Two journalists, Wollongong central station, an unresolved murder, and a cacophony of street secrets where only the well-worn carpets of Piccadilly Centre know the answer.
On 29 January 1966, Wilhemena Kruger was brutally left disfigured and bound in the Piccadilly Centre underground carpark. What remained in the morning was a violent tableau of an innocent woman mutilated without a trace of her killer.
It is a story that still lingers in the cold corridors of Piccadilly Centre and has become a case collecting dust in the filing cabinet of the Wollongong police station.
On a buzzing, sunny day, we set off on a mission to find some answers about one of the oldest unsolved homicides in Australian history. We had dressed nicely, as any fresh student journalist would: button-ups, nice pants, smart shoes. But we stood out like sore thumbs. Many of the workers we talked to had lots to say, but made it very clear about the dangers of releasing their identity; even stepping into the building itself, we were complete anomalies, greeted by silent stares that followed us in every shadow of every hallway.
Only a ten-minute drive down the road and you’re situated at the pristine lighthouse beach, with families, athletes, and women in their twenties taking their cavoodles for their “hot girl walks”. So why is it that this small area has rusted in a suburb of green and blue?
Upon entering, we wandered around the circumference of the building. It led us down an alleyway of graffiti, rubbish, and a man sitting against the wall enjoying his midday cigarette. At what was said to be one of their busiest rush hours, many shops remained closed and completely shut-off, unable to peer in. A twelve-year-old toy shop greeted us as we walked in, followed by a cafe, a shoe shop, and what looked like a medical centre at the far end.
“Businesses are in and out in about two years because of all the junkies” – business owner
The only sound from the building was the old escalator that led to a ground floor of vacant stores, once filled with thriving businesses. The bathroom, held open by a rusty metal bin, was covered with wet toilet paper, gum, and rubbish exploding all over it.
“If you think this is bad, you should go see the bathroom, there’s a lot that’s happened in there” – business owner.
An uncomfortable silence sits in the air as our footsteps interrupt the enigmatic environment.
I felt a rush to get interviews done so we could escape to the safety of familiarity, but there was also something exciting about the ambiguity. The sneaky trades that could have taken place a few metres from where I stood.
It took three visits before we could manage to find someone willing to share their insights, and each time we became more accustomed to observing the details of its arena.
People tended to move slowly, and there was a damp smell, which hung like old curtains that had once known sunlight but now only drank the humidity of underground air. There were police who flagged the area like flies, and in a delegated corner, eight security cameras surveilled the junction of the mall and an adjoining motel.
These security cameras once captured the young juveniles who walked across the road from the correction centre to the old Coles where they could find their local drugs. According to the local workers, it was only a matter of a couple of months before Coles had to be shut down.
“Most places around here only open for a couple of weeks before they are quickly out of here” – business owner.
It’s no wonder that Wollongong’s insidious reputation has gained traction along the east coast, with the central station being so close to Piccadilly Center and the urban blight of its neighbouring areas.
“If I got off the train and saw that area, I would judge it,” says Karly, a thirty-three year old community nurse who worked in Piccadilly Center for a number of years before leaving.
“That murder that you guys are asking about, it’s the same carpet that we would walk over every day to get to work,” Karly says.
“I remember when I was a kid, there was this story going around that it was a butcher that killed the cleaning lady. But I’ve heard a million different stories.
“It’s dodgy. Like I would definitely make an effort not to go in there if I didn’t have to work. It just feels weird because it’s all the same from when it [the murder] happened.”
The cold mystery that shadows the centre has built a fog that would take years to clean. Even when talking to a police officer, he barely knew anything about the unsolved case.
And the more we surrounded ourselves in the community, the more we discovered the underground networks of eshays meeting up with junkies, and possible workers doing under-the-counter trades. The stories started to leak out like rotten juice at the bottom of a plastic bag until someone was left with the stains of its remnants.
A question we began to ask ourselves was did this all start with the fear of Willhemena Kruger’s death? Did it puncture a hole that others felt they could hide into?
But there will always be areas of crime. It’s how cities run. It’s a matter of understanding how it can be mitigated so people can feel as safe at the train station as they do with their feet in the sand of Wollongong’s beaches.
