Free Ladykiller by Candace Sutton Page A

‘Confidential’.
    Allan Duncan found a note. It read ‘cervical cancer, early June operation, laser/knife. Found out two weeks ago. BB spoke to SB Friday 9.5.97’.
    Another note read, ‘Sometimes we stand hand in hand and . . . you come to me and I . . . see . . . and I say to myself wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, how wonderful you are do do do oh how wonderful my love’. Duncan smirked. If this was Burrell’s attempt at a love letter, he needed an editor.
    In a walk-in wardrobe in the main bedroom, the officers found a metal gun cabinet. Among half a dozen or more firearms, Agius made an intriguing find. It was a brown chloroform bottle. Empty.
    Back at Richmond, Hendo was revealing the news to the taskforce. Dennis Bray nodded, but he was too tense to smile.
    Duncan and Agius began to search more feverishly. Agius photographed each exhibit, although he did not know how to use the camera and the pictures would prove useless, blurred and out of focus. In Burrell’s bedroom, there was a Canon typewriter and Duncan put in a sheet of paper and tapped on all the keys for the analysts to compare with the ransom letter. Then he and Agius returned to the stack of weapons—Burrell clearly was a gun nut.
    Duncan laid a gloved hand on the phone receiver again and told Hendo to prepare for taking down an inventory. Duncan began: ‘a part-filled box of .44 calibre Magnum rounds, a number of 308 calibre rounds, one .222 Remington brand Magnum pistol, several 44/40 Winchester rounds, .22 calibre sonic rounds . . .’ He paused. Ricky Agius pointed out the firearms and listed the makes.
    ‘Let’s see,’ Duncan spoke into the receiver, ‘um . . . a Bennett brand Veloci Nash speed crossbow, one .303 rifle, a .223 calibre rifle, a .44 Ruger Magnum carbine with a single barrel, a .222 rifle with scope, a Winchester model bolt action .22 rifle, a double-barrell shotgun, a Sako .308 calibre rifle with scope and, last one, a Boito shotgun.’
    The officers moved outside. Duncan and Agius were the eyes of the taskforce, waiting impatiently in its Richmond bunker. They began a search of the outbuildings, first the hayshed and then an old slaughterhouse. In it was a large mincer. Duncan looked at Agius. No, it was covered in dirt and rust.
    Agius wandered into the first of two shearing sheds. Seconds later, Duncan heard a commotion and saw the terrified city cop racing to the far end of the shed, pursued by a charging wombat. Duncan started laughing, then banged on the shed wall to distract the animal. A Jaguar was parked in the middle of the shed, a blanket half-draped over its bonnet.
    Back at the house, Hendo was concerned about the time it was taking. It was after midday. ‘How much more you got to do?’ he asked.
    Duncan ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’s a huge place, mate. We’ve covered a lot. Unless you want us trampling over hill and dale.’
    ‘There’s enough for the search warrant,’ Henderson said, ‘get out of there.’
    As they strolled back to the ute, a mix of emotions washed over them . . . relief that the job was done without incident, elation at the ‘treasure’ haul of guns and documents—but despondency that they had found no sign of Kerry.
    Back at Goulburn police station, police were winding up the interview with Burrell, who was charged with receiving a stolen vehicle, driving it while unregistered and uninsured, and with having numberplates ‘calculated to deceive’. Burrell was angry and refused to admit he knew the car was stolen. At 1.51 p.m., Burrell strolled out, unaware that Taskforce Bellaire was closing in on him.
    That afternoon, the streets of Bungonia were devoid of police. Dennis Bray had called off the surveillance; the officers were to make their way back to Richmond. The risks were too great to remain in Bungonia; it might be best to just let Burrell Bruce run and see where he led them.
    It was now ten days since the abduction and the silence from the kidnappers weighed