced inmate did. That made it harder again. The concern was that, if the pair didn’t confess, the police might not get another opportunity. The Superintendent didn’t want to jeopardise their chances by going in without all the relevant information. In the end, it was decided that with both suspects in custody, and unable to talk to each other and organise their stories, it was the optimum moment to break their stories.

The first of these interviews began at 12.40 p.m. on 12 November 1997 at Winchester Police Station in the Australian Capital Territory. Detective Sergeant Mura was among the throng of police standing outside listening via a remote link. He would question Camilleri later on that day. Detective Sergeant Winterflood watched Lindsay Beckett enter the interview room. It was no bigger than an average-sized bathroom. He had been up half the night working out his approach to the session and had decided to attempt to break Beckett’s loyalty to Camilleri. In his pre-interview address he intended to spell out exactly what Beckett’s mate had told him.

‘What I propose to do today is make you aware of evidence the police now have that I believe indicates that you and Les Camilleri have some direct knowledge of what happened to the girls.’ The detective reached across the desk, sliding two large school photographs of the girls in front of him. Each had a beaming smile. They looked beautiful. They were right under his nose. ‘These are the photos of the girls, the one with blonde hair and glasses is Nichole Collins, the one with dark hair is Lauren Barry …’ Beckett immediately turned over the photographs.

Continuing his introduction, the detective began to tell the story he knew. The prisoner before him had left Yass in the early hours of the morning on Sunday, 5 October, arriving in Bega by mid-afternoon. On the way he and his mate had bought a slab of Victoria Bitter and some rum. On the back seat of the car had been a baby seat and a pink television set they had taken as recompense for some drug money Beckett’s flatmate owed Camilleri. The pair had attended the Bega Festival and then, after buying some ice at the Grand Hotel just before closing time, they had headed towards Tathra. Two girls had been walking along the side of the road and they had stopped to offer them a lift. For whatever reason, the girls had accepted, and most of the rubbish in the back of the car had been removed to the boot. The pink television had been left on the roadside. The police had managed to trace that television set. It had disappeared from that location, but with the aid of a number of witnesses they now had possession of it.

‘When Les Camilleri was interviewed by police,’ stated Winterflood, ‘he said you had given him a shot and he had fallen asleep, waking in Canberra.’

The time had come to let the suspect know who else they had obtained statements from. Winterflood elaborated on what they had been told by their informant in Yass, Camilleri’s brother and the prison psychologist in Goulburn.

‘Camilleri is going to be re-interviewed this afternoon. He may choose to tell the police the truth. He may tell us where the girls are, I don’t know. However, I intend to offer you that opportunity first.’

Beckett nodded that he understood all that he had been told, then asked if he could have a cigarette. The building in which this interview took place was more like a command centre than a police station, with lots of areas that were inaccessible for security reasons. Smoking was prohibited within the offices. The courtyard they were designated to, so that the prisoner could have a cigarette, was a small paved internal area, similar to an atrium. Offices surrounded it.

Outside in the courtyard, Beckett sat nervously. Next to him were two remand officers. Thirty-four-year-old Tom Collins was a custodial officer at Belconnen Remand Centre. That day it had been his and his partner’s assigned task to take Beckett to the Winchester Police Station for questioning by the police. When they had first arrived, the custodial officers had been kitted out with visitors’ passes and escorted to a coffee room while Beckett was taken away to be interviewed. Neither had heard the preliminary interview and Tom Collins was unaware of why they were questioning the young man. It was often better not to know the details of a prisoner’s case. Judging or getting involved in a case just made officers’ lives at work harder. Fair, firm treatment across the board was the better route.

At that moment, in the courtyard, Beckett appeared distressed. He was fidgeting and began crying.

‘What’s wrong, mate?’ Tom asked.

‘They’ve got us.’

‘Got you for what?’

‘For killing those two girls down the coast.’

The confession was unexpected. Clearly, Beckett wanted to unload the thoughts he had carried with him for the past six weeks. He described how the police knew about the television set that he and his co-ee, or accomplice, had dumped when they had picked up the girls and about the drug bender they had been on. Tom Collins’s partner clarified to the confessed killer that he could ask for police protection and cut a deal with them. Ratting wasn’t considered a good thing in prison, even though it occurred regularly, especially when other prisoners discovered who had finked on them. It never took long for such information to be carried along the intelligence web.

‘I’ve got four young kids. What will they think of me?’ he sobbed.

The officer figured that the consequences of what he had done both for himself and his children had begun to impact on him.

‘If your children love you they will forgive you. Do you know where the missing girls are?’

‘Yes, I can show them.’

‘You’re doing the right thing by the parents so they can give them a proper burial.’

It appeared he had made up his mind to go in and confess. Tom Collins watched as Beckett raced towards the interview room, then he headed back to the coffee room with his partner, winking at one of the police officers as he passed.

‘What’s up?’

‘I think you’ve got your killer.’

‘What?’

‘He has confessed to us out in the courtyard.’

The custodial officers were immediately asked to make statements. Winterflood had watched through the window as Beckett had talked agitatedly to the custodial officers in the courtyard, barely lighting each cigarette. Following that, the lanky suspect had raced up the corridor, tears rolling down his face, until he reached the interview room where the detective stood. Seizing a State Forestry map, which was folded on the table, he laid it out.

‘Here,’ he said, pointing. ‘They’re here.’

The policeman looked at the map. He was pointing just over the border. Beckett explained he wasn’t sure exactly where they were on the map but it was in that region.

‘Are they dead?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How did they die?’

‘Throats cut, one of them drowned.’

‘Who killed them?’

‘I killed them both.’

The detective was taken aback by the response. He had expected him to blame his mate for both. The confessed killer drew a picture of the knife he had used to kill the girls. It was one that folded in half with a serrated blade. He had thrown it into Lake Burley Griffin as he and Camilleri had driven into Canberra. Beckett then showed the police the route taken that long weekend on a more detailed road map, before agreeing to do a taped interview and show the police exactly where the bodies were. His only condition was that there would be no television cameras.

The police initiated legal arrangements with the Corrective Services Minister in order for Beckett to be removed from the Australian Capital Territory and a taped interview was commenced.

 

Back in Kalaru, Sergeant Shane Box was bracing himself as he prepared to tell the families. He had already gathered Cheryl and Garret Barry at their home, but Nichole’s parents weren’t home and he wanted to tell the two families together. He sat waiting in his vehicle for Nichole’s parents to return. Delma and Graeme Collins were on their way back from town when they saw the police officer parked near the bus stop. He had visited the families daily from when the girls first went missing, to convey any news he had or inform them of the status quo. Graeme pulled his 4WD alongside Sergeant Box’s car.

‘I need to see you. I’ll follow you down to Cheryl’s.’

Delma scoured his face. ‘Graeme, he knows something.’

Aware that there was movement on the case from his earlier conversation with Detective Sergeant Winterflood, Graeme was at the same time concerned that any trails may once again lead to nothing.

‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ he cautioned.

‘No. Look at his face. It’s in his face. It’s in his eyes.’

When they reached the house, Delma could see Shane had tears forming. It was something the police officer had done many times before. Telling parents their children were dead. He was a country cop. They had mostly been car accidents and drownings at the beach and in dams. Over the weeks, with the daily contact, he had grown close to both sets of parents. His superiors had warned him about this likelihood, but he had reasoned that if it had been his own children he would have wanted someone to be there. He sat down and began. ‘I have some bad news. Mark has been questioning a man whom we believe to be involved with the girls’ disappearance. He has admitted to raping and murdering both girls and then dumping their bodies down Bombala way.’

Delma stared at the police officer. She wanted to start hitting him. No! she thought. No! That’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear you’ve found them. I want to hear they are in hospital.I want to hear we can fix them. It’s going to be a long process but we’ll make them better.

It was the news Cheryl Barry had been expecting. She had been at her best friend Monica’s house when her husband had called and said Shane Box had some news. Aware, somewhere deep within, of what she was going to hear, she had been unable to drive. Monica had driven her home.

They had all sat down in the family room. Shane was in the big bamboo chair, Cheryl was next to him, her husband and then Monica on her other side. Graeme and Delma were on the two-seater lounge.

‘I have some bad news …’ she had heard the police officer begin crying. Cheryl had braced herself for what she was about to be told. She had known from the very beginning that someone had taken her daughter. It was the only explanation that made sense. Finding Lauren’s clothes had confirmed her fears. The night they had found the clothes it had been raining. She had lain on her bed and panicked about Lauren getting wet. Over and over she had visualised her lying somewhere, the rain falling on her body. Cheryl’s parents had come down from Sydney to offer their support. Watching her grow increasingly hysterical, her mother had tried to help. A strict Catholic, she had offered, ‘She’s in heaven with God now.’

It hadn’t been what Cheryl had wanted to hear. ‘Shut up. If there were a God, he wouldn’t do this! No matter what Garret and I have done, he wouldn’t punish my child!’

Eventually, Cheryl’s mother had been removed from the room and doctors had medicated her. The last five and a half weeks had been quiet without Lauren. Lauren had been a chatterbox. There had been days when Cheryl had wished she would be quiet for a while, given her a little break. In the family room, Cheryl listened to Shane detail how Beckett had tried to drown her daughter before stabbing her in the neck. Her first thoughts were about the terrible way Lauren had died, her next for the policeman who had to sit and tell them about their girls. She got up and grabbed him. She, Garret and Monica all clung to the sergeant and each other crying.

Lauren had loved the water so much. Cheryl would have swapped places with Lauren, would have done anything to protect her daughter. He had drowned Lauren like a rabbit.

 

As the girls’ families reeled with the news, Lake Burley Griffin in Canberra had become the subject of speculation among the media. Federal Police divers had silently begun looking for two knives. The first was the one Beckett had admitted to killing the girls with and the second, he had claimed during police interview, had been used by his partner to threaten the girls. Beckett had admitted to disposing of both knives in the lake. It was obvious that the police divers were looking for something, but they weren’t commenting on what. No one outside the main investigative team and those at the custodial centre knew that a suspect was being interviewed about the missing Bega girls.

At the Winchester Police Centre, Lindsay Beckett was winding up his interview. He had been talking for over two hours. He had slowly taken Detective Sergeant Mark Winterflood step by step through the sequence of events on the night of Sunday, 5 October and the subsequent few days. At the same time, other members of Operation DALOA were arranging permission with the Corrective Services Minister for Beckett to accompany the police to Cann River so they could locate the bodies. Authorisation was given on the proviso that the prisoner was to be returned to the Belconnen Remand Centre by 2.00 a.m. the following morning.

Beckett was then fed. A white, unmarked mini-bus was arranged and the two custodial officers from the remand centre, who had been looking after him, were asked to change into plain clothes and accompany the team. The squad set off at 3.00 p.m. Detective Sergeant Winterflood and another police officer followed the bus. They were unable to see inside as it had tinted windows. They crossed Commonwealth Avenue Bridge, traversing part of Lake Burley Griffin, and then doubled back across it, heading towards the centre of Canberra. The bus slowed a little at the location where Beckett thought he had thrown the knife. The detectives had decided earlier not to stop because of traffic congestion on the bridge.

From there the two vehicles wove their way south towards Theodore Lookout and pulled over. Custodial officer Tom Collins and his partner had driven the Toyota van along the Monaro Highway to the back end of Calwell, up on the high ridge. The prisoner had directed them. Stepping from the bus, Beckett led the police to a scorched area of ground beneath and up the side of the lookout’s wall.

‘That’s where we burnt the ropes and my clothes.’

A brief examination was made, and then the trip continued on south through Cooma to Bombala Police Station. Uncertainty as to the exact location of the bodies meant the Victoria Police had to be called in. If the girls’ bodies lay on their side of the border, the entire investigation would automatically become theirs, despite some sections of the crime being perpetrated in New South Wales. Technically, though, if the homicide charges were proved inconclusive, Camilleri and Beckett could still be charged in New South Wales with rape and kidnapping.

Two members of the Bairnsdale Criminal Investigation Branch in Victoria met Mark Winterflood in Bombala. Beckett was transferred to Winterflood’s police vehicle, and the convoy continued along the Cann Valley Highway. Winterflood was aware that one of the problems they faced was that the confessed killer had fallen asleep shortly after leaving the girls’ bodies. He had then slept all the way to Canberra. That meant his memory of the area was based solely on the trip in. Every time they approached a bridge they slowed to allow him a better look. So far he wasn’t familiar with anything. Crossing the border and passing an unsealed section of road, the detective sergeant continued to ask Beckett whether he remembered anything. The answer was no.

A few kilometres on the group crossed an old-fashioned bridge and finally reached a sign that Beckett recognised. It had never crossed custodial officer Tom Collins’s mind that he would drive a work van so fast. For the past half an hour, he had been part of a convoy with six police vehicles driving at a rate of knots.

He presumed the rush was to reach the murder site before dark. Ahead of him his partner was travelling in a police Jackaroo cuffed to Beckett. Each time their brake lights came on, he thought they had reached the spot. Finally, they pulled to a halt on a big sweeping bend. The sign said: Fiddlers Green Creek.

Stopping to seal off the road, Detective Sergeant Winterflood proposed that, as it was getting dark, they walk into the bushland, establish where the girls’ bodies were and walk out without recording the event on police video. He also cautioned the suspect that he did not have to participate in the location of the bodies, as it could be used in evidence against him and reminded him that they were over the border, so the Victoria Police would now be handling the case.

To save confusion at the scene, most of the police remained where they had stopped. Only Winterflood, Beckett, one of the custodial officers and a couple of additional police continued on. Custodial officer Collins stayed behind with the rest of the police.

The police 4WD turned right and drove a little further up the track, until they reached an old shirt stuck in the fork of a tree. Beckett signalled that this was the place he thought he had entered. He did not recognise the shirt. They parked the car and continued on foot. It was 8.17 p.m. The path they took sloped down towards Fiddlers Green Creek. It was now dark and torches were needed to light the way. At the creek Winterflood asked his prisoner whether he could see anything familiar.

‘No,’ he replied, indicating that it wasn’t possible to miss the large fallen log across the water that flagged the exact location.

The posse continued along the creek towards the sound of traffic. Nothing. The detective sergeant looked at his watch. The warrant the Minister had given him was running out. He said, ‘Listen, I’ve got to get you back to the remand centre. I would like to have found the girls tonight, but you’ve got to go. I’m sure we’ll find them at first light without you.’

Beckett didn’t want to leave. He insisted that he needed to see them for his own sake. Winterflood decided to give it one more go. After re-cuffing Beckett to another of his remand officers, they got back in the 4WD and continued a little further up the track. The first circuit through the bush must have been a fair walk, because custodial officer Tom Collins noticed his partner was glowing.

‘Look, you’d better give him to me,’ he offered. Beckett was re-cuffed to his wrist, and Tom silently began a prayer as the police regrouped. He prayed: ‘We’re down here for a reason, God. Let’s find them.’ He hoped they weren’t wasting their time. Turning to Beckett, Tom tried to spike things in his mind.

‘Can you think of anything? Any landmark you came across?’

All he was able to remember was a gate and a place near where he had bottomed out the car. The local police officer confirmed that when he had come along the road about two months earlier there had been a dead end and a gate about two miles up. They climbed back into the police Jackaroo and headed up the track.

 

Meanwhile, at Goulburn Jail, Detective Sergeant Joe Mura continued to interview Camilleri while retaining regular contact with the group at Cann River. The news so far wasn’t good. Mura looked at the man in front of him.

‘Are you going to take us to where the bodies are?’

‘Yeah,’ Camilleri replied.

‘You’ll take us?’

‘Go get yourselves fucked, I’m not taking you anywhere.’

 

Back at Cann River luck was changing. The police had escorted the confessed killer a little further up the track where Beckett recognised the farm gate straight away. He explained that he had driven up to the gate, wheeled around and bottomed out before pulling over in a washaway at the side of the track. Once again the group traipsed into the bush, this time heading upstream instead of towards the highway. Progress was slow through the butterwang fern-infested bush. Police reflective tape was tied at eye level every couple of metres so that the posse wouldn’t get lost. It was already dark, and custodial officer Tom Collins, who was still cuffed to the prisoner, found himself climbing over low-hanging boughs of trees and roving up and down hills until they reached the creek and turned right.

After walking for a while, Beckett peered through the darkness and asked those ahead, ‘Is the creek bed getting sandier?’

The torches were aimed in front. It was.

‘Well, it shouldn’t be too far along here.’

Detective Sergeant Winterflood didn’t go much further before he noticed the smell. He continued on through the cold water. Wearing his best woollen suit, he scaled the distance as well as he could. He had thought he was going to be in court in Canberra all day, not trekking in the dark through the bush and waterways. It was a very dark night. A short distance in front of them there appeared to be a large fallen tree. Someone shone a torch towards the base of the uprooted tree. There was a large, gnarled exposed root area, and then a sandy region. As they got closer Winterflood saw the fermented water, and then the boots.

They were exactly as Cheryl Barry had described – brand new Baxter boots.

Not far behind the detective, custodial officer Tom Collins felt a tug on his handcuffs as Beckett dropped down, crouching over his knees, sobbing. Someone asked for him to identify the body.

‘Come on,’ the officer coached, ‘you’ve come this far.’

In the artificial light Beckett’s face appeared apprehensive. He collected himself and stepped forward. He said: ‘That’s the black-haired girl.’

Beckett directed that the other body would be about ten metres up the creek bank, and then about ten metres in, tied to a thin upright tree. It wasn’t. Winterflood could feel his heart pumping as he followed Beckett up the embankment in search of Nichole. They inspected a small group of trees by torchlight to no avail, and then headed along the creek through the bush. When they finally found her, it was Nichole’s blue and white Bega High School top that stood out in the torchlight, the school name illuminated. Her body was no longer tied to the tree. It was prostrate in a small clearing in front of it. Animals had been at her. Bits of skeleton, blonde hair and a pair of glasses surrounded her jumper. A note was made that both the girls had been found. Nichole had been about 20 paces from her friend’s body when she herself had died. It was now 10.00 p.m.

It wasn’t Sergeant Shane Box’s job to attend that night, but he felt he needed to see it through for the sake of the families. He knew they would have a myriad of questions: Where were the girls? How were they lying? What of their clothes? They were the questions all parents ask. He could only answer those if he attended. At first, as he followed the suspect, he had wondered whether Beckett was just leading them off the scent, whether the girls wouldn’t be found. Then, as he had come along the stream towards the fallen tree, he had seen the first skeleton floating face down in a murky brown stagnant pool of water. In the glow of the torchlight, he could see Lauren’s flesh had rotted away in places, exposing sections of bone. The submerged sections of her body were more or less intact, presumably due to the cold water. She was still dressed, wearing a pair of jeans that had been cut away, and dark leggings underneath. On top she had a striped pullover that had floated or been lifted up to expose her bra. Her auburn hair was still intact.

Nichole’s body was slumped in a clearing at the base of two small trees, her legs extended. The words ‘Bega High School Year 12 1998’ shone from her jumper in the beam of light. It was impossible to see much, but her bones had been scattered around.

Shane watched as the police continued to mark the area with plastic tape in preparation for the forensic investigators. He knew he had to maintain his professionalism. It was what the uniform demanded. As a man, he would have liked to leave Beckett down there. He just kept thinking about the families and how they would feel if the evidence against Beckett got thrown out of court because a police officer had assaulted him. Beckett’s day of judgment would come.

At Goulburn Jail, Detective Sergeant Mura received word that the girls’ remains had been found. Formally concluding the interview, he looked over at Camilleri, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

‘Go and rot in hell,’ he silently declared. ‘I no longer have any use for you.’

The prisoner would be returned to his cell unaware that the girls had been found. He would remain untold, presumably to discover the details when they were broadcast on the news.

 

After leaving the scene, Sergeant Shane Box spoke to his senior officers and then headed out to Kalaru. Again he needed to face the families.

The evening of Wednesday, 12 November had been spent by both sets of parents waiting by the phone. The first call they had received was to tell them that it was too dark and Beckett couldn’t remember so the search was being called off. Their support teams had gone home. No one had slept. The next call had been from Shane. The girls had been found and he was on his way home. He arrived at 1.00 a.m. the next morning. Everyone had regrouped at the Barry house to meet him.

Delma Collins watched the well-built, softly spoken policeman sit and begin to detail what he had seen. It was the day before her daughter’s birthday. Nichole would have been 17. Graeme had been waiting to visit the murder site. He had in fact talked to Detective Sergeant Winterflood about doing just that. Shane knew of his wish. There was no legal reason why he couldn’t go, but as a father himself he felt he wouldn’t have wanted to be exposed to what he had seen. No one should have to see that.

‘I’m sorry. It’s a Victorian crime scene and they won’t allow you there,’ he told Graeme. He knew Graeme would be angry at first but in time he would understand.

Returning home, the police officer was drawn to his daughters’ bedroom. He knew they were fast asleep, but he had an urge to check that they were safe. Standing over them, he began to cry. Two hours later, he would be back at work, briefing the media.