I read this in the Australian the other day. I remember reading about it at the time and being almost physically ill. I had three little kids then, one of them Darcie's age.
If I could only get hands on with this pig I'd make his death as painful as possible.
Westgate Bridge:
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5 min
Four-year-old Darcey Iris Freeman was thrown from Melbourne's West Gate Bridge by her father. Arthur Freeman, 35, who was jailed for 32 years for the murder of the little girl.
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5:26pmApril 12, 2026.
Updated 17 hours ago
All newsroom veterans have tales about how unforgettable stories broke across their desks. Things have changed, of course. In the old days, news stories arrived as printouts on Reuters machines that clacked away in rooms glassed off in a lame attempt to keep the incessant noise at bay. They went all day and night and one of the copykids’ tasks was to feed the beasts – keep the rolls of paper churning through the telex printers.
The seriousness of a story – decided by no-one-knew-whom often on the other side of the world – was signalled by a series of bells. A single bell might be a race result. Two bells might be the FA Cup. Three could be a significant death. The importance of a story rose to the seldom-heard six bells.
Despite the din of newsrooms of old, staff subconsciously listened out for six bells. It was hard-wired. There just were a few each year. Then the entire newsroom would scramble to the telex room to see what the six-bell story was. The first person there would tear off the sheet and announce it like a town crier. There were six bells on the dismissal of Gough Whitlam, another six announced the death of Elvis Presley. There was a run of six bells in 1978 when I was working at the Border Mail in Albury.
In August that year, six bells sounded and the copyboy emerged from the telex room to announce that Pope Paul VI had died. Fifty-three days later we heard another six bells and the lad emerged to say the Pope had died. “Nah, he died last month,” said a cynical sub-editor returning to his desk. It was indeed the new Pope, John Paul I, who had reigned 33 days. Later there was the Jonestown massacre and the Shah fleeing Iran. In 1980 John Lennon and in 1981 Anwar Sadat were deemed worthy of six bells.
Computers silenced all this decades ago. No one misses it. In any case, humanity discovers breaking news all at the same time on radio, TV and mobile phones.
Notwithstanding the gravity of the news, the staff processed, wrote and told those stories missing very few beats. The stories of huge events with life-changing consequences for countries and communities were written quickly, pages and, these days, websites assembled, and facts were soon out on the streets.
Yet one story was different. And it stopped the country’s biggest newsroom. And every other media office.
When first details of the murder of Darcey Freeman emerged on January 29, 2009, it was towards lunchtime and they were unclear. A young girl had been thrown from Melbourne’s West Gate Bridge and was near death in the Royal Children’s Hospital.
Her father. Arthur. and her mother, Peta Barnes, had separated after Arthur had become nasty and dangerous. The angry, oddball loner was resentful that his wife had been awarded more days with their children, who included brothers Ben and Jack.
Freeman was another grim soldier in the army of hateful men with a filicidal solution to the problems they had created. He wished to spite his wife and knew exactly how.
That day Darcey, not quite five, was to start school. Her mother and grandmother waited excitedly at the school gates, phones at the ready to capture a momentous step up the ladder of life.
Freeman was running late. Peta called her husband to ask where he was. “Say goodbye to your children,” he responded.
Freeman pulled over at the crest of the West Gate Bridge’s city-bound lanes. With calm, vengeful precision, he unbuckled Darcey, walked to the side of the bridge and dropped her over. She silently plummeted 58m, sustaining unsurvivable injuries, as her father knew she would. She didn’t scream. Why should she have? She had been in the arms of the daddy she loved.
A witness said he watched in shock as Freeman did this with all the emotion of posting a letter. Back in the car, Darcey’s brother Ben shouted at his Dad: “Go back and get her. Darcey can’t swim.”
Freeman turned off the hazard lights he had flicked on – he didn’t want his boys in any danger – and drove carefully to the Family Court building in the city.
Back at the Herald Sun building, these facts that sat well to the north of comprehension stunned everyone. We stood around listening as the radio, TV and wire agency bulletins conveyed news not be easily digested. It is the only time in my life that I stood in an unsettled and silent newsroom.
By the time it was confirmed Darcey had died not long after midday, it had been noisy business as usual for some time.
Nine days later – in Victoria’s deadliest natural disaster – 173 people lost their lives as unconquerable bushfires, fanned by ferocious winds on a 46C day, swept across the state. The newsroom did not miss a beat. Australians understand bushfires. And it is never about the number of deaths.
Freeman’s disturbing trial came and went and he vanished into life behind bars. Last week, unexpectedly, he was in the news and a hospital bed having been bashed by a fellow prisoner. No one cared.
If those telex alerts were still active, the rough justice of the prison yard would not have prompted a single bell.
If I could only get hands on with this pig I'd make his death as painful as possible.
Westgate Bridge:
How Darcey Freeman’s death stunned a newsroom into silence
ALAN HOWEListen to this article
5 min
Four-year-old Darcey Iris Freeman was thrown from Melbourne's West Gate Bridge by her father. Arthur Freeman, 35, who was jailed for 32 years for the murder of the little girl.
Gift this article
22 Comments
Make us preferred on Google5:26pmApril 12, 2026.
Updated 17 hours ago
All newsroom veterans have tales about how unforgettable stories broke across their desks. Things have changed, of course. In the old days, news stories arrived as printouts on Reuters machines that clacked away in rooms glassed off in a lame attempt to keep the incessant noise at bay. They went all day and night and one of the copykids’ tasks was to feed the beasts – keep the rolls of paper churning through the telex printers.
The seriousness of a story – decided by no-one-knew-whom often on the other side of the world – was signalled by a series of bells. A single bell might be a race result. Two bells might be the FA Cup. Three could be a significant death. The importance of a story rose to the seldom-heard six bells.
Despite the din of newsrooms of old, staff subconsciously listened out for six bells. It was hard-wired. There just were a few each year. Then the entire newsroom would scramble to the telex room to see what the six-bell story was. The first person there would tear off the sheet and announce it like a town crier. There were six bells on the dismissal of Gough Whitlam, another six announced the death of Elvis Presley. There was a run of six bells in 1978 when I was working at the Border Mail in Albury.
In August that year, six bells sounded and the copyboy emerged from the telex room to announce that Pope Paul VI had died. Fifty-three days later we heard another six bells and the lad emerged to say the Pope had died. “Nah, he died last month,” said a cynical sub-editor returning to his desk. It was indeed the new Pope, John Paul I, who had reigned 33 days. Later there was the Jonestown massacre and the Shah fleeing Iran. In 1980 John Lennon and in 1981 Anwar Sadat were deemed worthy of six bells.
Computers silenced all this decades ago. No one misses it. In any case, humanity discovers breaking news all at the same time on radio, TV and mobile phones.
Notwithstanding the gravity of the news, the staff processed, wrote and told those stories missing very few beats. The stories of huge events with life-changing consequences for countries and communities were written quickly, pages and, these days, websites assembled, and facts were soon out on the streets.
Yet one story was different. And it stopped the country’s biggest newsroom. And every other media office.
When first details of the murder of Darcey Freeman emerged on January 29, 2009, it was towards lunchtime and they were unclear. A young girl had been thrown from Melbourne’s West Gate Bridge and was near death in the Royal Children’s Hospital.
Her father. Arthur. and her mother, Peta Barnes, had separated after Arthur had become nasty and dangerous. The angry, oddball loner was resentful that his wife had been awarded more days with their children, who included brothers Ben and Jack.
Freeman was another grim soldier in the army of hateful men with a filicidal solution to the problems they had created. He wished to spite his wife and knew exactly how.
That day Darcey, not quite five, was to start school. Her mother and grandmother waited excitedly at the school gates, phones at the ready to capture a momentous step up the ladder of life.
Freeman was running late. Peta called her husband to ask where he was. “Say goodbye to your children,” he responded.
Freeman pulled over at the crest of the West Gate Bridge’s city-bound lanes. With calm, vengeful precision, he unbuckled Darcey, walked to the side of the bridge and dropped her over. She silently plummeted 58m, sustaining unsurvivable injuries, as her father knew she would. She didn’t scream. Why should she have? She had been in the arms of the daddy she loved.
A witness said he watched in shock as Freeman did this with all the emotion of posting a letter. Back in the car, Darcey’s brother Ben shouted at his Dad: “Go back and get her. Darcey can’t swim.”
Freeman turned off the hazard lights he had flicked on – he didn’t want his boys in any danger – and drove carefully to the Family Court building in the city.
Back at the Herald Sun building, these facts that sat well to the north of comprehension stunned everyone. We stood around listening as the radio, TV and wire agency bulletins conveyed news not be easily digested. It is the only time in my life that I stood in an unsettled and silent newsroom.
By the time it was confirmed Darcey had died not long after midday, it had been noisy business as usual for some time.
Nine days later – in Victoria’s deadliest natural disaster – 173 people lost their lives as unconquerable bushfires, fanned by ferocious winds on a 46C day, swept across the state. The newsroom did not miss a beat. Australians understand bushfires. And it is never about the number of deaths.
Freeman’s disturbing trial came and went and he vanished into life behind bars. Last week, unexpectedly, he was in the news and a hospital bed having been bashed by a fellow prisoner. No one cared.
If those telex alerts were still active, the rough justice of the prison yard would not have prompted a single bell.
