Sue Williams - And Then the Darkness. The Disappearance of Peter Falconio and the Trials of Joanne Lees

THE SUN WAS JUST KISSING the horizon when Joanne Lees suddenly jerked the Kombi vans steering wheel to the left and jammed on the brakes. There was a yell from the back and a head appeared in the rear-view mirror. Whats up? asked the dark-haired young man whod been sleeping on the back seat, pushed down to form a bed. Why are you stopping? Joanne heaved the creaky handbrake and gestured through the window at the turquoise Australian sky, already shot with streaks of gold. The sunset, she replied. Lets watch.

Joanne and her boyfriend Peter Falconio scrambled out the doors and leaned back against the old orange van. Theyd been driving for two-and-a-half hours since heading north from Alice Springs and this was their first break. Joanne tilted a bottle of water to her lips, and Peter rolled a joint, then lit the end. They could have been anyone: just two more overseas backpackers doing the time-honoured trip around Australia; a young couple having a taste of outback adventure before returning to Britain to settle down to careers, marriage and kids.

As the heavens turned a rosy pink and bronze against the fierce burnished ochre of the earth, Peter slipped an arm around Joannes shoulders and passed her the joint. She smiled at him. It was one of those rare perfect moments on this, their dream trip around the world. Joanne fiddled with her camera, lined up the sunset and took a picture.

As soon as theyd finished, she slipped back behind the wheel and drove the Kombi across the road to the Ti Tree Roadhouse and service station. While Peter pumped the petrol, Joanne went into the cashier to pay and buy more cold drinks and snacks for the drive ahead. Their final destination was Darwin, some 1300 kilometres away, but Tennant Creek lay just 300 kilometres up the road, with its own wonders the awesome Devils Marbles. Theyd been told to try and see the massive rock formations at dawn in order to experience the full eerie impact. If they could, they would. Tonight they planned to pull over somewhere by the side of the road only when they grew too tired to keep going.

By the time Joanne returned, Peter was sitting behind the wheel, ready to set off on the last stage of their journey. It was nearing 7 p.m. when they pulled away, back into the barren featureless landscape that stretches far beyond any horizon the eye can see. Theyd only been driving for around twenty minutes when Joanne spotted two small rings of fire on the left, five or so metres from the bitumen road. Peter started to brake.

What are you doing, Pete? Joanne asked.

He shrugged. I just thought we should put them out. The fire might spread.

Joanne peered into the fading light. They look weird, she said, shivering as she caught a chill through the open window. They look almost as though theyve been started deliberately

Peter laughed. What out here? But were the only ones here!

Joanne didnt seem to hear him, and touched his knee. Keep driving, she urged. I dont like it. It could be some kind of trick or trap.

Peter noticed an edge of fear to her voice, and stopped laughing. This kind of lonely terrain with its mood of utter desolation was enough to spook anyone. He smiled fondly over at her, put his foot on the accelerator and moved smoothly back into fourth gear. Okay, he said, gently. Well keep going. He said nothing when they saw two more fires further up the road, and they drove past in silence.

Less than an hour later, Peter noticed bright headlights behind him and slowed to let the vehicle overtake. As it drew level, however, it braked to the same speed as the Kombi. With the road so long and straight and empty of traffic, there was little danger. Peter looked to his right and saw the driver gesturing at him. He wound down the window and heard the man shouting something about sparks coming from the exhaust.

Joanne glanced past Peter through the gloom of the gathering dusk at the other driver, and didnt like what she saw. The man, in a baseball cap and check shirt and with his dog sitting up in the passenger seat beside him, was still jerking his finger towards the back of their vehicle. She saw Peter put his foot on the brake and suddenly, inexplicably, felt scared.

Dont stop, Pete, dont stop! she begged. I dont like it.

Peter looked at her quizzically, but kept the pressure on the brake. We have to see what it is, he said. Itll only take a minute. He pulled up on the gravel shoulder, and the white four-wheel-drive ute with its green canopy stopped behind them. Peter got out and went to see what the problem was. He came back to ask Joanne to rev the engine, smiled at her, and returned to behind the Kombi.

And then the darkness enveloped him, and Joanne Lees never saw her boyfriend Peter Falconio again.

AS KIDS GROWING UP IN the historic villages on the outskirts of the teeming British Midlands town of Huddersfield, both Peter Falconio and Joanne Lees were always warned to stay close to home. Their early years were coloured by snatches of whispered conversations between adults about the horrors of the Moors Murderers who tortured and killed youngsters out on the bleak, windswept hills nearby. Their childhood was spent in fear of the mysterious Yorkshire Ripper, who preyed on lone women. By the time that killer was eventually unmasked, thirteen women lay dead, and a whole generation had grown nervous about venturing far from home alone.

It had a real effect on everyones psyche, says a contemporary of Joannes from the same village. You grew up being told never to talk to strangers, never to hitchhike anywhere, never to stop for people. It takes you a long time to un-learn those lessons.

Sometimes, its better not to try.

PETER MARCO FALCONIO WAS born on 20 September 1972, and grew up in the nineteenth-century village of Hepworth, Holmfirth, 10 kilometres south of Huddersfield. A jumble of weavers cottages and old stone buildings clinging to the emerald hillside, it was once an idyllic place. Today, however, developers have marched in with their smart new housing estates and mock Victorian faades have steadily engulfed the original buildings. The Falconios two-storey, four-bedroom detached house is built of creamy stone and is neat and well-kept but is now encircled by newer homes. Where once Peters mother, Joan, used to look out over the washing-up to vast swathes of endless green, she now stares straight into the white brick of the end house of the new estate. It used to be much nicer, she says sadly. We were on our own with great views until they built that . But what can you do?

A few kilometres east lies New Mill, another small village scattered around a busy crossroads. Its here that Peter Falconios father, Luciano, a short, nuggety Italian migrant, ran the local post office. A cheery man with silvery hair, a ready smile and a strong accent, he and his four sons Nick, five years older than Peter; Paul, three years older; Peter; and finally Mark, six years younger were well-known around the area, all helping, at various times, to deliver the morning and evening newspapers. They were also noticeable because of their striking dark Italian looks, says neighbour Richard Ainley. They really stood out. The lads hung around the town square, meeting friends and chatting to girls, rather than joining, like some of the other neighbourhood kids, the local cubs or scouts. They werent goody goodies like me, says Ainley. But they were all a really nice family.