“I grabbed my phone out of my handbag and texted my partner:
F*** Helen murdered Phil I’m stuck at her place I’m so scared
I pushed send with a sense of some relief that at least someone else knew. My phone beeped, but my relief was short-lived. I opened the text:
Insufficient funds — please top up your account
My heart dropped. Now I had no way of contacting the outside world.”
_________
What do you do when you realise your supposedly grieving sister-in-law murdered her husband — your own dear brother?
What Lee-Anne Cartier did was gather up her courage and get to work, collecting clues and evidence, and presenting anything she could get her hands on to the police. She persisted to ensure the case wasn’t overlooked and the death wasn’t written off as a straightforward suicide.
Her sister-in-law, Helen Milner, came to be known as the Black Widow, and is now serving out her sentence at Arohata Prison.
This is the story.
Contents
PREFACE The Suicide Note
KEY PEOPLE
ONE The News
TWO Our Family
THREE The Funeral
FOUR Back in Australia
FIVE In the House of a Murderer
SIX Breaking the News
SEVEN Keeping Up Appearances
EIGHT Losing It
NINE A Visit to the Police
TEN Theft as a Servant
ELEVEN The Inquest
TWELVE The Police Step Up
THIRTEEN The Media
FOURTEEN The Arrest
FIFTEEN A Brief Reconciliation
SIXTEEN Frustration
SEVENTEEN The Trial Begins
EIGHTEEN The Queen v Milner
NINETEEN The Verdict
TWENTY The Consequences
TWENTY-ONE Game Over
AFTERWORD Where We Are Now
ILLUSTRATIONS
APPENDICES
FOLLOW PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my brother Philip James Nisbet, born 20 March 1962, taken 3 May 2009, my brother whose trusting, believing nature cost him his life. May you rest in peace now that justice has prevailed.
I played only a small part in bringing Milner to justice, and my heartfelt thanks goes out to the major players who were instrumental in the result: Karen Porter, Coroner Sue Johnson, Giles Brown, Detective Inspector Greg Murton, Detective Sergeant Earle Borrell and all the other policewomen and men who worked on Operation Checketts, Brent Stanaway and Kathy Basire and the rest of the Crown team behind the scenes, every single person who gave evidence, the 12 jury members and Justice David Gendall.
Together, even though many of you never met, you were all a part of something very important that has brought some peace to my family.
Thank you.
Without the support of my wonderful children and their love and tolerance, my part would never have been possible. I love you to infinity and beyond. I have been blessed with wonderful friends whose support has been invaluable and made this journey considerably easier. Words fail to describe how much the support of family and friends means.
I love you all so much.
Preface
The Suicide Note
My brother had been dead for nearly three weeks before his widow produced what she claimed was his suicide note. I was intrigued when she asked me to ring her on Saturday, 23 May 2009, 20 days after Phil’s death, then told me she had found a suicide note. I was baffled. She said it had been in the safe, and that she had only just found it because she couldn’t remember the combination before now. She had stumbled upon it while sorting through Phil’s paperwork.
When I arrived in New Zealand a few weeks later and went to her house, Helen gave me a drink and handed me a piece of paper, saying, ‘Here’s the note I found in the bedside drawer.’ What the? I took a gulp of my vodka and looked down at the note.
I was speechless. My eyes must have been popping out of their sockets.
It was typed.
I didn’t even bother reading the note — my focus was drawn to the handwritten ‘Phil’ straight below the typing, to the right of centre. I knew it was not how Phil usually wrote his name. It wasn’t his writing at all.
It was like three slaps in the face in quick succession. First, I was sure she had told me the letter was in the safe, and here she was saying it was in the drawer. Then, the letter being typed — who types a suicide note? Then, the signature not being Phil’s. I was dumbfounded, to say the least.
I gulped the rest of my drink. Helen seemed to sense my shock and upset but she probably thought it was the contents of the note that had upset me. Little did she realise that the last puzzle piece of all the inconsistencies and strange happenings had just fallen into place, spelling out that she had murdered Phil.
I looked from the note to Helen, then to her new-old boyfriend Barry, who had moved in with her so soon after Phil’s death, wondering if I was sitting in the room with one murderer or two …
Key People
The Nisbet family
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Jim Nisbet, my adoptive father
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Yvonne Nisbet, my adoptive mother
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Philip Nisbet, my eldest brother, oldest son of Jim and Yvonne
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Andrew Nisbet, my brother, second son of Jim and Yvonne
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Roger Nisbet, my brother, third son of Jim and Yvonne
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Lee-Anne Cartier (née Nisbet), me, adopted daughter of Jim and Yvonne
Phil’s family
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Zak Bell, son of Phil and his first wife Vicki Andrews née Bell
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Ben Porter, son of Phil and Karen Porter
Helen’s family
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Greg Kearns, elder son of Helen and her first husband Mark Kearns
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Adam Kearns, second son of Helen and her first husband Mark Kearns
My family
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Lance Connelly, my eldest son with my ex-partner Anthony Connelly
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Aaron Connelly, my second son with my ex-partner Anthony Connelly
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Lacau and Rajon Cartier, my twin daughters with my ex-husband Darren Whittaker
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Sam Whittaker, my stepson (Darren’s son with his previous wife)
Others
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Ray, neighbour of Helen and Phil, who worked with Phil
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Barry Hayton, Helen’s ex, who she got back with shortly after Phil’s death
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Graham Coumbe, Helen’s lawyer
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Rupert Glover and Margaret Sewell, lead counsel for the defence
One
The News
Monday, 4 May 2009 was Labour Day, a public holiday in Queensland, Australia. It was a beautiful sunny day on the Sunshine Coast, after a lovely weekend. Because the supermarkets were closed for the holiday I’d gone to work the night before, putting up displays ready for the new specials starting on Tuesday. I had been merchandising for Reckitt Benckiser for three and a half years, and it was nothing out of the ordinary for me to do planograms (which show where products should be placed) through the night or to go out after tea and put up displays for the coming week.
Aaron, my younger son, was 17. He worked as an apprentice bricklayer, and with early starts was always at home on nights preceding workdays. He was more than happy to look after his
nine-year-old twin sisters, Rajon and Lacau, while I worked. Aaron has a heart of gold — he was always good with his sisters and helped me out where he could. The girls were never any trouble for their brother, and were often asleep before I left for work.
The day had started off slowly. I’d spent most of it on the phone. My second-oldest brother Andrew had called me to go through my affidavit for his hearing for custody of his son at the end of the month.
Then I got busy chatting to my friend Bernadette, a born-and-bred Sunshine Coaster who I’d met through mutual friends, discussing our plans for race day at the end of the month. There were two big days on the Sunshine Coast racing calendar that we never missed: Ladies Oaks Day in May and Melbourne Cup Day in November. We weren’t gamblers, we just loved an excuse to dress up and have a fun day out with friends. My place was near the track so we often started there with pre-race drinks and nibbles.
We were busy discussing the dilemmas of outfits for the day when my call waiting beeped. I checked and saw it was Dad, so I continued with the call to Bernadette, intending to call back straight after we’d finished.
The phone beeped again, once more saying it was Dad. I concluded he had rung back to leave a message.
A few minutes later it beeped again. This was concerning, so I told Bernadette I had to go. Unfortunately I was too slow, so I rang Dad back. It was 10.04 a.m.
Dad’s voice was quiet and pained. I panicked and asked what was wrong with Mum.
‘Mum’s OK, but we’ve had a call from Helen. Philip is dead.’
I gasped in shock.
‘A car or truck accident?’ Dad replied that the police had found Phil in his truck in Christchurch, and believed it was suicide.
I was speechless. It was inconceivable — this couldn’t be real. Dad left me, in shock, to continue to try to call Andrew, who hadn’t been answering his phone either. I rang Bernadette back and she headed straight over.
I frantically tried calling Andrew too, leaving him messages to call me urgently. When I finally got hold of him I told him he needed to ring Dad urgently. He too jumped to the same conclusion, asking what was wrong with Mum. He begged me to tell him what was wrong. I will never forget his shrieks of ‘No … no …no!’ coming through the phone. The pain in his voice was my second heartbreak for the morning.
Before I had got hold of Andrew, he had received a text at 10.03 a.m. It read:
Hi andrew its helen can u ring me or your parents please.
Andrew had just seen the name ‘Helen’ and presumed it was from his ex-wife. He had called her at home and her husband had said she was out for a walk, so he presumed he would hear from her later. (At our brother Phil’s wedding in 2005, Andrew had had a ‘what the?’ moment when during the vows he realised both his ex-wife Helen and Phil’s new wife Helen Milner had the same middle name. He later found out they were also both born in New Zealand, in the same year.) With my shocking news he looked back at the text and realised it had in fact been sent from Phil’s phone. He called Helen Milner, and she told him she had been woken by the police to tell her they had found Phil dead in his truck.
Breaking the news to my older son, Lance, wasn’t easy. Lance was living in Christchurch and had been very close to Phil until some trouble caused by Helen more than two and a half years earlier. He hadn’t spoken to or seen Phil since then.
I also contacted my friend Andrea in Christchurch. Andrea had been like a second mother to Lance, and during the times when he was living in New Zealand her home had become his second home. I knew that Andrea would be a great support to Lance through the loss of his uncle.
Andrea and I had met when our sons were three or four. Mum and Dad had lived on the same street as her; the boys had gone to school together, played league for the same team and were thick as thieves.
Andrea had also got to know Phil well over the years, and was heartbroken to hear the news. With her background as a counsellor she was immediately concerned about Helen and how she was coping with her loss.
AS I DROVE TO MY parents’ home to meet up with my siblings, I remembered the last time I had driven that way. It was Friday, 20 March — my twins’ and Philip’s birthdays. Mum had contacted me a week or so earlier to say that Phil and Helen were coming over for a holiday. Even though we had had our differences, she wanted us to all get together, using the line ‘This could be the last time I get to see all my children together’. Mum hadn’t been well; she felt she was getting older and that every opportunity counted. However, I hadn’t talked to Roger, the youngest of my three brothers, for years and had no desire to see him, and with the trouble Helen had caused with Lance, she and Phil weren’t on my must-see list either.
I had already planned for the girls to have the Friday off school. I would take them to SeaWorld on the Gold Coast and stay Friday night at my friend Jane’s, then come back Saturday for a birthday party with all their friends at home on the Sunday. The plan had been to be at SeaWorld at 10 a.m. when the gates opened, but we were only just passing Mum and Dad’s place at Burpengary, halfway between the Sunshine Coast and Brisbane, at around 9.50 a.m., with an hour and a half still to drive.
As we drove past, I rang their home and Mum answered. She explained that Phil hadn’t been well and was still asleep. I could hear her through the phone, knocking on the door and calling out to him. She then gave him the phone, saying it was me. It was a quick call, with me saying happy birthday and Phil explaining that he hadn’t been well. We continued on our trip, having a fun day at SeaWorld.
I’m very much a person who doesn’t suffer fools, wiping idiots and users from my life and not giving them further opportunity to wrong my children or myself. To me, as long as Phil was with Helen I had neither the time nor the energy to rebuild our relationship.
Mum rang me late the next week, explaining that Phil and Helen intended to head back up to Montville or Maleny, inland from where I lived on the Sunshine Coast, on the Saturday before they flew out. They had seen some frog musician ornaments they liked on a trip earlier in the week and wanted to go back to get them. She asked, almost pleaded, for us to all meet for lunch. I begrudgingly agreed.
Mum, Dad, Phil and Helen came to our home late morning on the Saturday. Phil gave Rajon and Lacau a birthday card each, and we headed to the Caloundra RSL for lunch. It was an awkward occasion; I was glad there was a long wait in the queue to order. It was so strange to act as if nothing had happened, with the past not spoken about.
After lunch we took a couple of family photos — none with me in, but some nice ones of the girls and Aaron with my parents and Phil and Helen. I look back at those photos now and see them as the last photos I have of Mum and Dad before their hearts were broken and they were never the same again.
I often imagine how they’d look now and where their health would be at if Phil hadn’t been murdered. No parent should ever have to bury their child; it goes against nature and the circle of life.
AT THE TIME OF PHIL’S death, Mum and Dad were living in an over-55s village in a small, two-bedroom, relocatable home. There was nowhere to talk in private, so my friend Jane’s daughter took her younger siblings and my daughters to the park. Jane had lost her brother-in-law to suicide, so it was good having her there to talk to Mum and Dad, plus she talked to Roger, which took a bit of awkwardness out of that situation.
When Helen had rung my parents that morning she’d said she’d call back in a few hours, so we were all watching the time, wondering when she would call. We started to make plans to head to Christchurch, but until we heard from Helen and knew when the funeral would be we didn’t want to book flights.
We were raised Baptist, attending the Wainoni Baptist Church in Christchurch. Considering Phil had continued to attend into his early 20s, I suggested that we should have the service there, and that maybe we could track down the old youth pastor Peter Hay to officiate. Everyone seemed happy with my suggestion, so I logged into Dad’s computer and started searching for Peter Hay.
By this time it was late afternoon; the others had left and I needed to get home. We still hadn’t heard from Helen, so I called her, putting the phone on speaker so Mum and Dad could hear the whole conversation.
Helen apologised for not having rung back, then went on to say she was making arrangements to have the funeral at a church in Halswell and a cremation at the Harewood crematorium on that side of town on the following Saturday. I put forward my suggestion of using the Wainoni Baptist Church and seeing if Peter Hay could take the service, and mentioned there was a crematorium at Linwood, not too far from the church. She had no issues with that and was happy for me to contact Peter and see if it was possible.
During the conversation she said she had remade the bed with clean sheets but wasn’t sure if she would sleep in it. My thought at the time was ‘Why would that be an issue, he died in his truck.’, but I put it down to her seeking attention; she had always been strange. It was also a bit odd that Helen showed no emotion during the call; it was as if we were making general, everyday arrangements.
THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE BUSY with phone calls and getting organised to go to New Zealand. I tracked down Peter Hay and gave him Helen’s contact details, then booked flights for Mum and Dad on the Wednesday.
On my first phone call back to Andrea we discussed her conversation the previous day with Helen. When Andrea had asked Helen how she was, Andrea said Helen had replied, ‘How would you feel if you’d been woken by the police to tell you your husband was dead?’ Plus she had said the police had found 10 to 15 empty packets of Phenergan in the bathroom, and that he must have taken over 100 tablets.
Black Widow, The: How One Woman Got Justice for Her Murdered Brother Page 1
