The Beat: A True Account of the Bondi Gay Murders (14 page)

At the end of Rod’s statement he examined photographs of the dead man and assured Ingleby that he’d never seen John Russell in all the times he’d been to the area.

After the Boxing Day interview, Ingleby accompanied Rod to the Marks Park area on a number of occasions at night to try to find Red, but they were unsuccessful. During these patrols, though, Ingleby noted that the light along the walkway was good even on cloudy nights, seeming to reflect off the water and filter up from the beachfront: it was difficult to imagine anyone wandering off the cliff without seeing that they were getting close to the edge.
[2]
He also saw ‘many men’ in the area, sitting on the rocks or walking along the footpath. At one point he saw a man sitting alone on a ledge at the edge of the cliff and Rod suggested that this was common practice when someone wanted to be alone for the moment: he would probably move onto the footpath later when he was ready to make contact with another person, Rod said. Contact, he explained, was usually made by means of ‘eye contact’ or ‘body language’. Ingleby had also heard that ‘rattling’ was a common method of announcing availability – anyone wishing to indulge in sex would rattle coins in their pocket or jangle keys as they walked. But Rod didn’t know this method of signalling, he said; he only knew about those he’d mentioned, those involving ‘body language’.

Ingleby’s statement also included an account of an attack on another homosexual during the same period. On the evening of Thursday, 21December 1989, David McMahon, a 24-year-old chef from Bondi, jogged along the promenade to North Bondi. When he reached the barbecue area at the northernmost extremity of the promenade he turned and ran back to South Bondi and Notts Avenue, before running up the steps to the footpath leading around the cliff edge to Mackenzies Bay and Tamarama Beach. As David McMahon ran up the various sets of steps leading to the footpath he saw no-one: the area seemed to be deserted. However, once at the top of the steps near the lookout point he noticed a group of youths, maybe a dozen or so, including at least two females, blocking his path. The youths were aged between 14 and 18 years old, he guessed. One of them stepped in front of him and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Going for a run,’ David said.

One of the others, a Maori sitting on a nearby wall, called out, ‘You got a cigarette? Or two dollars?’

A little tense and anxious, David ignored the group and quickly resumed his jogging until he reached Tamarama Beach. On his return run he avoided the area where he had encountered the youths, running instead across Marks Park to Fletcher Street and then to Sandridge Street. From there he ran down through Hunter Park (an adjacent park to Marks Park with access to the southern end of Campbell Parade) and past a block of units, rejoining the footpath around the water’s edge near Notts Avenue. Suddenly, he was thrown to the ground.

As he fell, he turned onto his back and saw the two ringleaders from the group of youths he’d seen earlier, the one who had blocked his way and the Maori who’d asked for a cigarette. The first youth, aged about 17, was five-six to five-eight, slim, with short blond hair, longer on top than at the sides. He was wearing a white, round-necked jumper, black tracksuit trousers and was carrying a blue Caribee backpack over his shoulder. He was Australian and well spoken.

The second attacker was roughly the same age and height but had a solid build, a round face and was fatter than he should be. He had black hair and an olive complexion and was wearing khaki-coloured shorts and tee-shirt.

‘You fucking maggot!’ A boot landing in his ribs … fist smashing into his face, the taste of blood in his mouth … another kick, harder, taking the breath from his lungs … tears to his eyes … ‘Poofter bastard!’ … teeth smashed … as more kicks, more punches landed … crying and screaming and begging and laughter somewhere off to his right … kicking … spittle dripping onto his face … and blood … and the pain in his side … pain in his kidney … pain…

There were at least a half-dozen others standing around and someone was calling out ‘poofter’. The white ringleader repeating, ‘you’re gay, you’re gay’, screaming ‘you’re gay, you’re gay’, as the Maori continually punched him in the head. Screaming himself, David tried to get up but was forced back onto the ground as someone punched him in the stomach. He kept on screaming while the white boy kept telling him to shut up. He was then turned onto his stomach and punched and kicked savagely in the ribs, the kidneys, all the time calling for help.

As they beat him they demanded his money but he had none with him, only his keys.

Suddenly, the white thug started to drag David along the path towards another set of steps, steps beside which there was a drop of five metres onto a huge rock. And then another three metre drop into the water. And while David was being dragged, the thug was saying, ‘I’m gonna throw you over the side. You’re goin’ over the side, you poofter.’ And David knew, knew as certainly as he’d ever known anything in his 24- year life, he was going to die. He was going to be thrown from the cliff to his inescapable death. Summoning the last remaining shreds of strength, drawing on pure instinct to survive and in a state of absolute panic David broke free and ran for his life … ran up the steps near a block of units … ran into Hunter Park … ran screaming for help as he went … hearing footsteps pounding behind him … footsteps closing in … no other sound … no shouting or threats or abuse … just the determined pounding of the predator closing in … closing in to grab him, to pull him down, to … And then a light coming on in one of the units and him screaming ‘Help!’ and a voice in the darkness, a male voice, calling to him, saving him … calling, ‘I’m not going to help you, you poofter!’

But the light had come on, had broken the rhythm of the attack, and the footsteps behind him stopped. The chase was over. David ran home shaking and crying and knowing he was lucky to be alive. He had lost only a diamond earring, a gold signet ring, his running shoes and a disposable cigarette lighter: not much when weighed against having escaped with his life.

• • •

The injuries David sustained in the beating included various cuts and bruises, several loose teeth, swellings to the body and extremities and headaches, all recorded at St Vincent’s hospital where he went for treatment. He suffered nightmares and was still unable to leave his house at the time he was interviewed by Ingleby on 3January 1990, two weeks after the attack. He felt confident that he would be able to identify his attackers though, at least the main two.

• • •

Unknown to Sergeant Ingleby as he spoke to David, yet another assault on a homosexual had taken place earlier on the same evening as that at Mackenzies Point.

Shortly before 8.30pm on Thursday, 21December Robert H cut through Centennial Park on his way home from shopping at Bondi Junction. It was a hot and humid evening and he stopped to regain his breath at the viewing dais at the northeastern end of the park. He’d been resting for about 10 minutes when a group of seven youths emerged from a clump of bushes some way below him. Two of the youths split from the others, moving away from the group, coming at an angle up the incline, but not directly towards where Robert was standing. Robert watched the five remaining group members who were about 15 metres from him and one of them appeared to speak to him, gaining his attention. Suddenly, he was struck from behind, pushed violently down the hill so that he stumbled and rolled towards the group. The two who had separated had circled around behind him and had approached without being seen or heard. The gang punched and kicked him and hit him over the head and arm with a metal bar. He heard one of those not directly involved in the assault saying, ‘Don’t hurt him. Just take his money.’

Robert lost consciousness, waking later to find he had been robbed of 40 dollars and a Christmas present he’d just bought for a friend. He managed to reach the house of another friend in Bondi Junction, the police were called and he accompanied them back to the scene of the assault where he saw his own blood on the grass. He also found the metal bar.

The area where Robert was attacked was known to the police as a ‘beat’.

• • •

On the surface it might seem that there was little to link the assault on Robert H with those committed in the Bondi area: Robert was attacked in Centennial Park, robbery was the primary – possibly sole – motive, a metal bar was used as a weapon. The only substantial factor besides the date that would suggest a possible link was that Robert, like the others, was attacked at a known ‘beat’. (Steve Page would establish a far more important link years later when he dug a little deeper than did the police in the early ’90s).

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McCann might not have learned about the attack on Robert H through Ingleby’s reports (all the other offences under investigation had been dealt with by the Bondi Station, Robert’s case was investigated by the Waverley Police), but he did know about yet another assault from 18December 1989.

Alan Boxsell, a part-time projectionist at the North Bondi RSL, was driving home after work when he pulled into Notts Avenue to check the water in the car radiator. As he climbed out of the driver’s seat he was thrown to the ground and repeatedly kicked by three people. Not a word had been spoken.

Alan scrambled to his feet and ran.

His attackers ran faster, surrounding him before he’d managed to sprint more than a few metres. One of them said, ‘Do you know this is a place where gay people come?’

‘Yeah. I know that.’

‘Are you gay?’

‘No.’

‘Are you gay?’

‘No.’

‘Give us your wallet.’

‘I don’t have a wallet.’

‘I don’t believe you. Give us your car keys.’

Boxsell handed over his keys and one of the attackers searched his car. A few minutes later, the would-be thief who had searched his car came back.

‘He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t have a wallet.’

‘Well, give us your watch.’

Boxsell handed over his gold Seiko as the third attacker lashed out with a skateboard, smashing him in the ribs. In the sudden realisation of the seriousness of his situation, Boxsell charged through the group and ran, seeing one of his attackers toss his keys towards the ocean as he did so. Again, he was caught. He was punched in the face and again thrown to the ground and kicked by all three. Having taken everything of value from him, however, they quickly tired of the game and left him with a warning not to go to the police because ‘we know where you work’. They walked away leaving him on the ground.

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With McCann’s files before him, Detective Sergeant Page saw that he would have to revisit the original Russell case just as he was revisiting that of Warren. In fact, as he was gathering new evidence relating to Warren’s disappearance, so he would have to dig for similar evidence relating to Russell and David McMahon, taking into account any other assaults – like the one on Alan Boxsell – that came to his attention along the way.

[1]
Russell’s brother, Peter, made a statement the day after Russell was found in which he claimed that Russell had lost his wallet on the previous Friday, hence he had only loose cash on him – and no wallet – at the time of his death.

[2]
This was in direct contradiction to what Bowditch had said regarding the Warren case. Bowditch thought that, because the night Warren disappeared was overcast, visibility would have been severely impaired. Warren, he postulated, could easily have wandered off the cliff.

CHAPTER NINE

Death by Drowning?

i

Bondi Beach is certainly one of the world’s most famous shorelines, competing with the likes of Waikiki and Malibu Beaches for top status worldwide. Not that Bondi is spectacular in the way that Waikiki is spectacular, nor is it as fashionable as Venice or Redondo. But, even though the surf is up only a couple of weeks of the year, Bondi retains its status as an international icon largely because of the reputation it gained as a surfing mecca in the ’50s and ’60s. Back then it was a pretty little cove with a deep semicircle of golden sand backing onto a wide expanse of sloping grass beyond which lay the almost village-like suburb of Bondi.

Nowadays, the sand is still there and the grass is still there but the village atmosphere of the suburb has long gone. Campbell Parade is now a multi-lane road full of buses and tourists. Shops and cafes jostle each other for business, redevelopment is never-ending. The tourist dollar is everywhere. Bondi has become very much a seaside town for overseas families and backpackers, eating ice-cream and fish ’n’ chips during the day, drinking in the bars and hotels in the evening.

In 1990 property was still affordable in Bondi – back from the beach – and a subculture of hippies and so-called bludgers grew among the ever-so-slightly resentful eastern suburbs elite. Live music blared from bars at night and along the beach during the day and with the music came the drugs and with the drugs came those who sold the drugs and those who saw a myriad opportunities burgeoning before their eyes. At night the beach was almost as populated as it was during daylight hours: young men and women lying on the grass, partying until dawn, smoking dope and drinking beer and wine. And camouflaged among the transients were pockets of local under-aged kids, smoking and boozing and generally behaving badly because they thought no-one would notice. And not caring if anyone did notice. Sometimes, when the booze ran out, they had to find the money to buy more and that money came from unwary individuals who believed the hype about the idyll that was Bondi, individuals who took cash from ATMs without making sure that there wasn’t a gang of viciously indifferent thugs lurking nearby, ready to take the cash by whatever means were necessary.