by Mark Minnie
However, the same source was at pains to stress that Wiley was not the cabinet minister implicated in that horror story. It was someone else, someone much higher up. In fact, by then Wiley had taken a strong public stand against rape. Back in 1981, he had even gone as far as supporting the idea of castration as a punishment for rape.
Against that background, it would be safe to assume that the last thing Wiley would have wanted was to have his own death linked to that of an associate accused of paedophilia. Yet my source, along with other information I had turned up, was making clear this very link.
Great significance was attached to the timing of both deaths. Allen’s body was discovered just two hours before he was due to appear in court on charges of committing sexual offences with boys under the age of nineteen. Had he made it to court alive, the identities of his accomplices might have been revealed in public.
Wiley’s demise came in the wake of government’s announcement of a general election, in which he was preparing to defend his Simon’s Town seat. If Wiley had not died, both his private and public lives could have imploded in a spectacularly destructive way – for both him and his party.
According to my NP source, Wiley had been living too close to the edge of the abyss for too long. Despite Wiley’s immense power as a member of cabinet, the source felt that his ‘personal predilections’ had left him deeply vulnerable. After repeated assurances on my part not to reveal his identity, the source told me that Wiley had been the subject of blackmail on several occasions during the last two years of his life.
Some of the blackmail allegedly involved ‘acquaintances who had exploited him because of his homosexual preferences’. The source claimed that, in certain cases, ‘valuable fishing concessions’ were involved. Moreover, the source said that certain people in government were well aware of the details of Wiley’s private life, and even knew of the blackmail.
The source indicated that those in the know in government obviously felt ‘acute concern’ over the incalculable damage it would cause the ruling party should Wiley’s ‘secret life’ be exposed. He described how Wiley’s ‘blackmailers’ had taken full advantage of the government’s announcement of the next general election. ‘Threats to expose him were received … and certain deadlines … were set … ,’ the source stated.
Fascinated by what I had been told, I tried to find corroboration. A second source told me that Wiley had indeed appeared under ‘a lot of pressure’ when he visited a private doctor a week before his death. He had sought medical help after breaking out in boils and developing styes in his eyes.
This was not the first time that the minister had shown signs of suffering from severe stress. On Christmas Eve, a few months earlier, he had turned to the then minister of health and population development, Dr Willie van Niekerk, for a prescription for tranquillisers – twenty Ativan tablets. That prescription was the subject of a front-page lead article I wrote and which was published on 20 May 1987 under the headline ‘Health minister in Wiley mystery’. In his defence, Dr Van Niekerk said that he regarded Ativan as a ‘useful’ tranquilliser.
But for Wiley, that was not a once-off need. A Cape Town chemist, Gary Black, revealed in an affidavit handed in at the inquest that he too had supplied Wiley with Ativan tablets – a total of 140 pills over a period of eleven months – per a doctor’s prescription. Interestingly, Dr S Rushworth, who, according to the chemist’s records, had prescribed the drugs, denied ever treating Wiley.
But back to the NP source. According to him, Wiley was not the only one being blackmailed. He said Allen had become a target too – and a very soft one at that. That was partly because the boy injured on the island had suffered serious internal damage. He told me that the boy had to be admitted to a Port Elizabeth hospital in a critical condition – and needed emergency surgery to ensure his survival. That gave a lot of bargaining power to Allen’s blackmailer, believed to be a person with a close link to some of the youths who had been taken on the Bird Island trips.
Allen took the threat of exposure seriously enough to fly to Cape Town and make a payment to the blackmailer. However, when a second demand for money followed, he refused to pay. Soon the cops were knocking on his door. Not long after that he was found dead with a bullet wound to the forehead.
In addition, some of my other sources were adamant that Allen was visited by Wiley in Port Elizabeth in the days preceding his death. According to them, the two had taken their last walk together on the beach near where they first met – and where Allen’s life would later end.
While I was still in Port Elizabeth, a source told me that the silence of the family of the gunshot victim had been bought to the tune of at least R20 000. I discovered the name of the surgeon who had operated on the boy – and had undoubtedly saved his life – but he was bound by patient confidentiality, and thus unable to disclose any details relating to the patient, least of all his identity and the extent of his injuries.
* * *
I was running out of people to talk to. So I turned to the one official who I thought would be able to confirm or deny at least some of what I had been told, were he only willing to do so. He was Detective Sergeant Mark Anthony Dawid Minnie, who was investigating the sexual offences allegedly committed against children by Allen.
I called the cop at his office and he agreed to meet me at the Elizabeth Sun Hotel in Humewood. When I asked how I would be able to identify him, he said that he would be wearing a yellow baseball cap with the logo ‘Happy Harry’.
On the day of our meeting I took up a watchful position in the hotel lobby. I did not have long to wait. Soon a youngish man, wearing the said ‘Happy Harry’ cap, swaggered confidently through the hotel foyer.
We shook hands and formally introduced ourselves. Detective Sergeant Minnie took a seat opposite me.
Judging by the wary looks he was giving me, it was obvious that he was not there to give me the scoop of my journalistic life. Despite that, I decided to go for the jugular and asked him straight out to confirm – or deny – what I had already been told.
I was quite surprised when the policeman told me – albeit off the record – that Allen had implicated Wiley and others in paedophilia. Mistakenly feeling that I was actually getting somewhere with him, I dropped the name of the most senior cabinet minister alleged to be involved.
It was like throwing a hand grenade into his lap. Minnie jumped up indignantly, looked me straight in the eye, and hissed: ‘Fuck off, you bitch! Are you trying to get me killed or what?’ He turned on his heel and stormed off.
We would not speak to each other again for 30 years.
MARK
13
The senior public prosecutor
The day after Allen’s death I call Suzie, the nurse, from my office. She’s not answering her home phone, so I try her work number. She answers this time.
‘Hi, Suzie, Max here. Is my witness still under your tender loving care?’
‘Yes, Max. The boy’s still here. He won’t be going home for a while.’
‘Reckon I’ve got some bad news for him. He’s not going to like it.’
‘Before you continue, Max,’ Suzie interjects, ‘is your bad news possibly related to the story in this morning’s newspaper?’
‘What story?’
‘The story about Dave Allen’s suicide.’
Fuck! I’ve been so engrossed in my own self-pity that I’ve completely forgotten about the newspapers.
‘Suzie, whatever you do, do not allow that boy to get anywhere near a paper.’
‘Not to worry, Max. He’s not a reader. He hasn’t asked for a newspaper since he’s been here.’
‘Good. Keep it that way.’
I hang up, then yell at the top of my voice for someone to bring me the morning paper. Hanna, our secretary, is in my office within seconds with the desired item.
‘I thought you’d fancy a read, Max,’ Hanna tells me. ‘It’s bloody bullshit what they’ve written in the papers.’
Hanna is up to date on the case. She types the statements that I’ve written by hand or recorded. She’s already completed the two brothers’ statements.
I’m livid as I read the final sentence of the article. Uncle Dave apparently left a suicide note explaining why he decided to take his own life. It boils down to him being unable to bear the excruciating pain he allegedly suffered from an injury sustained in a motor-vehicle accident many years ago.
What a bunch of absolute hogwash – the bastard tried to bow out in a blaze of glory. But not if I can help it …
I immediately head out to the offices of the Uniform Investigation Division. They handle all inquests – the formal investigations relating to unnatural deaths.
‘Who’s dealing with the Dave Allen suicide?’ I ask as I enter the division’s secretarial office. Three females have their noses buried in typewriters.
‘Blommetjie,’ one of them replies.
Blommetjie, aka Constable Alwyn Blom, is a genuine and pleasant man. In fact, he’s so pleasant that he’ll go out of his way to please all and sundry around him. At times his boyish features and likeable nature result in people taking advantage of him. As I walk into his office, he also has his nose buried in something – namely, an inquest docket.
‘You’ve got the Allen suicide, Blommetjie?’
‘Busy with it at this moment, Max. The investigation’s almost complete. Just need the state pathologist’s signature on one document, and then I can forward the entire docket to the office of the senior magistrate. Death by suicide will be the ruling in this case.’
‘Mind if I take a look?’
‘All yours. Go ahead.’
I quickly read through a statement issued by the person who discovered the body on the beach. I then look through a statement made by the cop who was summoned to the scene.
Something is amiss.
The suicide note is also in the docket. It confirms the story in the newspaper. But it is all bullshit. I know differently.
And, finally, I spot the photo filed in the inquest docket. It’s a beautiful police snap of the deceased as he was found at his final resting place.
I am perplexed by Blommetjie’s failure to pick up on the questionable part of the statement made by the guy who discovered the body. It’s a glaring anomaly.
‘Blommetjie, have you read the statement made by the person who came across Allen’s body?’
He nods in the affirmative.
‘Notice anything peculiar?’
Blommetjie shakes his head no.
I hand him the photo of Allen sitting in an upright position with his back leaning against a cement block. A gun rests on top of the block. Allen’s head is slumped forward with his chin resting on his chest.
While Blommetjie looks at the picture I hold out to him, I quickly check the back of the docket for other exhibits that have been handed in. The gun must be listed there. It is, registered as a 9mm Walther Parabellum PPK. These firearms are standard police issue, handed out to full-time career cops as well as reservists.
‘Nothing strange to me, Max. Guy shot himself in the head. That’s all.’
I leave it at that. I also pick up on the fact that no mention is made of the cartridge, which surely had to be found at the scene of the suicide. Did it simply disappear into thin air?
‘I need to ask you a favour, Blommetjie—’
The constable hastily interrupts me. ‘Max, say no more. I think I know what it is, and if I agree it could ultimately cost me my job. Anyhow, I suddenly have this urgent need to go to the loo. Please excuse me. I’ll be back in five minutes flat.’
Blommetjie has read me like a book. As he leaves the office, I quickly pick up the photo and insert it back in the inquest docket, which I still have in my possession. I dart into the secretarial office two doors down.
‘No need for any alarm, ladies,’ I announce. ‘I know exactly where the copier is.’
They’re not concerned in any event – they’re too busy typing. I feed the documents into the copy machine in a frenzy. Just as quickly, it spits out the duplicates I so urgently desire.
The copying completed, I place the original inquest docket back on Blommetjie’s desk. He’s still in the toilet. I need to be careful how I manage matters with regard to the duplicate documents I now have firmly in my grasp. Any leak and Blommetjie’s job could be on the line. Remember what I said earlier about people taking advantage of him. It’s so true.
Back in my office I summon Gordon. He enters, munching on a hamburger. I simply love the smell of onions mixed with beef. Hunger pangs claw at my stomach.
‘Only think of yourself, don’t you?’ I dig at him.
‘Fuck off. You weren’t here. I felt hungry so I went down and got a burger.’
The cafeteria downstairs makes awesome burgers.
‘Want a bite?’ he teases, waving the half-eaten burger in my face.
‘Piss off and shove that burger up your fundament. No, better still, place your bum in that seat. I need to show you something.’
I hand the photocopied statement to him, as well as the photograph.
‘Read that quickly, and before you say anything, I need you to know that the gun lying next to the deceased is a 9mm Walther Parabellum.’
Gordon responds within two minutes. ‘The scene was definitely staged, if you go according to this statement,’ he says.
These are precisely the words I want to hear. Anyone familiar with the 9mm Walther Parabellum will tell you of its nasty recoil action. It’s got an ugly kickback. Holding that particular firearm at the unnatural angle of shooting yourself square in the forehead would result in the fired gun being flung from your hand. Clear as daylight. However, the witness statement in part reads as follows:
‘My son and I spotted Mr Allen’s van on the beach, and after walking along the beach we found him dead, sitting upright against a cement block, gun in hand. I removed the gun and placed it on the block.’
What now? I once again ask myself. I decide to throw a spanner in the works. Gordon leaves, and I get on the phone. The telephonist at the Eastern Province Herald, our local newspaper, puts me through to Chris Rennie’s office. He’s a journalist who works as a crime reporter. There’s no answer. I get rerouted to the editor’s office. A female voice answers.
‘I need you to convey the following message to Mr Rennie,’ I say.
‘Who, may I ask, is calling?’
‘My identity is of no concern at this stage. It’s imperative that you get Mr Rennie to check the records at Court 15 of New Law Courts. He must concentrate on yesterday’s court roll for the day. He’ll be mildly surprised at what he uncovers.’
I hang up immediately. Am I being a bastard for acting in such a manner? Not at all. I have personal reasons for wanting to have a go at Uncle Dave and his cohorts.
If the journalist follows my cue, he will uncover the number of my case docket, the related charges, as well as the name of the accused who has been charged in accordance with the alleged offences. It’s all there in black and white. All he needs to do is peruse through the court record book for Court 15. It’s a public document, open to all. Nothing underhanded about it.
Let the truth prevail. I smile sinisterly to myself.
Two days pass by. There’s nothing in the newspaper. Is Uncle Dave manipulating matters from the grave? He did have a lot of clout in the community. Citizens in our town are mourning him as if he was a saint. This is wrong. I want to see the record put straight.
The public have the right to know what an evil world their so-called hero lived in during the twilight hours. They need to know about his depraved sexual desires. I’m driven by a burning desire to disclose everything. I need to act with caution, though. It would be foolish of me to reveal everything that I know at this stage – especially after Gordon confirmed my suspicion that the suicide scene looks staged.
Everything points to foul play. If Dave Allen died by any means other than his own hand, then we’re deal
ing with murder. Or perhaps an assisted suicide.
Foul play implies that the case will be referred to the Murder and Robbery Squad for further investigation. The case will thus be removed from my hands. This scenario doesn’t go down well with me. My best option would be to play everything by ear.
Also, I know I am on very dangerous ground. If word gets out that I know some of the other, high-up names mentioned, I would not put it past the security police to organise a little something to get me out of the way.
For now, I am being cautious of everyone, trusting no one I don’t know.
I still need confirmation regarding one more document that I copied from Blommetjie’s file, so I pay a visit to an expert in this field – Eddie Marco.
Eddie is a handwriting expert in the employ of the South African Police. I like Eddie. He’s the type of person who will go out of his way to help me with an investigation. I can also trust him to keep his mouth shut.
At his office, I hand him the copied version of the suicide note. Eddie studies it thoroughly through a thick lens. Minutes pass before he says, ‘Going to need a specimen, Max. Have you got one?’
I knew beforehand that this specimen thing was going to be a problem.
‘The closest thing I have to a handwriting specimen is the signature of the deceased on the official warning statement I issued him,’ I reply somewhat sheepishly.
I hand Eddie the warning statement. I realise that I haven’t offered anything too useful – most signatures simply look like scrawls. Eddie studies the handwriting samples carefully and then says: ‘Max, my friend, I don’t want to get your hopes up. You haven’t given me much to work with. However, off the record, I’m willing to state that the same person is not responsible for what’s written on both documents. Bring me a decent specimen and I’ll give you an answer that will stand up in any court of law.’
I thank Eddie for his time and leave his office feeling pretty content. Slowly but surely my suspicions about the demise of Uncle Dave are being confirmed.
In order to get a specimen of the deceased’s handwriting, I’ll need to visit his house again. There must be something lying around that he’s written. Possibly a grocery list, an order for pornographic material or even a diary – I don’t know. I’ve got to find something.