The Devil's Garden Read online

  Not so Dave Caporn. 'They left here winning the respect of the force,' he beamed. 'They did excellent work.'

  Although the work of profilers in Australia has received a welter of publicity – it was profiling that targeted where Frank Denyer, who committed Victoria's Frankston murders, lived – it has never directly solved a case. So while profilers command huge sums for their services and boast they have worked on high-profile cases, they can never point to a result. 'Dave Caporn said that Claude Minisini did excellent work,' a former police officer says. 'Well, no doubt he did. But all we – the public – know is that he told us that the killer likes driving, keeps his car clean and is of neat appearance. Now that's all very fascinating, but does it take Einstein to work that out? Everything else he deduced is kept under wraps, in order, they say, to be able to tell the difference between a true and a false confession. But with the greatest respect to all concerned, without public scrutiny and without an arrest, it's a bit like farting in the wind.'

  Minisini's generalisations about the killer's profile also exacerbate the rumblings of discontent heard after it was announced that FBIS had scored the lucrative one-year contract with the WA Police Service. Digging for background, and confirmed by documents released under the Freedom of Information Act, The West Australian journalist Luke Morfesse found that despite written advice to the deputy commissioner from the acting assistant commissioner that the $40,000 cost of their services could not be justified, it was awarded to FBIS regardless. 'The deal,' Morfesse wrote, 'included an option to pay FBIS... $350 an hour for each extra hour after the first 100 hours.'

  The West Australian newspaper was originally denied access to any documents pertaining to FBIS. Requesting a review by the office of the information commissioner, they were only then disclosed. 'The whole thing was like a scene out of Yes, Minister,' Morfesse recalls. 'We were told that we couldn't get our hands on the FBIS documents because the internal affairs unit, exempt under the FOI Act, had created them. They also told us that if Falconer had created any documents they were also exempt because as head of the police department he was also head of the internal affairs unit. So when the whole story came out, it didn't look great.'

  16

  Five hundred people attend Jane's funeral at Karrakatta cemetery on a sunny August morning, seven days after the discovery of her body. Her white coffin is adorned in pink, mauve and white flowers, her favourite song, 'Distant Star', played as mourners leave the church. Macro taskforce officers move unobtrusively through the crowd, blending in and watching to see who attends the funeral. All too often, the killer himself will move amongst the mourners, taking ghoulish pleasure from their grief, feeling momentous joy at his power to take a life. The Rimmers take no comfort in a religious faith, but they are nurtured by the speeches Jane's friends give about the generous-spirited, loving young woman who always had a ready smile.

  After the service they adjourn to their local pub, inviting everyone, including Macro officers, to join them. Trevor puts $1500 on the bar for drinks. Tortured with grief, Jenny unashamedly drinks to her daughter's memory, alcohol numbing the pain as the evening wears on. She smiles wistfully. Jane was her best friend, she says. She would have understood. She would not have judged her for drinking too much that night. Shattered with grief, Jane's siblings, Lee and Adam, mingle amongst the crowd of mourners, trying to keep a brave face.

  The rain has waterlogged Jane's car. It has sat outside her flat, water pouring through the warped sunroof and drenching the seats. A few days after Jane's funeral, Trevor climbs in to return it to the car yard. Here, alone in the quiet of the car's interior with water sloshing around his ankles, he puts his head on the steering wheel and sobs.

  Christmas 1996. There is no family celebration, just an overwhelming realisation that Jane is not present at the table. The phone rings. It is Don Spiers, the first time, before or since, that he has approached the family. His voice is choked with emotion. 'I'll keep this brief,' he says. 'We are thinking of you all. We know you must miss Jane as much as we miss Sarah.'

  17

  Every year on Jane's birthday, 12 October, Jenny and some friends make the pilgrimage to Karrakatta, sitting in front of the plaque they erected for her in front of a baby pine tree. The plaque is simple. 'In loving memory of Jane Louise Rimmer. Taken from us on 9th June 1996, aged 23. Precious daughter of Trevor and Jenny, dearly loved sister of Lee and Adam. Our distant star, in our hearts forever.' They celebrate her life with Blush champagne, flowers and cake. Trevor goes alone every Saturday to talk to his daughter. It is, he smiles ruefully, the only chance he gets to see her. The questions never go away. She had had a fair amount to drink. Did she get into a car, thinking it was a taxi? Was she dragged into a vehicle as she walked down a dark street? Was she seduced in by a smooth talker who appeared to be on the level? What the hell happened to their Janie? It drives them mad, not knowing.

  Jenny's mother tries to give them comfort. 'She's in a better place, now. She'll never get sick, never get any older, never be unhappy.' Jenny sees the flip side. Trevor will never walk her down the aisle. She will never have children. She loved life; she would have embraced getting older. They have mountains of cards and letters from friends and strangers, offering their prayers and support. They treasure one from Jane's friends, which arrives shortly after she is found. 'I remember once, not long after Sarah Spiers's disappearance, we were going to catch a train home late one night after having drinks at the Shenton Hotel. Jane offered to pay for a taxi for us both because she didn't think it would be safe after what had just happened to Sarah Spiers. Jane was a very caring person who always brought a smile to our face . . .' They treasure a lock of hair, too, that the police gave to them after they found her body. It stays in a keepsake chest with other precious mementos of their daughter.

  As distraught as the family is that Jane has been murdered, her sister, Lee, recalls feeling a sense of relief that she had been found, that they can start the grieving process and lay her to rest with dignity. Jane's murder has strained Perth women's sense of safety, their personal boundaries. Lee will later march in 2001 with hundreds of others through Claremont streets, to reclaim the night and the space as safe. It is a small gesture, but important. Jenny joins in the march that starts at the Continental Hotel where she huddles in the warm safety of friends and family. It breaks her heart to be there, and she will never return.

  The police are puzzled by questions they can't answer. Why did Jane leave her friends at the hotel? She was standing outside the Continental for a few minutes on her own – was she waiting for someone? If so, who? Was it a taxi and, if so, why would she choose such a bad spot to get a cab? What they don't tell the public is that after Sarah Spiers disappeared, a secret video was installed to monitor girls' movements outside the hotel. But a transport desk to arrange taxis home or to escort girls to the nearby Club Bayview is highly visible.

  The taxi industry in Perth is intensely feeling the pressure. Parents pick up their daughters instead of allowing them to risk getting into a cab with a stranger, and drivers' back-grounds are scrutinised. Within a short time, for a variety of reasons, 78 drivers lose their jobs.

  The police presence at the Rimmers' home dwindles off. Days turn into weeks, weeks to months. The family, police later say, asked that they receive visits only if there was important news. It is not a conversation Jenny recalls. Dave Caporn's visit – months after Jane's body is found – leaves Jenny nonplussed. 'He walked around with a huge radio phone, explaining he hadn't visited before as he hadn't wanted to get too close to the case,' she says. 'But he was the head of the case! Why didn't he want to get too close?' It seems ludicrous, and all a little too late. 'Why has he waited until now to visit us?'

  The Rimmers are fair in their judgements of how Macro handled Jane's murder. 'I guess they did a good job,' Jenny murmurs. 'I guess there wasn't much more that they could have done?' It's a question, not a statement and one that hangs limply in the air. What she is most upset
about, she continues, is the lack of communication. 'We never hear from them anymore, unless it's to tell us something that gets our hopes up and amounts to nothing.'

  Anger for Trevor Rimmer is a wasted emotion. He is a gentle, private man, given to reflective comments. What does it matter, he shrugs, if they find Jane's killer or not. Punishment will not bring her back. He sees his daughter's murder as some perverse, reverse lotto: wrong place, wrong time, right type. A million people in Perth and a million-to-one chance it would happen to them. But he would like closure, that nebulous, grey concept that families cling to in situations like this. Closure, so that at least his daughter's killer doesn't strike again.

  It is nine months since Jane's abduction, long enough for young women to tentatively hope that the disappearance of Sarah and the murder of Jane is simply an aberration. Shock and sympathy still spill out in letters to the press and the media, though police continue to warn women to take special care. And the young people do. For a time.

  Winter turns to spring, denuded branches are now in blossom and the cool, clear nights become warmer, seducing people outdoors. And as the long, hot summer passes the baton to an unseasonably warm autumn, memories fade.

  Then another girl goes missing.

  18

  Terror now replaces fear. It is unbelievable. How could another beautiful young woman simply vanish into the night when there is such a strong police presence in the area? Ciara Glennon, a feisty, spirited Irish woman with a gentle lilt, her face framed by a mass of dark curls streaked with blonde, had only returned a week before from a year-long backpacking trip around the world. It was dangerous, at times, but this willow-limbed, petite woman – only 152 cm tall – who hitch-hiked through Egypt, North America and Europe, had the gift of the gab, a way of engaging people with a smile. Born in a Zambian bush hospital when her parents worked for a Catholic mission, even as a young child Ciara drew people to her.

  A lawyer who had majored in and spoke fluent Japanese, Ciara was friendly, fun-loving and extremely popular with her peers. Sporty, she excelled in ballet and had been excited about being the bridesmaid at her sister Denise's wedding the following weekend – a black-tie affair with 200 guests at the Royal Perth Yacht Club. Just five days before Ciara had started back with the law firm she had worked with prior to going overseas. At a quarter to five on Friday afternoon, her mother Una speaks to Ciara. She is feeling tired, Ciara says, but is expected to go for after-work drinks. 'Do you have to go?' Una asks. Ciara pauses, briefly.

  'Oh yes, I'd better.' Una doesn't ask her what time she may be home: a 27-year-old who has been around the world can make that decision herself. But she is expected home.

  'Have a good time,' Una says. 'And be careful.'

  Ciara had done her law articles at the firm in which Neil Fearis is a partner. He has known Ciara's father, Denis, for 16 years and it was always understood that Ciara would practise in corporate and commercial law at Fearis's firm when she became a fully-fledged lawyer. She proves herself acutely intelligent, a gift to the firm. Six months earlier, whilst Ciara was travelling overseas, Fearis had met up with her in London for dinner. Travelling hasn't changed her, he notes: she is as engaging as ever and over drinks after work that first Friday night back, she proves to be still the same. But Fearis, a conservative man who is the Western Australian chairman of Australians for Constitutional Monarchy, is tired. He has returned from Singapore only late that afternoon and is not up for a late night.

  At 10.45 pm Ciara and her group, including Fearis, move to the Continental Hotel in Claremont for drinks. The Continental; two blocks away from the four-lane Stirling Highway and 150 metres from the next Claremont nightclub, Club Bayview. It is St Patrick's Day, time for a traditional Irish celebration, but Ciara is also weary. The Continental is only the next suburb from her home and she drifts around the crowd, chatting to people she knows. Neil Fearis yawns and looks at his watch. It is just after 11 and he needs to get some sleep. He slips out of the pub quietly without saying goodnight.

  Ciara's bed is empty Saturday morning. Una calls one of Ciara's best friends, who promises to ring around and call her back. She also calls Fearis. 'What time did Ciara leave the hotel? Have you seen her since she left?' He hasn't, he assures her.

  It is Denise's bridal shower that afternoon and Ciara has a hair appointment in the morning in preparation. She and Denise are very close friends; she would not miss today. There is an edge of panic in Ciara's girlfriend's voice when she calls Una back. 'Ciara went to Claremont and left the hotel around a quarter past eleven last night,' she says. 'She was only there for about 20 minutes.' Her voice is wavering, and she tries to control it with a deep breath. She has read the papers, knows what has been happening in Claremont. Everyone in Perth knows what has been happening in Claremont.

  Una knows instantly, with the innate, sick feeling that mothers possess, that her daughter is not going to be found alive. Claremont. Something evil is happening at Claremont.

  Reported as a missing person, by nightfall family and friends are frantically searching for Ciara. The last confirmed sighting of her is at 12.15 am on the southern side of the Stirling Highway, between Bayview Terrace and Stirling Road. Striding down the road, a confident young woman deter-mined to get home.

  Paul Ferguson hears about Ciara's disappearance around 4.30 that afternoon. The station is buzzing with the news he is dreading as he calls senior command. He's got another one. The bastard's got another one. Macro taskforce officers take the news hard. It is bad enough that another woman has been taken. But this one has been taken on their watch, right under their nose. Paul Coombes remembers it as a 'where were you when?' moment – one that no one could ever forget. At his children's primary school function, he has his mobile switched off. A message is sent to him via another person. 'I was notified that I needed to get into work ASAP,' he recalls. 'We all knew how serious it was.'

  Stage three of Macro has begun.

  Stephen Brown, a Detective-Sergeant in the Organised Crime Squad, has kept abreast of the Claremont investigation since its inception. He is stunned when he hears news of Ciara's disappearance on television. It is, he knows, not only crystal-clear confirmation that there is a serial killer working in Claremont, but also the impetus for him to want to immediately join the Macro taskforce. He rings a colleague. 'Let's get in there,' he says, 'and make a difference.'

  Within 24 hours, the number of core investigators on Macro has blossomed to 70. Unknown to the general public, there is a chilling reality underpinning the taskforce's need to beat the clock. After their third victim, a serial killer's level of violence escalates with frightening speed. Having escaped detection three times, they now feel indestructible. The next victims will be targeted hard and fast.

  ***

  Jenny and Trevor Rimmer are taking a break at Rottnest Island, seven months after Jane's funeral, when police call. They have some bad news, the police warn them. Trevor squeezes his eyes shut in preparation for what he may hear; Jenny buckles at the knees, and cries.

  Police circulate a press release to all media. 'Police hold grave fears for the safety of a woman who was last seen leaving the Continental Hotel in Claremont at approximately mid-night on Friday March 14, 1997...Given the circumstances of the disappearance of Sarah Spiers and Jane Rimmer and the similarity of this incident, the Macro taskforce has commenced immediate investigations. We have an assurance from police services state commander Deputy Commissioner Bruce Brennan that every resource will be made available to ensure a successful and speedy resolution.' Within four days they announce that as part of an increased allocation of resources to Macro, Superintendent Richard Lane – formerly in charge of the personal crime division – will join the Macro taskforce. They are bringing in their big guns.

  By 16 March, Perth media are again saturated with head-lines about a missing girl. News bulletins alert the public to the harsh realities in stark language. 'The police are almost convinced a serial killer is at large in Perth foll
owing the disappearance of a third woman from outside a popular nightspot over the weekend,' ABC Radio Perth announces. The West Australian is equally blunt. 'Woman Missing: Serial Killer Fear'. The headline represents a chilling, though seismic shift: it is the first time that WA police publicly acknowledge their belief that a serial killer is operating in the city.

  19

  The government wades in, with Premier Richard Court – a personal friend of Denis Glennon's – offering a quarter of a million dollars for any information that may lead to Sarah Spiers or Ciara Glennon or to the arrest of the person responsible for the murder of Jane Rimmer. News of the reward – the biggest offered in the state – is greeted with cynicism in many quarters. Would that amount of money, many people ask, have been offered if Ciara had come from a less privileged background?

  The Glennons go through the motions, consumed with numbness but clinging to some vague hope that she will be found alive. Una has little if any faith that Ciara is safe, but Denis – proud, private and extremely well connected in the Liberal Party and Perth society – launches an immediate appeal to the public. Pale with shock, he articulates the family's grief in his soft Irish brogue. 'We are a strong family and I don't cry easily but Ciara's alive, we believe that and we are confident that the way she's been brought up she will fight on, and we are hopeful that she will be found at this stage even. Only now do I even begin to understand the terrible trauma that the parents of Jane and Sarah went through and the degree of empathy that I have with them now is just enormous and my final comment is that no parent who loves their child, even a child of 27 like Ciara was, can even begin to comprehend the devastating pain that this is in any family.' His voice breaks throughout his appeal for help. 'Somebody in Perth must have noticed something unusual around that time outside the hotel. They may not remember it, but if they were in Claremont that Friday night around that area, could they please come forward and talk to the police. Una, my wife, she is numb with shock and she has asked me to appeal to the mothers, the wives, the girlfriends, the ladies in the community who may have some husband or partner that they notice is doing something different now or did on Saturday morning and Una says, please help her, we are just distraught and we just need your help and your prayers.'