by Mark Minnie
‘Good. So, if he genuinely went to Witelsbos, or possibly had contact with any of Allen’s mates, then the chances are good that he might be able to identify Wiley. Not so?’
‘Well, if he’s not bullshitting me, then he should be able to make the identification.’
‘So, Max, what you need to do is test him. Show him a couple of pics of various people. Make sure to include one of Allen and one of Wiley. Let’s see what your witness comes up with.’
Back at the office, I easily locate a pic of Allen. But I’m having difficulty finding one of the minister. Then Gordon suddenly walks into my office, a gloating expression on his face.
‘Thought I’d help you out, so I did some reading on the wrecks of the Doddington and the Sacramento,’ he says. ‘You know, the two ships Allen salvaged off the coast a few years ago.’
‘Yeah, I know about those two wrecks, asshole. What about them?’
‘What do you know about rules and regulations pertaining to wreck salvaging off our coast?’ he asks in a manner similar to a lecturer posing a question to a class full of second-year law students.
‘Absolutely fuck all.’
‘Thought as much, you numbskull. It just so happens that a salvager needs a licence to undertake such work. And the mentioned licence is issued by only one government department. Think about it, Max.’ Gordon’s tone is more than slightly boastful.
‘How could I have missed it?’ I reply. ‘Goodness gracious, it’s as clear as day. Come here, you beautiful thing. Let Uncle Max kiss those fat little cheeks of yours.’
‘Fuck off. I’m tired of doing your detective work for you,’ he jokes as he leaves my office.
Little does Gordon know that I’ve been aware of the role of the deceased minister of environmental and water affairs – namely, John Wiley – for some time now. That was bombshell number one that Dave Allen dropped in my car on the day of his arrest. I’ve been keeping it to myself for good reason. But the connection between Allen and the minister has now been made through Allen’s getting the salvaging licence from Wiley.
The puzzle is slowly coming together but will only be complete once I’ve established a connection between this duo and the elusive Wingnut. With regard to the senior public prosecutor’s ruling that all investigation into this matter must cease, I’m still in abidance. I have not proactively sought out clues or evidence. Things have simply fallen into my lap.
The key to this case at the moment is for me to establish the identity of Wingnut, and I firmly believe that William is going to be able to help me with this. He’s the one keeping this ‘frozen’ case warm and alive.
Hanna walks in, pulling me back from dreamland to reality. It turns out she’s solved my problem regarding a picture of Wiley. She hands me an enlarged group photo displaying, among others, the figure of the minister in question.
‘And where, may I ask, did you steal this?’ I ask her.
‘Never you mind. Just make sure that I have it back by the end of the week. Otherwise I will be up on theft charges. The owner of the photograph is out of office for the next couple of days, and I have his keys.’
There’s a minor problem with the photograph, though. I’ll need to cover the title and the names of all the people in it. It’s not too tough a task. I remove the photograph from its frame and place it squarely on my desk. I use two telephone directories to conceal the title at the top and all the names at the bottom of the print. Not exactly a professional job, but it will serve its intended purpose.
I reckon that’s about it for the day. Might as well head off to George’s bar for a drink.
18
William’s day
Investigations into the minster’s identity, the paedophile ring and the Bird Island sojourns have to go on the back burner temporarily when I am sent on an undercover narc job to the local nuthouse at Fort England Hospital. I have been instructed to crack open a drug-smuggling ring, which I accomplish. It wasn’t too difficult, but there were a few hairy moments among the inmates.
The time spent away from the office has resulted in a deluge of paperwork on my desk. Cases requiring immediate attention, arrest warrants to be executed and summonses to be served. I am at my wits’ end, not knowing where to begin. The sudden sharp trill of the telephone brings me back to reality.
I answer the phone. There’s no response. Strange. I call out my name again. A hushed voice responds.
‘Sergeant Max?’
‘Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?’
‘Don’t stop digging now, Sarge. Follow the money and you’ll uncover a mountain of refuse.’
It’s definitely a male voice, and it keeps speaking.
‘The Dave Allen case. Don’t stop now. Follow the gold and you’ll bring down big players.’
‘Who am I speaking to?’ I ask impatiently.
A sigh is followed by a pause, and then the voice pipes up again.
‘I’m trying to point you in the right direction, Sarge. Don’t ask me for my name, because I won’t reveal that to you.’
I suddenly change my vocal demeanour. I speak in an overly friendly manner.
‘Listen, mate, whoever you are, I really appreciate what you’re doing. But if you’re trying to help, I suggest you call me on a secure line, not at my office. There’s too many prying ears on the switchboard.’
‘Where, then?’ is the reply.
I supply the unidentified caller with my home phone number, with strict instructions to call me any time after 11:30 pm. That’s when I’m sure to be at home. I offer my pager’s number, but the caller scoffs at the idea. Clever fellow, this one.
When the call is over, I burrow my head into the mountain of paperwork. I hate this part of the job. But I have only myself to blame for falling behind on it. For the next couple days I spend my office hours winnowing down the pile of paper on my desk. And, as true as the sky is blue, the unidentified caller calls me on my home phone on two occasions.
His revelations are startling. It is time for me to pick up on the Allen investigation again, albeit in a discreet manner.
I’ve arranged to pick William up the following afternoon. This will give Hanna, our secretary, time to ‘borrow’ that much-needed photo again. It will also supply me with sufficient time to dismantle it once more and place it in an appropriate position on my desk.
The following morning I’m all cheerful at the office. The prearranged time to meet up with William is approaching. George’s pub is situated close to Five Ways, so I pop in for a quick drink. There’s not much talk going on at the bar. I spend the time anticipating what William might come up with today.
He’s ready and waiting as I pull up alongside his place of employment.
‘How much bucks do you think I’ll get, Sarge?’ are the first words he utters as he climbs into my car.
Personally, I hate this attitude from any witness. People who spill for money become prime targets for defence attorneys once it becomes known that they’re giving evidence on behalf of the state in return for payment. Lawyers end up tearing them apart in court. But it’s my bad – I did mention to William the prospect of him earning some money.
‘Relax, Rockefeller,’ I tell him, managing to conceal my annoyance. ‘You don’t even know what the case is about yet.’
When we get to my office, I ask Gordon to keep William busy for a while. Once I have everything ready, I call for Gordon to bring him through.
Both of them enter my office. Gordon makes sure to close the door behind him. William takes up a seat in front of my desk while Gordon hovers in the background. I’m seated in my customary position behind my desk. I proceed to ask William questions pertaining to Witelsbos – for example, where it’s situated, whether it’s a residential or rural community. I bring up the idea of taking him to the area, and ask him whether he would be able to point out the house where he was taken and allegedly molested. William replies in the affirmative, saying, ‘I just need to ride around the area for a while, Sarge. I’
ll definitely find the house.’
I don’t want to mention Dave Allen or any other individuals who were possibly at Witelsbos. I want William to expose their roles to me voluntarily. I do not want to lead him. He passes this test without any problems. He’s positive about the facts.
He swears to being at Witelsbos on numerous occasions, and each time either Uncle Dave or one of the other uncles present had sex with him. The routine was simple. Once an uncle took a liking to a boy, they would wander off to a secluded spot away from the braai area. The house offered the perfect haven. Money or bottles of liquor were exchanged for sex.
William appears to be rather amused at the way things are panning out. He also seems rather perplexed by my apparent hesitation to accept what he’s saying. ‘What’s up, Sarge?’ he asks me. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Let’s not go there, William. I’m only doing my job and you know that.’
I stand up and move around to his side of the desk, taking up a position to his immediate left. I can smell the cheap wine permeating through his pores. He, of course, is completely unaware of the odour. I hand William a photo album, instructing him to point out Dave Allen and any other person or persons associated with Uncle Dave at Witelsbos. Gordon has now moved to the right of William, obviously wanting a better view.
William opens the album to the first page and stares intensely at the pics of convicted offenders as well as criminals who are currently on the run. Page one evokes no response from him. Neither does page two or page three. But on page four he points without hesitation to the picture of Dave Allen.
‘Are you saying that this man was at Witelsbos while you were there?’ I ask.
‘Yes, that’s Dave Allen,’ William replies. ‘He’s the man who drove me to Witelsbos. There was always another uncle present in the car during these trips.’
‘Please continue.’
The next three pages loaded with pics provoke no reaction – as I expect. I retrieve the album from William. To make sure no one sees the photograph still lying squarely on my desk, I’ve placed a third telephone directory right on top of it. There are plenty of telephone directories on our floor – each office has one.
I explain to William that he might need to stand up. He does so. William seems to have grasped the seriousness of the situation. He’s no longer in such a jovial mood. I repeat the instruction to point out anyone associated with Uncle Dave at Witelsbos as I remove the directory concealing the photo. William hovers over the pic like a buzzard over an impending meal. After what seems like an eternity, he points at a figure. I know the person. It’s not Wingnut, but another prominent cabinet minister, currently in office. He is one of the three cabinet ministers named by Allen while he was driving with me in the car after his arrest.
‘Anyone else?’ I ask.
William ignores me. His eyes are still locked on the photo. He slowly raises his right arm and then places the index finger of his right hand on Wiley’s face. He’s now confirmed another cabinet minister named by Allen in the car.
Just when I think he is finished, I see that William, unknowingly, is about to commit a fatal error. I can tell he is about to identify a fourth person. His finger is aiming in the direction of someone with quite prominent ears. Wingnut! But the timing’s not yet right. I first need to gather more evidence before William identifies the Big One.
I lean across the photo and push his hand away as he attempts to make a fourth identification. He picks up on the intention of my actions and retracts his hand. I’m grateful that he refrains from asking me why I’ve stopped him. Maybe that’s due to the stern glare I shot in his direction as I prevented him from fingering a fourth suspect. Gordon has missed this interaction between William and me.
It’s perfect. I have not gone out actively seeking any information, clues or evidence with regard to this case. Everything has come to me. So, fuck the senior public prosecutor, I say to myself.
I excuse William and ask him to wait outside. Gordon has a look of disbelief on his face.
‘I don’t believe this, Max. Three big fish: two dead and one still in office. What the fuck, man?’
Little does Gordon know that there are more fish to fry, and they all swim in the same pond. And the biggest one is Wingnut.
‘Do you realise what we’re dealing with, pal?’ I ask Gordon in turn.
‘Not what we’re dealing with. What you’re dealing with. Count me out on this one. I’ve got a wife and a beautiful daughter to consider. It’s all yours, Max,’ he says.
I know Gordon. He won’t walk away from this. But the shock is perhaps a bit too much for him right now.
When I join William outside my office, he immediately asks me how much money he’s going to be paid. I let him understand that this is only the beginning of a very complex investigation and that he’ll need to wait for quite a while longer. But William’s not happy.
‘I need bucks soon, Sarge. I’ve got some more info for you right now. Work on it and then the cops can pay me sooner,’ he implores.
‘Info about what?’ I ask.
He proceeds to tell me about a businessman who approached him at the robots at Five Ways. This character apparently wants William – and his girlfriend – to make a blue movie with him. Blue movies – that’s what we call porn. Apparently the dude has got all the movie-making equipment, but he needs William to come up with a house or flat where they can shoot the scenes. I don’t feel like taking on this case. It’s Mickey Mouse compared to what I’m currently dealing with. I contemplate asking Gordon to handle it. However, should I do that, I might alienate William in the process, so I halt this train of discussion.
‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘Same place, same time. Then we can plan this investigation. It seems pretty straightforward. Now let me get you back to your place of work before your shift is over.’
While we’re travelling to Five Ways, William’s curiosity bubbles over and he asks me the question I’ve been anticipating.
‘Why did you stop me from identifying the fourth guy, Sarge?’
‘Because the timing’s not right,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll let you know when I need you to finger him.’
‘But what if I pointed him out first? What would you have done then?’
‘Well, you didn’t, did you? So now we have no problem,’ I confidently reply.
‘Rumour has it that this oke is the one who shot one of the youngsters through the arse at Bird Island. I’m not sure how true it is, because I wasn’t there. The boys used to call him Ore. Not difficult to see why!’ William breaks out in a fit of laughter.
‘Do you know his real name?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t those days, but it’s different now. I get to read the newspapers on a regular basis and I try to keep up with what’s going on. For sure I know his real name and how powerful he is. The whole of fucking South Africa knows his real name, Sarge.’
This revelation by William does not shock me. I’ve been busy the last couple of days with my own clandestine operation. After receiving the anonymous call at my office instructing me to ‘follow the money’, I had contacted Detective Warrant Officer Mike Smit, who is attached to the Security Branch of the South African Police.
He’s the go-to man when you want an apartment bugged or a telephone line tapped. I filled him in with the necessary info, and asked him to place a trace on my home telephone line. When the anonymous caller proceeded to phone me at home, within the blink of an eye I knew the details of the registered owner of the Telkom line he used. What is interesting about this caller is that he is ingrained in the heart of the Allen family business empire. I’m feasting on the information he’s been supplying.
I throw one last question at William.
‘How did they get all the kids to Bird Island?’
‘Military helicopters or boats,’ William replies.
This answer completes the puzzle 100 per cent. The connection between Uncle Dave, the deceased Wiley and Wingnut has bee
n made.
‘Flew there in choppers,’ was what my first witness said months ago.
It would require an enormously powerful and influential person to authorise the use of military helicopters for a non-military exercise. My highest-ranking suspect – namely, Wingnut – has exactly that power and authority as minister of defence.
I recall Suzie’s story. I quickly open the cubbyhole to find the tape recorder still safely there. Everything is coming together for me to arrest and prosecute Wingnut. I push my foot down hard on the accelerator. I want to get to the office in order to listen to Suzie’s story in detail again.
19
Suzie’s story
The office is deserted. Gordon, I notice, has left a note on my desk. ‘Police canteen,’ it reads.
I’m not interested. Suzie’s story is occupying my mind right now. And I have a couple of ales in the fridge. I turn the recorder on, lean back in my chair, take a huge gulp of beer and listen up.
I’m not sure what to make of this, Max. The whole situation is scaring me, you know. The thing with Dave Allen’s suicide, and then that of Wiley. Also, the stories about young boys being sexually molested.
Suzie says everything seems to be pointing in the same direction and she’s really afraid. And then she recalls the night the victim was brought in.
About a year ago I was on night shift. All of a sudden, this bright light lit up the ward and I heard a helicopter outside. You know that landing pad next to the ward – well, it’s right there. And the noise … just so loud.
Evacuated injured soldiers have been transported by helicopter to this hospital before. So Suzie says her first thought was that there had been an accident at one of the military bases.
I remember looking at my watch. It was 11:30 pm.
Five hours later, says Suzie, a patient was brought into the trauma ward after surgery.
It was strange because the patient was wheeled into a private room by three men dressed in grey suits. There was a fourth man – a doctor, I think. I’d never seen him before. The patient was on a drip. They never asked me to help.
