Underbelly 5 Read online

  Jack retired in July, 1976, after 34 years at Charlton. The couple moved to Rye and Jack was diagnosed with cancer about eight years later.

  It took eighteen months for the disease to spread into his bones and he died in 1985. His slow death was not enough to allow the son to forgive.

  ‘I think there had been a disagreement of some sort and Philip wasn’t in contact with them when Jack was ill,’ a family friend said later.

  As the dying man lay in his hospital bed he confided to a relative that his greatest regret was that he couldn’t rebuild his relationship with Philip.

  While Jack had given up on his son years earlier, it wasn’t in Phyllis’s nature to stop believing. She hoped that age would give him what his adopted parents had failed to instill – a sense of maturity and the capacity to complete a task. But he was seemingly caught in a depressing cycle of under-achievement, drifting through jobs and relationships, never being able to survive even slight problems without walking away. More disturbingly, he started to make up stories, once claiming to be a British secret service agent who had parachuted into Europe and fallen in love with a Yugoslavian woman.

  In real life, he had two children from his first marriage and four from the second.

  By the time he was middle-aged, he had walked and then stumbled along a number of career paths, including, in his own words, ‘electrical contracting, house building, manufacturing of canoes and airconditioners and publishing.

  ‘I was a professional punter, I ran an information service, I did computer consulting for a while and ran an art gallery, and was a sculptor for a while.’

  He had also been a musician and ran bands, but in 1993 he met a model, while sculpting. This sparked his next big idea. He would be a talent agent, managing a string of successful singers and glamorous models. ‘I don’t even remember how it happened.’

  He never did.

  AFTER Jack died, Phyllis went on a three-month cruise to England and she returned, determined to rebuild her relationship with her son and his four grandchildren from his second marriage.

  She sold the house in Rye and bought a unit in Glenhuntly so she could be closer to her brother, Bill. Without Jack and with her own health failing, she asked her best friend, Betty Wilson, to help her control her finances – a move the manipulative Philip bitterly resented.

  Soon after moving to the unit, Phyllis went to hospital for her third hip replacement. Philip was too busy to take her to hospital, but she asked if he could look after her small garden.

  When she returned, it was obvious he had done nothing. She rang her son to ask what had gone wrong. According to Betty Wilson, ‘Philip hung up the phone and wouldn’t speak to Phyllis for about two years after that.’

  She broke her leg, but this did not move him to take a greater interest in his elderly mother. Phyllis had a stroke when she was 75. Betty found her lying in bed when she dropped in one day.

  It fell to Mrs Wilson to ring the son with the news. ‘I phoned Philip after the ambulance took Phyllis, to let him know his mother had had a stroke. He appeared unperturbed about it. His only comment was “Oh yeah”. I couldn’t understand his attitude when he could take it so lightly.’

  While her daughter-in-law, Josette, a school teacher, and the grand-children visited her in hospital, Philip stayed away, claiming his car had broken down. The frightened and seriously-ill woman had to resort to bribery.

  If her son would come to visit, she would agree to pay for the car repairs. He turned up and, according to Mrs Wilson: ‘I wrote the cheque out (from Phyllis Hocking’s account) for Philip, I think it was for $800.’

  While she was in hospital her small unit was burgled. Little was taken except a pair of binoculars and a strongbox containing her personal papers.

  Phyllis told Betty Wilson she believed Philip had robbed her, but she lacked proof. Some time later, her depressing judgment on her son’s character appeared to be vindicated.

  While the binoculars were stolen the thief forgot the leather carry case. Mrs Wilson recalled Phyllis telling her son, ‘You have the binoculars, you might as well have the case.’ To which Philip had replied, ‘Thank you, mother.’

  Bill Wannan said the burglar was looking for more than binoculars when he robbed the Glenhuntly unit. ‘Basically, everyone believed Philip had committed the break-in to see if he was in the will.’

  He was the cuckoo in the nest who demanded more as he got older. Every financial problem would send him back to his mother and every time he wanted to launch a new project, he expected her to be the sponsor. He liked the big picture – but she had to buy the paint and clean up the mess.

  She bought him two cars, paid electricity bills and lost money on the failed art gallery. It was still not enough.

  Robyn Maile was a nurse who regularly visited Phyllis at Glenhuntly. One day she found the proud, old woman ‘extremely distressed and crying’. She had just received a letter from her son claiming it would be ‘her fault’ if his children were denied a private school education.

  She told a professional financial adviser, ‘Philip is bleeding me.’ She moved to change her will to keep the money away from her son, but later changed her mind again.

  According to her brother Bill: ‘Phyllis said Philip was a bad man and was after her money.’

  But even though she had deep doubts about her son he convinced her she should move into a bungalow behind his house. She would have to pay $2000, of course, to have a shower and toilet fitted.

  A few weeks after moving in, she regretted the decision and returned to Glenhuntly, but when a unit in Dunloe Avenue, virtually opposite her son’s home, became available, she sold out and moved again.

  She believed it would be an ideal compromise. She would be close enough to see her grandchildren regularly, but without sacrificing her independence.

  And, for Philip Hocking, it was convenient to have his mother, and her bank books, as a neighbor. When he planned to publish a book, Guys’ Guide To Girls, he expected her to pay for the 4000 copy print run.

  Not only was he a leech, but an ungrateful one. ‘My mother was always generous with her money, but she always whinged about it,’ he was to comment later.

  When Philip started a talent agency, Phyllis became the backer. It was no surprise that he was staggeringly unsuccessful. His one singer (‘She wanted to be another Madonna’) ran off with the piano player and the one model had the brains to put her shirt back on and seek alternative employment.

  Yet with his mother’s $20,000 business ‘grant’ he insisted on having a secretary, an office and a registered business name. What he lacked was any clients or any way to generate money.

  Philip Hocking wasn’t the only member of the extended family who wanted some of Phyllis’s modest savings. His son from his first marriage, Brent, had lived in Darwin with his mother, before coming to Melbourne to start a steam cleaning business.

  If Phyllis was so generous, perhaps she could help out. She lent Brent money for a truck and became annoyed when it wasn’t repaid as promised. She had every right to feel used – she had handed over $6000 and asked for only $20 a fortnight in repayments.

  Phyllis would have been 91 by the time the principal was repaid. As it turned out, Brent managed to pay back a total of only $400.

  Phyllis’s anger did not dilute her natural generosity. She gave Brent a dining setting and two chairs, to help him furnish his home. But soon he was back with a fresh request. Could he have the placemats as well?

  Despite the financial strains and her failing health, Phyllis adapted well to life in her new unit. She was driven by council transport to the Kangerong Day Care Centre twice a week and, according to one of the helpers, ‘she loved it’.

  She would talk about life as a young teacher and tell warm stories about her grandchildren. ‘Whenever she did ceramics at Kangerong she’d put roses on them. She used to put roses on her ceramics. She was known at the centre as The Rose Lady,’ a staff member recalled.

 
She would borrow large-print books to read and although she had to use a frame or cane to move, she refused to stop enjoying life.

  At the elderly citizens centre, she bought a ticket in a raffle to raise funds for Parkinson’s Disease research. She won first prize – $10,000 worth of free travel. Too immobile to travel overseas again, she began to give away the prize to people she felt would enjoy a break.

  Days before she died she offered to give Philip and his wife a week’s holiday on Hayman Island.

  According to one of the carers, Carol Gent, ‘Phyllis didn’t talk much about her past. She was a now person.’ She told her brother she was planning for the future because, ‘after all, I might live another ten years’.

  To Philip, that was simply not an acceptable option.

  THE people who made the decision to cheat Phyllis Hocking of her last few years of life, killed her by degrees over months, not minutes.

  Now, seven years after the murder, police say Philip Hocking tired of taking his mother’s modest savings by instalments and devised a plan to take everything.

  The first step, required the woman to be scared out her Box Hill unit and into a home. But he needed someone he could manipulate. He turned to his adult son from his first marriage, Brent – the one who’d got his grandmother’s dining table, chairs, placemats and a $20,000 loan.

  While the son desperately wanted his father’s approval, the daughter from the first marriage, Rachael Ovelsen, could see through the big talk and slick manner.

  ‘I could not stand my father and he actually gave me the creeps. (But) Brent idolised our father, Philip, and wanted to be like him. He (her father) was always interested in money and scheming to make money. I would describe him as greedy. Money is all he ever talked about. Despite this, Brent still had great affection for our father and saw him as an entrepreneur.’

  Years later, Brent was to confess that his father instructed him to break-in and trash Phyllis’s unit, making sure the burglary looked as if it had been carried out by teenagers.

  Brent said his father told him to break into the Box Hill unit and, ‘Mess it all up and she’ll get such a fright she’ll want to move out. He said, “If you scare her, we’ll be able to get her to move in to a home and then I can access her money”.’

  Like a good son, Brent did what he was told.

  On 16 July, 1993, he broke into the unit, grabbed some cash, a little jewellery and a stamp collection. But what really hurt the houseproud woman was that the intruder poured soft drinks and alcohol over the carpets.

  According to friends at the day care centre, she was devastated. Betty Wilson said Phyllis asked her professional, d carpet-cleaning grandson to help deal with the mess. After all, she had helped fund the business.

  He was happy to help – at a price.

  ‘She mentioned she was going to give him $300 initially, but then she wasn’t going to give him that much,’ Mrs Wilson said.

  Phyllis Wilson had lived through wars, depressions, droughts and the death of her husband. A minor burglary, no matter how traumatic, was not going to frighten her off her property. For the scheming, adopted son, it was time for ‘plan B’. He would burn her out. According to Brent, his father said, ‘I want you to throw a fire-bomb in there.’

  ‘I said, “If you want me to do that, I’ll do it”.’ According to Brent the plan was no longer to scare but to kill. ‘He wanted to burn the house down and she would pass away.’

  Apparently, the pair were unaware that Mrs Hocking had recently fitted a smoke detector in the unit and had the habit of keeping the key in the internal lock on the front door.

  On 8 August, Brent Hocking spray painted the words ‘Piss off Poofs’ on a garage wall near the units – an attempt to lead police to conclude the attack was directed at a homosexual couple living nearby.

  He then threw a fire-bomb – made of a petrol-filled stubby with a material wick – into his grandmother’s home. When the smoke alarm sounded, Phyllis opened her bedroom door to what Betty Wilson said was a ‘wall of fire … if she had’ve been fumbling for a key, she would have never have made it out. Even her hair was singed.’

  She survived, but her unit and her independence were finally destroyed. She had no choice but to move across the road to her son’s house the next day. Even though she had spent $2000 to renovate the bungalow, Philip decided it was inappropriate for her, as one of his sons and their dog were living there.

  She was put in the lounge as ‘the only room really available’ in the modest weatherboard home.

  The house was owned by the generous brother of Philip’s wife, who only asked for enough money to cover rates and electricity on the property – $123 a month. When Phyllis moved in, her son charged her board of $100 a week.

  Philip Hocking was to tell police that he loved his mother and she was happy in his home. ‘It has been about three months, but it feels like it was only three weeks. She really was a pleasure to have around.

  For example, we had a dishwasher, but we didn’t even use it for two months, as she would do the dishes. She would also help with the housework and tidying up.

  ‘My relationship with my mother was excellent … I was her life.’

  But Phyllis was to tell another story. Ten days before she died she went to see a friend who asked how she was coping, living with her son. ‘She just spat out the words, “I hate it, but I’m all right”.’

  ‘Phyllis used to tell me very often that she thought there was something wrong with Philip.’

  Mrs Wilson drove from Rye to Box Hill every two weeks to check on her friend and watched as the once strong and independent woman became increasingly frail, vulnerable and frightened.

  ‘She was most unhappy staying at Philip’s.’

  Her spirits lifted on Mrs Wilson’s visits. She asked her son to get some sandwiches for the special occasion.

  ‘When I was there, Phyllis handed Philip $20 for the sandwiches and Philip just took it and put it in his pocket.’

  IF Philip Hocking’s plan was to drive his adopted mother into a retirement home, then his life-long failure to grasp economic realities was again exposed.

  The elderly woman began to look at alternative accommodation and was taken with one that required an up-front payment of $50,000 with a small monthly rental.

  According to Brent, his father was ‘really pissed off and he told me, “You’ve got to make sure you get her” and, you know, “That’s not good enough”.’ Philip considered killing his mother and hiding the body in a concrete-filled hot-water tank. He then told Brent, I’ll chuck her down a mine shaft.’

  But he knew enough about the law to understand that if his mother just disappeared the estate could be tied up for years. ‘He decided he didn’t want that … her going missing was no good because it’d take forever for him to get the money,’ Brent said.

  He said Philip said he wanted his son to pretend to be a burglar, then, ‘Get a steel bar and just whack her over the head.’

  Brent said his father promised him $20,000 from the estate for a new steam-cleaning machine, if he went ahead with the murder. Dad would keep the rest.

  On 26 October, 1993, Phyllis was taken to the nearby senior citizens club and her grandson, then just 21 and armed with an iron bar, waited in the bedroom for her to return. ‘My father drove me there and backed me in the drive in his car.’

  The back door was forced with a screwdriver and electronic gear was stacked near the laundry to make police believe a burglar had entered the house.

  Philip went home about 1pm. He would later tell police he needed to pick up a video for work. He checked the letterbox and found a little bonus – a $2000 cheque made out to his mother from the insurance company, as compensation for the break-in at her unit three months earlier.

  He then went back to work for lunch with his secretary and they discussed at length the problems she was having with her boyfriend. He was his usual self, showing no signs that he knew his mother had less than an hour to live.


  Council driver, Michael Cowden, drove her home a few minutes before 2pm and watched her walk slowly up the driveway to the back door.

  Brent knew she was coming. His father had set up a home-made alarm system, so that a buzzer sounded when an infra-red beam was broken in the drive. When she entered the lounge, he struck her from behind at least three times on the neck and head. He later dumped the tyre lever in a river.

  Philip Hocking left work as usual around 3.20pm to pick up his two young children from school. It was a warm afternoon and he had every reason to be in a good mood so he stopped at a local milk bar to treat the girls to icy poles.

  When he got to the rear of the house, he saw the door was open and spotted tiny scratch marks around the frame. He walked in and saw stereo equipment stacked in the laundry and said he thought: ‘Looks as though we’ve been burgled again.’

  Despite the fact he and his mother had been burgled five times and her unit had been fire-bombed he remained calm.

  Hocking had personal experience of how dangerous burglars could be. The previous year he’d found an intruder armed with a knife, in his own kitchen. He said the man attacked him and knocked him unconscious.

  Yet, despite this, it did not apparently dawn on Hocking that the burglars could still be inside, even though he could see his gear stacked near the back door.

  Then he did something puzzling. He let his two youngest children into the house and made them go upstairs to watch television. He felt they may be distressed if they discovered a ‘mess’ downstairs.

  He didn’t seem to think the burglars could have made a mess upstairs or could still have been in that part of the house, where they could grab his children.

  He either wasn’t thinking clearly – or he knew exactly what he was going to find.

  He said he was in such shock when he found his mother covered with blood that he couldn’t remember his wife’s work number and eventually rang the emergency 000. ‘From there it all became a little hazy.’

  Blood was found all around the room, next to popular novels, including The Jackal, and next to her Bible, When police opened the Bible they found it had been cut so she could hide a gold necklace.