- Margaret was expecting her elderly neighbour, David, to pop round to her apartment like he normally did
- Instead, when there was a knock at her door, a tall, bulky bloke barged in
- The man locked the door behind him and paced the home, leaving Margaret in terror
- Shortly after, there was another knock – it was David. The man yanked him inside and he and Margaret huddled together, petrified the intruder would kill them
- After hours of the pair being held hostage in Margaret’s home, the front door was kicked open and police rushed in, guns pointed
- Only after the ordeal did Margaret learn just how dangerous the man who’d held her hostage really was
- Margaret Mitchell, from East Perth, WA, shares how she sought justice for the horrific ordeal…
Pulling up to my apartment building in my car one night, I was disturbed by three zombie-like figures in the driveway.
All women, they were obviously on drugs.
“I need to get through, please,” I called through my window.
Slowly, they ambled off into the darkness.
It was March 2018, I was 68 and had lived on the fourth floor of the building in East Perth for 12 years.
It’d mostly felt safe but recently that had shifted.
A bloke named Steve, who other residents suspected of dealing drugs, had moved in on the floor above me.
Since then, shady characters were often lurking outside, waiting to follow a resident in.
During a recent visit, my son had urged me to keep my front door locked, concerned by the suspicious people he’d seen loitering around.
Next day, I was washing up after lunch when there was a knock at my door.
I suspected it was my neighbour, David, 76.
“Coming,” I called out.
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David had moved to the building the same year as me, shortly after his wife had died.
He was a kind soul with few visitors, so I’d befriended him and he popped round most afternoons for a cuppa.
As I opened the door, I was stunned to see a bulky man in a pink polo shirt.
“Can I…”
But before I could say “help you” he barged in and I stumbled backwards.
The man locked the door behind him and began stalking around the lounge room like an animal.
He seemed violent and agitated.
I was sure I was in a highly dangerous situation.
Collapsing on the couch, I was overcome with shock, too afraid to speak or try escaping.
I’d struggled with anxiety for years and now my panic senses were in overdrive.
I worried this stranger would attack me at any moment, but over the next hour, he continued to pace frantically, barely acknowledging my presence.
He craned glances out the window, never getting close enough to be seen from below.
He’s in hiding, I realised.
I shuddered to guess what he’d done.
Finally, he called someone, and after mumbling down the line, he stomped over and gave me the phone.
“It’s me mum,” he grunted.
Dumbfounded, I held it to my ear.
“He’s not a bad lad,” the woman said.
I disagreed. Her son was making me feel like a prisoner in my own home!
I handed back the phone without a word.
Suddenly, there was another knock at the door.
“Margaret,” came David’s voice. “You home?”
I don’t want him pulled into this, I thought. But there’s no safe way to warn him.
The man quickly opened the door and yanked David inside.
Gasping, my neighbour stared wide-eyed at me.
“Go downstairs and check where the cops are,” the brute ordered him.
David shot me a worried look before leaving to carry out the instructions.
I hoped he’d have the fortitude to flee, but moments later, he returned.
“They’re surrounding the building,” he stammered. “And in the car park.”
The intruder let out a series of expletives as David huddled beside me.
“Why did you obey him?” I whispered.
“I was scared he’d kill you,” David explained.
I could hear police banging on doors below.
As the noises came closer, the brute became more frantic, checking the balcony for a possible escape route.
The search party reached our floor and I was terrified the man would throttle us in one last desperate act.
“Police! Open up!” a voice bellowed from the hall.
With a deafening crack the door was kicked open and a police squad rushed in, guns pointed.
The man threw up his hands, which were quickly cuffed before he was led away. It had been four hours since he’d barged in.
An officer took a statement from David and me, before heading off.
“Did that really just happen?” I asked David in disbelief. He was shell-shocked, too.
I called my son to relay what had happened.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said, and promised to replace my door.
“Get one with a peephole,” I insisted.
For the following months, I felt vulnerable and struggled to sleep for the constant flashbacks.
Police never followed me up so I was left wondering who the brute was and why he’d been hiding in my home.
I don’t want to live here anymore, I thought.
But later that year, Steve from upstairs was deported and finally the building felt safe again.
Residents reckon he’d told the intruder to hide out at my place.
I’m glad he’s gone, I thought.
In November that year, a story came on the news about a fugitive.
“Anthony Valentino has been arrested after four days on the run,” the reporter announced.
An image flashed on the screen and I gasped.
That’s the intruder! I thought.
Police must’ve let him go after they’d cuffed him at mine and since then, he’d shot an associate in the throat, leaving him critically injured.
I’m lucky to be alive, I shuddered.
When I told a neighbour what had happened, she suggested I get a solicitor.
“You should be compensated for what you’ve been through,” she said.
So, I pursued a course of justice.
It came out that when Valentino hid in my home, he was wanted for a string of charges, including driving dangerously, possessing an unlicensed firearm, fraud, stealing, and possessing methamphetamine, for which he was later sentenced to two years and four months in prison.
In May 2019, Anthony John Valentino, 41, was convicted of trespassing upon my property without lawful excuse and causing injury.
As a result, I was awarded compensation as well as payment for psychological treatment.
In August 2020, Valentino, 43, pleaded guilty to unlawfully doing grievous bodily harm for the shooting and was sentenced to 15 months, which ran concurrently with the earlier sentence.
At least I’m safe from him for a while, I thought.
Last year, David sadly passed away, but I’ll always be grateful he thought of me during the ordeal.
Now, a psychiatrist visits me weekly to help me manage my paranoia.
Still, I can’t help but fear my home will again be used as a hideout for a criminal on the run.
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