The Lost Boys of Bird Island: A shocking exposé from within the heart of the NP government

by Mark Minnie

  Either way, when the ‘The Wiley Dossier – a Cape Times investigation’ finally appeared in the paper on 16 May, it was a masterpiece of understatement. The headline of the front-page piece posed the question, ‘Who was the real John Wiley?’ The blurb continued:

  The motive behind Mr Wiley’s suicide – not clearly established in the inquest evidence this week – appears to be as baffling and secret as was the true nature of his character during the closing chapter of this life.

  The newspaper then warned its readers that ‘during an intensive seven-week investigation into Mr Wiley’s life and death, Cape Times reporter Chris Steyn found herself bombarded with accusation, insinuation and rumour which, without specific corroboration, cannot be published’.

  The paper did admit that during interviews with at least 25 people across the country, including political and business associates of Wiley, new insights had emerged:

  A picture far removed from what most South Africans believed the former Oxford cricket blue and dashing man-about-town to be started taking shape … In reality, Mr Wiley preferred the company of men to women.

  The story was a whitewash, so much so that on reading it the ruling NP – accustomed as it was to being subjected to a regular battering by the newspaper – must have blinked twice and double-checked that it was not reading a new English version of its beloved Cape newspaper, Die Burger. Indeed, the story as it appeared in print that day had been so watered down that, on reflection, I felt it would have been better if it had not been published at all. Even if people were able to read between the lines, they would have been hard-pressed to come to any useful conclusion.

  The most glaring omission from the published story was that it contained no reference whatsoever to what had allegedly occurred on Bird Island. And the story’s only redeeming feature was that it at least included a mention of the charges against Allen. It also contained a quote from sources in the gay community who confirmed that Allen had a preference for young boys whom ‘he could get rid of when they turn sixteen’.

  In the end the ‘Wiley Dossier’ served mostly as a roll call of Wiley’s achievements in terms of his education, career and political life. Yet his death stood in stark contrast to his glittering persona. He was found on his single bed surrounded by books on a bedside table next to a lamp that was nothing more than a mounted bare globe. These unglamorous surroundings were in sharp contrast to his flamboyant personal image. He was noted for his immaculate dress sense, always wearing expensive and neatly tailored suits or fashionable casual wear.

  Wiley’s younger son, Mark, had told the inquest court that his father had been ‘bitter and disillusioned’ because ‘exceptional pressure’ had been exerted on him to sell his beloved De Goede Hoop Estate manor house in Noordhoek. Finality of the sale was to have been reached in the week ending 30 March – the day after he killed himself. His wife disputed this and said that although she was aware he had financial worries, she did not think this or the upcoming election would have driven him to kill himself.

  This was corroborated by his elder son, Jeremy, who said that his father’s indirect involvement in the affairs of the company couldn’t have contributed in any way to his death; nor did his death affect the financial or trading position of the company, which was, he said, ‘healthy and sound’.

  That Wiley had not left a note baffled everyone. This was because he was regarded as a ‘meticulous’ man who ‘always wrote notes’, even to thank people for the smallest and most insignificant gestures.

  In the end, unsurprisingly, the court found that ‘no one could be held criminally responsible, through an act or an omission, for Mr Wiley’s death’. But the story did highlight that Wiley had died caught in a web of deceit spun of his own good intentions and colourful lifestyle. His much-publicised marriages and other liaisons with beautiful women, such as Hollywood starlet Linda Christian, turned out to be the bright side of a shadowed life. In reality, I wrote, he preferred the company of men to women.

  This had become increasingly clear, I informed readers, during interviews with several of Wiley’s close associates in Port Elizabeth and Cape Town, and was something openly discussed in gay clubs in the city after Wiley’s death. This had made him vulnerable to blackmail and it was this, a source had told me, that had finally threatened to expose him. I could never corroborate this allegation.

  It was easier to confirm and prove Allen’s proclivity for young boys. There was one boy who had openly admitted that he had lived with Allen for years before being turfed out when he turned sixteen. I also reported that sources had said that Wiley had visited Allen in the days before his death.

  I was deeply disappointed that my newspaper had opted to sanitise my story. I felt it read more like a pamphlet than an exposé, and South Africans who were interested in it were left with more questions than answers. Of course, that non-story became the source of much debate and speculation over countless glasses of wine in the Café Royal, where Cape Town’s journalists met after work.

  At some point the Wiley inquest docket was returned to the office of the Cape Attorney General because of the possibility that press investigations could bring new facts to light. But they never did and we never returned to the story.

  In all fairness, no newspaper could have afforded to let one of its most prolific hard-news reporters languish indefinitely on an investigation full of dead ends – literally and figuratively. But I never stopped thinking about it.

  MARK

  16

  A boy called William Hart1

  There’s another character who plays an important part in this story. William is a lad who lives on the street. He plies his trade at Five Ways, an intersection at the top of Albany Road in Port Elizabeth. He asks passing motorists for spare change. Once he has enough money, he clocks off and heads for the local liquor store.

  William is an alcoholic who also smokes a joint on the odd occasion – anything to lift his spirits and help him temporarily forget his wasted life. He’s credited with having set his high school ablaze on the eve of a midterm exam.

  William was never arrested for the crime, so everything is pure speculation, of course. But I know better. His parents kicked him out of the house when he was still very young. They just couldn’t handle the booze and the drugs.

  In the summer, he sleeps in St George’s Park, not too far from Five Ways. Everyone in town knows William. He comes from good stock. His family owns an engineering workshop in North End and a home in the posh suburb of Summerstrand. In the cold winter months, his parents allow their son the use of a Wendy house situated in their back yard, but he’s not allowed access to the main house. I don’t blame his parents. William doesn’t either. He knows that once he’s inside the house, he’ll loot and pilfer, ultimately pawning the goods so he can buy booze and drugs.

  But in spite of all these personal drawbacks, William is a likeable fellow. In fact, he is actually a registered informer with the police. As the eyes and ears of the neighbourhood, he helps the guys from the housebreaking unit a lot.

  When homes are burgled in the plush area of nearby Mill Park, the thieves tend to hide the loot in the immediate area, usually in St George’s Park. They return later, mostly at night, to collect their ill-gotten gains. If William notices anything suspicious, he pounces. I’ve always wondered why he hands over the stolen goods he comes across to the cops. And why risk being arrested for possession of suspected stolen property? Maybe the police reward is on par with the amount of money he would have collected at a pawn shop. In other words, he’s a useful character to have in your area.

  William is the repository of many, many secrets.

  17

  In search of bigger fish

  Five months pass with nothing in the papers regarding Dave Allen’s sexual escapades. I handed the info on a plate to the Herald, yet nothing was reported. My hands are still tied by virtue of the senior public prosecutor’s decree prohibiting me from pursuing my investigation.

&nb
sp; But then, towards the end of July, the sun starts shining on the case. An article appears in the Herald regarding the upcoming Allen inquest. The story quotes the court roll on the day of Allen’s death, revealing that Allen had been scheduled to appear in court on charges of ‘sexual offences with male juveniles’.

  At last, some light is being shed on Uncle Dave’s dark past. The 6 May elections have come and gone. The Nats won in a landslide victory. Surely some apparent ban from high up, prohibiting newspaper editors from publishing articles referring to the ‘Wiley–Allen suicide connection’, has been lifted. Is the cat about to be set loose among the pigeons? I ask myself.

  On 6 August another article on Allen makes front-page news in the evening edition. It’s an astonishing story. Allen, the newspaper article suggests, could no longer bear the pain from an old back injury and had committed suicide. There was no foul play.

  Letters had supposedly been handed in to the inquest – letters written by Allen. One letter was about the chronic pain; the second was an apology to his parents.

  It was the first time that some semblance of a narrative emerged about Allen’s last hours alive. Our case against him is referred to, and mention is made of an affidavit from Robert Ball, the man who last saw Allen on the beach.

  Ball says he had met Allen while walking his dog about 6:25 am on 25 February. The two men strolled on the beach, chatting about this and that – Allen’s back pain, his business, the police reserve. Allen had looked depressed, ‘a bit down’, Ball had noticed. He had asked Allen if he was going to be okay, to which Allen had replied he would.

  Then there was the inquest testimony of John McAdam, one of Allen’s employees. A journalist covering the inquest hearing reported that Allen called McAdam at home on the night of 24 February and requested that he ‘attend to certain work the next morning, seeing he [Allen] would not be there’.

  The next morning, McAdam found a number of envelopes bearing Allen’s handwriting. Later, an Anne Rennie had contacted McAdam and told him that Allen had called her the previous night. She had been concerned about him. When she learned of the notes, she told McAdam that if Allen had killed himself it would be at Schoenmakerskop, where he had salvaged the Sacramento wreck.

  McAdam and his son had gone to Schoenmakerskop, where they had spotted Allen’s van. They walked along the beach, and eventually found Allen’s body sitting upright against a cement block, gun in hand. McAdam removed the gun and placed it on the block. The body was still warm.

  The SAPS investigator, Detective Warrant Officer JSS Lotter, had said that when he arrived on the scene he saw the gaping wound in Allen’s forehead. Next to Allen’s right leg was a police appointment certificate and a letter addressed to the police. Next to his head on the cement block was a loaded and cocked 9mm Walther pistol, said Lotter. He could not locate any spent cartridge case and there were no signs of a struggle.

  McAdam explained to Lotter that he had moved the gun. He then handed the officer five sealed envelopes.

  The two notes found next to Allen’s body were published as well. The first note, dated 25 February 1987, 07:20, read:

  To the SAP. I have committed suicide. There is nobody to blame for this. I have suffered incredible back problems since a motor accident many years ago – and I have decided to end things. You may speak to Mr R Ball of SA Newspapers – he and I spoke while walking along the beach this morning. I am sober and of sound mind – but feel this is best. Please give my best to [illegible] and friends at Louis le Grange. I have said farewell of sorts to my parents. Please contact Mr J McAdam at my work so that he may break the news to them. You will find my service pistol and appointment certificate on me. Please accept my resignation. Please tell De Souza and Oom Sias (mortuary assistant) to treat me with respect after fifteen years. I have left a signed and witnessed will. Please ask Mr HC Benecke of Atlas Sea Farms to have me cremated and have my ashes spread on all our islands and farms. Thank you. David Allen.

  The second note read:

  Dear Mom and Dad, sorry to do this to you, but I could no longer bear the pain. Hans, Brian and the Macs will look after you. Love to Jenny, Lynn and Geoff. Sorry, but the pain was too much. Dad, please stay on board and guide Brian. I have left the ASF [Atlas Sea Farms – Allen’s company] shares to him and he and Hans will provide for you and Mom. All love. David.

  Two sentences in the article immediately jump out at me: ‘Next to [Allen’s] right leg was a police appointment certificate and a letter addressed to the police’, and ‘Mr McAdam told him [Officer Lotter] that he had moved the gun and handed him five sealed envelopes’.

  I know for a fact that the inquest docket that Blommetjie had handed me contained only one letter, this being the suicide note. At what stage of the inquest investigation were the other letters or envelopes added to the docket? Puzzling indeed.

  But what was no longer puzzling was the refusal of my local newspaper to follow up on the lead I had given them many months previously. The following sentences from the article shed light and understanding: ‘Just then he received a telephone call from Mrs Anne Rennie. She said Mr Allen had contacted her the previous night. She was worried about him.’

  Is Mrs Anne Rennie the spouse of Chris Rennie, our well-known local journalist? I’m not sure. Nor do I know much about the relationship between Mrs Rennie and Uncle Dave.

  The following morning I wake up with a sense that my luck has changed. I head off to the petrol station at Five Ways. They sell a decent steak-and-kidney pie that I’m in the mood for right now. Along the road I encounter news posters strapped to electricity poles with the headline ‘Allen died at site of his Sacramento’.

  I pick up my pie and the morning paper, noting that the article about Allen has made the front page. While I’m walking back to my car, a familiar figure confronts me. It’s William Hart.

  ‘Sergeant Max,’ he happily greets me, ‘I see you’re in the papers again.’

  ‘Really? Which papers?’

  ‘The Herald, Sarge. I get to read the Herald every morning. Vendors sell them at the robots. They don’t charge me a cent. I just return it once I’m finished.’

  He’s got to be referring to the story about the Allen inquest. My name must have been mentioned after all.

  ‘I knew Dave Allen pretty well,’ William continues. ‘He used to take me to Witelsbos. Other boys he would take to Bird Island …’

  I almost choke on the pie.

  ‘Aw, c’mon, Sarge. Don’t hold that against me. Dave busted me for possession of marijuana years ago when I was still a teenager.’

  William goes on to tell me that instead of charging him, Allen drove him to a quiet spot and forced him to perform a blowjob. After that Allen kept coming back for sexual favours, always with the threat of arrest.

  But William is happy to tell me he has a girlfriend now. He still works the robots but says he goes home to her at night.

  ‘She lives with her mom in South End,’ he says. ‘Both of them have got jobs. Anyway, when I turned eighteen, Dave lost interest in me sexually. He forced me to find younger boys for him.’

  Here we have it. William has confirmed Allen’s modus operandi: pick up young boys who wandered about late at night. William used to fit this mould. But if William was at Witelsbos, as he claims, then he might be my lead to Wingnut, the biggest shark in the tank.

  ‘What’s your schedule like in two days’ time, William?’ I ask him. ‘I’ve got something on tomorrow, but I’d like to speak to you after that.’

  I’m busy formulating a plan, but need to discuss it with the brigadier first.

  ‘I usually start working at 8 am at those robots,’ William says, pointing to the Five Ways intersection. ‘At 12 I take a long lunch break until 2:30. The sun is too hot to work during those hours.’

  ‘I’ll see you at 12 sharp in two days’ time,’ I tell him. ‘Could be some money in it for you,’ I add.

  His eyes light up at the thought of earning money. ‘No problem, Sar
ge,’ he says.

  My head is in a spin. This could possibly be another lucky break in the investigation.

  Then my pager starts doing its thing: bleep, bleep. I bid William farewell and check the number on the pager’s screen. It’s Suzie’s office number. No need to call her back. The hospital is right around the corner from Five Ways. I’ll just pop in and see what she wants.

  As I step into her ward, I notice that she’s tending to a patient. She signals to me that I should wait, so I retire to her office. A few minutes later an anxious Suzie joins me there. Her face is fraught with concern.

  ‘Max, have you forgotten that I asked to speak with you?’ she asks sharply.

  I stare back in utter bewilderment.

  ‘Oh, Max. The day that you darted out of here in order to get a case number for the young boy who had been raped,’ she says, clearly flustered.

  ‘Sorry, Suzie. It completely slipped my mind. What’s going on?’

  Suzie is only a few minutes into her story when I realise that I need to get this on tape. What she’s mentioned so far has started to raise the hairs on my arms. I quickly go out to my car and retrieve the recorder from the cubbyhole.

  Suzie’s more relaxed upon my return. I listen closely while she relates an astonishing incident related to my now frozen investigation. By the time she finishes and I turn off the recorder, Suzie is a nervous wreck, unable to contain her flow of tears.

  I console her to the best of my ability, and then excuse myself. She’s reassured by the knowledge that I will look into what she has just told me. And look into it I will.

  Back at the office I share my findings once more with the brigadier – only William’s revelation, though. Not Suzie’s story.

  ‘Did you mention the cabinet minister to him?’ the brig enquires.

  ‘No, not at all. He came up with Dave Allen’s name of his own accord. And he only spoke about Allen, nobody else.’