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Adrian Torrens had been threatening to kill his ex: Hours later, he would instead kill a complete stranger

Adrian Torrens had been threatening to kill his ex: Hours later, he would instead kill a complete stranger

The Age02-05-2025

Warning: Graphic content
The Elanora Hotel had been closed for almost three hours when 19-year-old Audrey Griffin walked past in the wee hours of Sunday, March 23. After struggling to get an Uber when Hotel Gosford shut at 2am, her only option was to walk towards home through the empty streets, past shuttered shops and gloomy parks.
The Elanora's cameras spotted Griffin at 2.45am, along a road that would take her past the murky Erina Creek towards Terrigal. Several minutes later, the same camera captured her killer, Adrian Noel Torrens, striding purposefully along Victoria Road in a white hat and a red singlet. He was hundreds of metres behind her.
She may not have even realised he was there. She certainly didn't know how dangerous he was.
Already that day, Torrens had threatened to kill a woman. It wasn't Griffin. In the sleepless frenzy of a four or five-day bender, he'd been bombarding his former partner with death threats, despite an apprehended violence order. Domestic abusers like Torrens pose an acute danger to women they know, but they are not usually a threat to strangers.
Yet Torrens killed Griffin in the early hours of that morning. Days after his arrest, he killed himself in custody. Her family may never know why he did it, or if there was any reason at all.
The murder of women by strangers is rare and frightening; it leaves deep scars on the community psyche. Anita Cobby, killed while walking home in 1986. Jill Meagher, killed while walking home in 2012. Eurydice Dixon, killed while walking home in 2018. Aya Maasarwe, killed while walking home in 2019.
At first, Griffin's death was not put in that category. When her friends found her bag, then her phone, and finally her body in the creek on Monday afternoon, police thought she had drowned. Her mother, Kathleen Kirby, did not. 'She's an ocean swimmer,' she told the Nine Network. 'She's strong … I couldn't just go with, 'she drowned'.'
Griffin wasn't just an ocean swimmer. She was a water polo star, an Ironwoman competitor, and a rugby league player who'd 'hit with a sting, check [her opponents] were okay, then skip to … the scrums,' said the Terrigal Wamberal Sharks in tribute. She skydived, she rode horses, she skied.
She had, as her mother said, the world at her feet. '[She was] probably the happiest person I ever knew,' said schoolmate Jake Chambers, who graduated from Central Coast Sports College with Griffin in 2023 and stopped to pay tribute to her at a makeshift memorial by the creek this week, where friends had left sweets, photos, flowers and letters. 'I never saw her without a smile on her face.'
Griffin's visit to the Central Coast that weekend had the air of a farewell tour; two weeks later, she would begin training to become an officer in the navy. She had just visited her grandfather in hospital, and taken her grandmother out for lunch. She was staying with a friend and that night she headed out to Hotel Gosford for drinks with her Coastie friends.
Hotel Gosford is a renovated pub in the heart of Gosford's CBD, with dark timber, exposed brick, and two giant Aperol umbrellas in the middle bar. Griffin's friend went home early that night, but she stayed until pub close at 2am, and intended to sleep at her father's house in Terrigal instead.
There's a bus stop opposite the hotel, but services finish at midnight. There's only a few dozen taxi licences on the Central Coast, and beating the other patrons to an Uber at closing time can be fraught. At close on most Friday and Saturday nights, patrons mill, stranded, on the footpath, and often have little option but to walk home, even if it takes an hour or more, says Chalmers. 'It helps you sober up. Usually, you keep your friends updated.'
This lack of late-night transport has been a problem on the Central Coast for decades. About 25 years ago, council began a night owl bus service because of the high number of young men dying in crashes involving alcohol. It was scrapped due to lack of funding in 2006.
Piper Yanz, a former classmate of Griffin and the organiser of a rally protesting against violence against women in Gosford last weekend, doesn't walk home, but waiting doesn't feel safe, either. 'So many times I have been sitting on the side of the road in Terrigal alone, waiting for my Uber, and I've been harassed,' she says. 'I've had men approach me. I've had men yell at me.'
Damien Cusick, manager of the Elanora, says it's been this way on the coast since he began working in pubs, 35 years ago. It has been raised 'continually' at liquor accord meetings, he says, but nothing has changed.
After failing to find an Uber, Griffin headed south-east. Her mother believes she was still hoping to find transport. 'She'd taken the long way home along the water, obviously to try and hail down a cab, or she would have taken a shortcut through the heart of Gosford,' she says. Her friends followed her on Snapchat's live tracker feature, and she sent them two videos while walking home.
Cusick says the camera captured her walking past his hotel in Gosford's east, which closes at midnight, at about 2.45am. Torrens was several hundred metres behind her. By 3am, Griffin's friends had lost touch with her. They reported her missing.
Thirty-six hours later, friends found her bag and phone by the creek. Then, they found her body. 'It's not right for a young girl to have to find her best friend in the water,' Kathleen said.
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Police decided it was likely she had drowned; there were no injuries or obvious defensive wounds. They referred the death to the coroner and, as part of the coronial investigation, collected CCTV footage. Three weeks later, they were sorting through vision from the Elanora Hotel and noticed a man walking past, several minutes after Griffin. They wanted to know if he'd seen anything. On April 17, they released his picture in a bid to track him down.
It was the breakthrough in the murder case they didn't know they had.
Friends of Torrens saw it, including one who had been told by Torrens that he'd killed someone, and 'left her body in the mangroves', the Daily Telegraph reported. The friend contacted the police. In a call to the friend after the image was published, Torrens admitted to the murder. 'Why did I do it?' he reportedly said. 'I don't know … I just f--king clicked … I was awake for four or five f--king days, and I just did it.' The following Monday, Torrens was charged.
Investigators believe Griffin tried to fight Torrens off, scratching him and collecting some of his DNA under her fingernails. They think he struck the left side of her face and knocked her unconscious, causing her to drown. He may have held her underwater. She had scratches on her upper arms and a mark on the left side of her face.
Torrens, 53, was a deeply troubled man. His criminal history dates back to 1994, when he was jailed for robbery. He already had substance abuse issues, as he was paroled to a rehabilitation facility. His record shows he has been sent to others since. He's driven while disqualified, been fined for offensive behaviour, stalked someone and maliciously damaged property.
The official record of his domestic violence offending began 10 years ago, with the first ADVO. In 2019, he faced a slew of DV charges, including stalking and assault. In January, he was placed on an 18-month community corrections order for more domestic violence offending despite having breached a similar order in 2020.
This history horrified Griffin's family. The noncustodial sentence in January was 'just wrong', said her mother. 'He's gone and murdered someone when he should be behind bars.'
Not much is known about Torrens' personal story. He'd worked as a traffic controller, and moved between northern NSW and Queensland. His most recent address is listed as Milsons Point. His former partner, Michelle – who he originally met at school, and began a relationship with a few years ago – lives on the Central Coast.
They split last September. She took out an ADVO, which he breached. On the night Griffin died, Torrens had called Michelle 12 times, she told the Daily Mail. 'He started calling from 7pm and the last phone call was at 12.10am on the night he killed her. He kept threatening to kill my son and I … my children are completely traumatised.'
Women are far more likely to be killed by their current or former partner than by someone they don't know; the violence is driven by control and punishment. Stranger homicides represent just one in five murders in NSW, and the majority involve men who are killed by men. If statistics were any guide, Michelle was in much greater danger that night than Griffin.
The murder of a stranger tends to be opportunistic; perhaps driven by a sexual motive, or by substance abuse. Torrens' description of four of five days without sleep suggests he may have been using the stimulant drug, ice.
'The escalation from [domestic violence] to murdering a stranger is significant and highly unusual,' says Xanthe Mallett, associate professor of criminology at the Queensland Centre for Domestic Family Violence Research.
Beyond the phone call with his friend, Griffin's family may never know why Torrens killed her. He can no longer tell them. At 4.50pm on April 24, just three days after his arrest, Torrens was found unresponsive in his cell at Silverwater Correctional Complex. Prison guards tried to resuscitate him until he was pronounced dead by paramedics 40 minutes later.
Torrens had spent his first few days on remand alone in a so-called safe cell, which has no hanging points and allows frequent monitoring of the inmate. He was cleared of being at high risk of self-harm, so he was moved to a double cell. He used a sharp object to cut himself; several outlets reported he used a safety razor borrowed from his cellmate.
One of Griffin's family friends, Ali Paparestis, said his suicide denied the family closure. 'It's going to leave the family with a few questions they haven't had answers to yet,' he told the ABC.
The most recent statistics, from 2023, show a third of the 33 deaths in custody were from self-harm. Prisoners can be desperate; one used bed linen to hang himself from the window bars, another put a plastic bag over his head and tied a sock around his neck, and another 'swallowed about a gram and a half of ice'.
Corrective Services regularly comes under attack from the Inspector of Custodial Services on opportunities for self-harm; in 2024, it criticised the remand centre that housed Torrens for having hanging points in many of its cells.
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There are many complexities to Torrens' story, many of which the justice system is struggling to grapple with; domestic violence, addiction, self-harm. But many who live on the Central Coast say one simple, affordable thing could have protected the much-loved 19-year-old; safe, accessible late-night transport.
'One way we could have avoided this is if Audrey had some capacity to get home, in a way that women in the city do,' says NSW Greens justice spokeswoman Sue Higginson. 'Why was this woman left with no option [other than to] work it out?'
Laurel Johnson, who works on the Safe Streets for Women and Girls project at the University of Queensland, says governments have everything they needed to operate overnight transport – surplus buses, technology that can link people to rides, knowledge of when and where the transport is most needed, such as when pubs close their doors.
Too often, responsibility is tossed between state authorities and transport. 'This is a known vulnerability,' Johnson says. 'No one can say 'we didn't know this was a likely outcome'. All the ingredients are there. It's leadership that's needed.'
In response to questions, the Central Coast Council said it had been advocating for better public transport. 'Council encourages local hospitality venues to provide free courtesy buses or similar transport for patrons after venue closing hours,' it said.
Transport for NSW said it was looking at ways to improve transport on the Central Coast.

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With blood on his hands and clothes, Halimi then walked into a police station. 'Excuse me,' he said, after waiting patiently for the front desk officer. 'I've killed my wife.' Halimi pleaded guilty to murder and was sentenced in 2021 to life imprisonment with a minimum 19-year parole period. Ruqia Haidari's tragic death put the Australian Federal Police in an interesting position. In August 2019, AFP officers had met with her in Shepparton after her school had notified them that she did not want to get married. They offered to talk to her mother but she refused, saying it would be unhelpful. But after Haidari's murder, the AFP – which had never had a successful prosecution of a forced-marriage case – raided Muhammad Jan's home in October 2020 and later charged her with causing a person to enter a forced marriage (their investigation also discovered Muhammad Jan had received a $14,000 dowry from Halimi). 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But we'll never know what she would have said that day, watching her mother go to prison. For Vidal, the prosecution was proof that the criminalisation approach to force marriage had failed. 'We've got one prosecution in 12 years that was only possible because the victim died. Are we really happy with that?' She has studied various approaches to forced marriage globally and concluded that the best model is not our model – which she calls 'the victim-perpetrator binary' – it's understanding the cultural drivers and gender power dynamics of forced marriage, and working with families to shift behaviours. Danish experts are now setting up a trial of this approach at Life Without Barriers. Nesreen Bottriell, chief executive officer of the Australian Muslim Women's Centre for Human Rights, says the Muhammad Jan case has further damaged the relationship between Muslim communities and authorities. 'The community was shocked by this outcome. It's going to deter victim-survivors from seeking support for fear of their mother or family members being prosecuted.' Bottriell, whose organisation is one of the services victim-survivors can now use as an alternative to the AFP, says she feels authorities overly target the Muslim community on this issue and fail to consider other religions and communities. She says forced marriage is not religiously sanctioned by Islam. 'It's about power and control over women's decision-making.' Ben Moses, the AFP's acting commander for human exploitation, declined to directly respond to Bottriell's criticism. He says the AFP's focus isn't purely on prosecution, but also prevention through community education and giving victims choice. 'As we know, not everyone wants to engage in the criminal justice process and we acknowledge that.' Constable Taylah Potter, a Melbourne-based forced-marriage investigator, says in the past six months she's noticed a positive attitude shift, with more young people feeling empowered to discuss the issue with figures of authority. When I ask how she feels about her job, she says it's easy to get caught up in statistics and court outcomes, but then she'll help a 16-year-old at risk of forced marriage and 'it just completely changes the path of their life.' The joy of freedom Miriam serves me chocolate-covered pretzels, mini samosas and chai. She's wearing black pants, a smart, black short-sleeved top and lipstick. Her neat, one-bedroom rented unit is small, but it's hers. 'I never knew this concept, I don't know how to explain, just having basics, like having utensils, pots. And then when you move to a house, the bin schedule! Oh, my god, I hate that schedule. And cleaning. Proper cleaning, but with love.' Freedom for Miriam and Khadija is about choice. This rug, not that rug. Take this course, not that one. Go outside. Freedom. That's the upside of escaping forced marriage. The downside? It's that gaping hole left where a family once was. Miriam misses her beloved brother. Stealthily, she tracks him on social media. 'I'm trying to see if he would give any indication he wants me back in his life. If that's the case, I would take him in my arms.' Loading For Khadija, it's her sister, still overseas. Khadija is hopeful she'll not join the estimated 22 million people stuck in forced marriages globally. Recently, Khadija's been thinking about a moment before she left. Her father had brought two peaches. 'I think one of his love languages was definitely fruit,' she laughs. Khadija told him the peach was so sweet. The next day he brought a whole tray and said she could have as many as she liked. 'I just can't forget that. I'm like, 'How can you be such a good person and such a shitty person at the same time?' ' Meanwhile, Miriam is studying healthcare. She's got her flat, her licence, a job and a car. One day, she may even marry. 'I thought men were just heartless, cold, like, not giving any rights to women. Now that I'm outside I'm seeing my friends in their relationships, and it's different. It's caring, it's loving.' I ask about her big dreams for the future. She looks momentarily confused. 'This is what I was dreaming about. I'm there, right now.'

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