Murder Is Just The Warning

By Terry Hayward

Murder in a park, a child is kidnapped to put pressure on a mob boss and the war is on. Court room drama, flying searches for the child on the South African highveld and a dash into Zimbabwe to rescue a young boy. Rhino poaching, horn smuggling and confrontation with rogue Zimbabwean troops all culminate in a life and death struggle in the hippo infested Limpopo River.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Hayward
• Release date: Mar 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310234507

Terry Hayward

I was born in Boksburg on the 3rd June, 1944, and lived in Benoni until I turned 7, when the family moved to Bulawayo in the then Rhodesia. I attend C.B.C. until the family moved back to South Africa in 1959 and then I concluded my schooling at Westville. In 1962 I attended the Durban Campus of the Natal University to study law. I was admitted to the side-bar on the 4th March, 1968, and practised law in Durban and Westville until 1987. I married Rita Hayes in November of 1968 and we had 2 children, Carmen who studied Industrial Psychology and Human Resources. Our son, Adrian, studied Nature Conservation and worked first at the Weenen Game Reserve before being transferred to the Mkhuze Game Reserve where he worked until he married a Canadian Lass and went to live in Canada last year. Carmen with her husband and 2 children now live in New Zealand and Rita and I live in a ‘granny flat’ with them.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Intent on murder and hidden carefully in among the reeds around the edge of the small pond, the assassin was satisfied that he was pretty much invisible from any but the most determined of prying eyes. Except, possibly, if someone just happened to be glancing out of a window of one of the homes built alongside the park.

For this reason he had dressed himself in dark workmen’s overalls in the hope that, if he should be unfortunate enough to be seen crouching next to the pond, he would be mistaken for one of the municipal gardeners who worked in the park from time to time.

He was a thorough and meticulous person and had spent many a long hour carefully laying his plans by keeping a keen watch over the park from various vantage points, always at the time of day when he intended to carry out the hit. That was why he was sure that where he now crouched was well nigh invisible to any but the most determined onlooker.

He was a professional, waiting to complete an assignment, and as person, he was totally without feelings. An emotionless killer, he had the ability to concentrate on the success of the mission ahead of him and never let feelings get in the way of success. Any other assassin might have been too vain to demean himself with such a pathetically easy kill. But he thought only of the job he’d been contracted to perform, so pride or any other consideration did not factor in.

Once he had decided upon his hiding place, he’d quickly identified his quarry and then carefully tailed them, over a period of days, to learn if there was any set pattern to their routine. The waiting and watching now completed, he had a hit to make and he was as ready and prepared as he’d ever be.

As he sat crouched down in the mud at the edge of the water, he glanced quickly at his wristwatch and then seeing that the time for action had arrived he looked back up the pathway leading through the park. He was just in time to see an elderly caregiver and a young child approaching, the young girl skipping and chatting away happily to her nanny as the latter held onto her hand.

As the two moved passed his hiding place he quickly pushed himself forward out of his crouched position. As he moved, he quickly steadied himself as he slipped in the mud before thrusting his right hand into his partly opened overalls to carefully grasp hold of the butt of his pistol.

Chapter 2

It never ceases to amaze me that cemeteries can possess such an air of peace about them; they are places where one can calmly wander about, or just sit quietly, and feel the indescribable Peace of God. Even today amidst all the sorrow and grief of a funeral, as we buried a gentle old woman whose life had been so callously snuffed out, that peace was still almost tangible.

I began the service by praying, Almighty God bless this grave that it may be a resting place, peaceful and secure, for the body of your servant Sarah.

As the crowd of mourners responded with their customary ‘Amens’, I nodded to the undertaker who was standing discreetly next to the coffin. With the toe of his shoe he unobtrusively pressed a small button carefully hidden in the freshly dug ground next to the freshly dug grave and slowly the coffin began to descend into the hole.

It was an unusually hot early August day at the Cemetery in Durban, almost a summer’s day in late winter. Usually when winter comes the country really does feel a definite drop in temperature, bitterly cold in places high in the mountains, with the occasional snow not being that unusual.

I paused as I looked around at the beautifully manicured and still green lawns covering the cemetery. I watched as the mourners moved towards the open grave preparatory to casting their handful of soil onto the descending coffin. I could not help but wonder at the cruelty of life as the coffin slowly descended into the grave. From what I had heard she was a gentle old lady and now she had been brutally shot dead as she had looked after the child she was employed to care for. It just didn’t seem right to me.

As the coffin slowly disappeared into the hole in the ground I continued, We now commit the body of our dear sister Sarah to the ground, earth to earth, dust to dust; and we commend her to Jesus Christ our Lord.

As a chorus of ‘Amens’ once more resounded around the gravesite, the layminister on duty with me, Mo Dhlamini, took a handful of soil and sprinkled it on the top of the descending coffin. The mourners also threw their handful of soil onto the coffin as I stood watching quietly for a few minutes, wishing I were under the cover of some shade.

I was momentarily distracted by the presence of two men dressed in black suits, sporting large sunglasses and Fedora hats. They were loitering near one of the many roads crisscrossing the cemetery and were doing their best to keep a tree or two between them and the grave. My passing impression was that they were oriental, but what made me notice them was not so much their dress sense, especially in this hot weather, but that they seemed to be trying to stand well apart from the actual funeral party. Yet at the same time they kept themselves close enough to hear what was being said.

Dismissing them as a mere distraction, just rubbernecking, I turned back as the last of the mourners threw their handful of soil onto the coffin. As they returned to their places around the grave, the gravediggers moved forward with their shovels to fill in the grave. I raised my right hand over the gravesite and continued, Dust you are, to dust you shall return.

By this time the two strangers seemed to have disappeared so I gave them no further thought as I became aware of the birds singing around us. A small family of Vervet monkeys watched cautiously from a distance as they foraged in the grass and bushes in the cemetery. This almost false sense of peace was in sharp contrast to the feelings of anger that burned inside me.

The senseless murder had really shaken me and that’s saying something because I’m not easily angered. I had worked as a chaplain in a prison for many years and after what I had both seen and encountered there, I thought that there was not much that could still surprise me.

Sarah was an elderly lady, just a year away from pension. ‘Why, O Lord?’ I wondered, ‘Why was she killed when there are so many thugs out there who would have better deserved such an ending?’ I received no answer.

The service now concluded, together with Mo Dhlamini, I moved off to stand next to the family as the mourners filed by to offer their condolences. Once again I was overwhelmed by the obvious love and respect, which these people held for Sarah. Their grief and the words of condolences to the family were all very genuine. Although I had never met her, having been retired from active ministry for some time now, I knew she had been a wonderful woman, well respected in her parish and community. She had touched the lives of so many people in so many different and wonderful ways.

Suddenly I was shaken out of my reverie by a question posed by a tearful mourner, Father, will you be good enough to join us for tea at our home?

Yes, indeed, I stammered in surprise, as I looked into the tearful face. The shock was not from the question itself but by my recognizing the person posing the invitation. I’ll be there shortly, I added. I just need to go home first and have a quick shower. Mo and I will be there in about an hour or so.

That’ll be fine, Father, she replied as she moved on to greet the family members before adding ominously over her shoulder, I’d like a word with you during tea.

This lady made me feel very nervous

My name is Christopher John Delaney, known to my friends as Jack. I’m a retired priest and had previously been a practicing attorney for some twenty-five years. I had given up and sold my legal practice to answer a call from God into the ordained ministry and then some twenty years later when I retired from ministry, I took up the practice of law again.

I had met my partner Mo, who had assisted me with the funeral, whilst he was in prison serving a term for manslaughter. He had been a game ranger in a popular Zululand Game Reserve, and one day while arresting a poacher he had, unfortunately, used excessive force and killed the man. Mo was enormous. Six foot seven and two seventy pounds of pure bone and muscle. He has been one of my partners, as an investigator, together with my wife Rose, since I retired from ministry and re-opened my legal practice.

Chapter 3

The reason I was feeling nervous was because this woman was one Louise de Milo, whose husband I had been instrumental in sending to jail for the rest of his life.

He had had both my wife and I kidnapped at different times and had even tried to have me murdered. I also felt guilty, not because of anything I’d done, but because she was just so naïve and innocent and I’m quite sure had no idea that her husband had been a high-ranking mobster.

As Mo and I drove back to the house to take a quick shower, things started to fall into place. I was vaguely aware from various news reports, and what had been told to me by the family, that Sarah had been murdered as she walked in a park somewhere in one of Durban’s suburbs. She had just collected her young ward from school, one Betty de Milo aged six. It appeared Sarah had apparently been murdered so that the child could be kidnapped, although for the life of me I couldn’t understand why she had to die. After all, Sarah was elderly and could have been no threat at all to the kidnapper.

Be that as it may, the kidnapper had got clean away and although this had happened on this past Monday, the family had as yet received no ransom demand.

As all my dealings had been with Sarah’s family, I had wondered about the surname de Milo, which is not a common name in South Africa. Other than an idle curiosity as to why no ransom demands had been made, I gave little further thought to the matter. I assumed that the child must have a father and mother somewhere going through pure hell, but I never put together the de Milos that I knew with the de Milos who had suffered this tragedy. After all, who was going to be brave enough, and stupid enough, to kidnap a mob boss’ child?

Well, I was about to find out a whole lot more about the murder and kidnapping. My life was about to be turned upside down as my wife Rose, Mo and myself were about to be sucked into yet another exciting and dangerous investigation. A whole lot of seemingly unconnected events would eventually lead us as far as neighbouring Zimbabwe looking for answers.

Chapter 4

Mo and I stood enjoying a cup of tea in the lounge of the deceased’s employer, making small talk and trying to be a comfort to members of the deceased’s family. It was then that I felt a touch on my shoulder and as I turned, Louise de Milo spoke softly to me.

Father, would you be so kind as to join me in the study for a few minutes? she asked politely and then turned and walked away from me, with the natural authority of one who expects to be obeyed.

Sure, I replied and then motioning to Mo to follow, I added, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind my assistant Mo Dhlamini joining us?

Following her, I stopped briefly in the doorway of the study and glanced around at the comfortable furnishings, struck by an ambiance of opulence. The enormously high-ceilinged room was furnished with a red velvet lounge suit, a magnificent oak desk with an inlay of green leather, which matched the green velvet curtains. Very Christmassy but also oh so incredibly posh!

I was jolted back to the present as she indicated for Mo and I to be seated.

Father, she started once the three of us were safely ensconced in her air-conditioned study with the door now firmly closed, I would like you to defend my gardener, Simon Luthuli, who has been charged with Sarah’s murder.

Talk about getting straight to the point! To say that she took the wind right out of my sails would be an understatement, as I stammered, But what about…?

Don’t worry about your fees, she interrupted me sternly as she sat on the edge of an enormous chair, with her legs neatly crossed. I am independently wealthy in my own right, without having to depend on my husband for financial support. So I can I assure you that…

This time it was my turn to interrupt her and I leaned forward in my chair to correct her, No, Mrs. de Milo, it’s not the money I’m worried about, but you. If I agree to take on this case I will only do so on condition that I have complete freedom in the defence, and that might just cause a conflict of interests.

She leaned forward in her chair as she emphatically stated, That won’t happen. Sarah worked for me for many years but then so did Simon. I know, I mean I knew, she corrected herself quickly, them both like they were my own parents.

That might well be, I responded, concerned that she had failed to grasp my point. You see if Simon is indeed guilty, I would still have to defend him and this could cause a conflict. It could well lead to embarrassment because of your relationship with Sarah.

Don’t you worry about that, she said gently placing her hand on my arm. Both Sarah and Simon have worked for this family all their lives. Neither of them has ever worked for anyone else. This is their home and neither of them have any other close family of their own so I trust them both implicitly. Simon denies emphatically that he murdered Sarah or kidnapped my daughter for that matter, and I believe him. It’s that simple.

Nothing is that simple, really, I countered, possibly more harshly than I should have. Louise snapped her hand from my arm, almost like I’d slapped her, and sat back into her chair as I continued. Of course he’ll deny any involvement, that’s just the way human nature operates, particularly when caught between a rock and a hard place.

Please sit back and get comfortable while I try to put you straight, she instructed us with an air of authority, probably surprised that I had had the temerity to contradict her. Father, you don’t understand. Simon and Sarah have always been good friends with each other and both of them just adore Betty. Their whole world revolves around her. My husband and I had been married for nearly ten years, and had been trying all that time to have children, so when Betty was born both Sarah and Simon were ecstatic and spoiled her rotten. You’d think they were her parents, not us, and both of them absolutely dote on the child. No, when Simon says he didn’t do it, I believe him. He would sooner have cut off his own hand than be a part of anything that could upset or harm Betty. He’s one of the gentlest people I know.

Well, if we decide to take the case I’ll definitely call you as a character witness, I joked to ease the tension, as I turned around in my chair to steal a glance at Mo, sitting there with a very non-committal look on his face. Before we give you our decision, tell me what you know about this whole case. I’m afraid Mo and I haven’t been following it too closely in the media."

She sat back into her chair and in her grief seemed to shrink into herself before beginning, From what the police tell me it appears that the killer came up behind Sarah and Betty as they were walking home through the park. A shot was fired which hit Sarah in the back of the head, killing her instantly. With that he, that is the murderer, grabbed Betty as she fell, and ran with her in his arms to a waiting mini-van, and they sped off. That’s the last that I’d heard until the police arrived here this morning and arrested Simon.

She was starting to become distraught now with tears starting to roll freely down her cheeks and smudging her make-up. There was nothing we could say or do to calm he sobs. How do you comfort a grieving mother whose only daughter has just been kidnapped, whose husband is in prison and who has also just lost a close friend – two friends really? So Mo and I just sat quietly with her for several minutes until she eventually regained her composure and self-control.

She looked up at us and smiled, Sorry, I didn’t mean to lose it.

Of course you didn’t, but you have every right to do so, Mo assured her, as he tried to comfort her. After what you’ve been through you have every right to cry. Maybe you’d like us to give you a break for now and come back later this afternoon?

No, she hurriedly exclaimed, as though she was afraid we’d leave before agreeing to take the case.

Then leaning quickly forward in her chair she pleaded, I need to get this matter of Simon’s defence sorted out right now so that I can concentrate on getting my baby back.

I understand, I replied consolingly. If you feel strong enough, can you tell us what made the police decide they had enough evidence to arrest Simon? They must have some incriminating evidence at least or they wouldn’t have arrested him.

She closed her eyes for a moment before turning to gaze vacantly in my direction as she answered, Yes, I suppose so, or at least they claim they do. They told me that they have an eyewitness who lives in a house across the road from the park, who claims to have seen Simon shoot Sarah in the back of the head. Apparently this witness gave them a detailed description and the police believe it fits Simon perfectly so they arrested him. With his gray hair he’d be very easy to identify, I’m afraid. I understand they were going to put him in an identity parade to see if he could be identified by the witness.

Well, that certainly sounds convincing enough, Mo pointed out as he leant back into his chair. But, other than your gut feeling that Simon wouldn’t do such a thing, what makes you believe he couldn’t have done it? Does he have an alibi or something?

I’m afraid he doesn’t have an alibi, she replied rather defensively, Because that afternoon he was working outside in the garden and no-one saw him there. That’s not unusual because he always just quietly gets on with his work and no one ever sees him. He’s just that sort of reliable person.

That’s not going to help much I’m afraid as the police will claim he knew he’d be able to slip away without being noticed, I interposed, pulling at my little goatee beard in frustration. Anything else?

Yes, she replied as she glared at me irritably before determinedly leaning forward in her chair once again to emphasise her point. Apart from the fact that I trust him implicitly, I know it wasn’t him because he’s an old man, and too frail to have done what the police claim he did. He was due to retire five years ago, when he turned sixty-five but he refused to do so and insisted on continuing to work for us. He says we’re the only family he has and that he has nowhere to retire to. So we just simply employed a younger man to assist him. He comes in twice a week to do all the heavier stuff, while Simon does just the light work and directs operations.

Maybe this young man could be his alibi, Mo suggested hopefully.

Unfortunately not, because it wasn’t one of his set workdays. He only works on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Louise again responded defensively, at the same time annoyed at Mo for not believing in Simon.

But there’s one important point the police won’t believe, or don’t want to believe. And, it seems, you don’t believe either, she added with a dismissive glance at both Mo and me. Its that Simon was too old to pick Betty up as she was falling. She’s six years old after all and quite heavy. And then run; run mind you, up a slight incline and across the park. He injured his left leg many years ago in an accident so he walks with a limp, never runs and he’s no way strong enough to run and carry Betty at the same time. He’s simply incapable, physically, of doing what he’s been accused of doing.

That’s a very important point, I conceded, at last getting some evidence we could use to fight with. For the first time I was hearing something that could help our cause. I looked questioningly across at Mo who responded with a slight nod of his head.

I turned back to Louise and announced, OK. You’ve convinced us. We’ll take the case.

Thank you so much she cried in relief as she leapt out of her chair and kissed me on the cheek, and then Mo too. And then she burst into tears once again.

Chapter 5

Come on in, gentlemen, boomed Fanie du Toit as he ushered us into his large and sumptuous office. Fanie, standing a mere five foot four in his socks, did things like that to make up for his lack of stature; he boomed.

Why didn’t you at least have the decency to bring your beautiful wives with you to give me something pretty to look at? he joked.

Fanie was the Deputy Attorney General in our province of KwaZulu Natal and a longtime family friend. He and I had read law together at university here in Durban