Killing Kebble (Revised and Updated Paperback Edition)
© Mandy Wiener 2011/2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Praise for Killing Kebble
‘After five years of following every thread and detail of the Kebble case Wiener not only had a complex story to which few other journalists had access, but also the perspective needed to turn it into a riveting bestseller that would be both insightful and accessible.’
– Mail & Guardian
‘For a first book to sell in the quantities Killing Kebble has is no small feat but the book is so much more than numbers and sensationalism. As gripping as any novel, Killing Kebble is an exuberant but meticulously researched example of how to write a complex story which if it appeared as fiction would be dismissed as so unbelievable as to be not worth reading. Written with brio and panache, this is a memorable book.’
– Jenny Crwys-Williams
‘Mandy’s book is terrific, although the title disappoints as it turns out, she isn’t the person who killed Kebble. It’s a story that will make you uncomfortable about just how rotten the criminal underbelly of Johannesburg really is – but is an absorbing investigative account of one of the most interesting murders in our recent criminal history.’
– Gareth Cliff
‘A gritty mining town tale. Stranger than fiction. And totally gripping. Superb!’
– Peter Harris
‘A compelling visceral account of the rise, fall and death of a complex, larger-than-life personality, Killing Kebble reveals the intertwining of business, politics and organised crime that is one of the greatest threats to our democracy. It demonstrates the extent to which prosecutorial independence and the rule of law have been undermined by our political leaders and the resulting quagmire that is law enforcement in the country. This fascinating, racy book provides a remarkable portrait of the characters at the centre of this tragic story, in the process illuminating the dark underbelly of South Africa that is unknown to most of us.’
– Andrew Feinstein
‘If you’re not reading this book, just finished reading this book, or at least discussing it, expect to feel like an outsider in most social circles this year ... With incredible access to most of the main players in the Kebble saga, Wiener has provided the most penetrating assessment of these events to date ... Killing Kebble is unput-downable mind-blowing reading.’
– Classic Feel
‘Killing Kebble is a meticulous account of the courtroom drama ... Wiener has used her notes and tweets to write a compulsively readable story about South Africa’s villains ... [I]t shows just how deep the rot goes.’
– Brian Joss, Cape Community Papers
‘I read Killing Kebble hoping to be bored out of my mind, but ended up klapping the thing in three days.’
– Peter Delmar, The Times
Prologue
Mikey Schultz’s lean, ripped body reads like a memoir of his turbulent, hell-raising life.
I always wanted to have a tattoo, but I was boxing professionally. I didn’t want one you could see on my body, because I didn’t want people to think funny of me.
My first tattoo I got in Wales with my mate Anthony van Niekerk. It’s on my arse. It was of a little Tazz drinking beer. I said I’d never have another one. Before I left Wales, I got another one on my leg. Brian Mitchell used to have this T-shirt of Tazz in boxing gloves. I got that on my leg.
On my left forearm, I’ve got a lot of tattoos that mean stuff. There’s my best friend Jody’s name and the date he died and my boetie, Donald, and his date.
And then those are my four kids’ names. Demi-Lee, Kalynn, Michael and Matthew. Above that is two hands praying in boxing handwraps, ready to fight.
On my left shoulder is a red confederation flag with a skull in the middle and my name underneath it. Clint Nassif, Gary van Staden, David Smith … he’s also been dead for about seven years now … there were six of us that got it done.
On my right chest is a memorial for Carlo. It says, ‘Rest in Peace, Outlaws Forever’. If I had to tattoo all my friends’ names who died, I wouldn’t even have space left on my body. I still need to put Julio’s name somewhere.
There’s Jesus’s face with red blood on my right forearm. I’m not that religious but it’s to repent for all my sins, hey. To show all my regrets.
My sister Cathy’s face is next to that. My sissy. She’s like my second mom, you know.
I used to have a Hells Angels tattoo on my right shoulder. An ‘8’ and a ‘1’. That’s because ‘H’ and ‘A’ are the eighth and first letters of the alphabet. I also used to have ‘AFFA’, ‘Angels Forever, Forever Angels’. I wasn’t allowed to have it, but I done it anyway. I’ve covered them up now.
Leonie’s name is big across my chest. I love my wife, ‘Fatty’. I was always going to put ‘Respect’ there. I saved that space for Respect.
Then I have ‘Outlaw’ across my stomach. Me, Kappie, Carlo and Nigel, we were like the elite in Elite. We were willing to do the extra. I tattooed ‘Outlaw’ across my stomach and Kappie and Carlo both done it on their arms. We tried to get Nigel to do it, but he won’t get a tattoo.
Now we’re trying to convince Nigel to get a tattoo. Kappie and I.
We need to put a tattoo somewhere to remember how the three of us stood together. How our loyalty and friendship helped us survive killing Kebble.
Chapter 1
On 27 September 2005 Andrew Minaar steered his way round the bend past the imposing gates of the Inanda Club, the fortress of the country’s mink-and-manure set replete with 40 acres of equestrian lawns, a terrace restaurant, 75 years of rich heritage and a reputation for dazzling polo internationals. He continued down Fifth Avenue. There was remarkably little traffic along the route, bar the odd taxi barrelling through a four-way stop, capitalising on the short cut from the highway to Katherine Street in Sandton. As he did every morning, the tall, gangly butler chuckled at the names of the estates paraded proudly on the turrets of the ten-foot-high walls.
It wasn’t long before he turned into the driveway of Hoëveld House, the impressive property owned by Brett Kebble, and was serenely waved through by a familiar security guard. He would miss this drive in the mornings through the avenues of Inanda.
A few weeks earlier Brett had informed him that he had sold the house and was scaling down. All the staff had been effectively retrenched and believed they would be moved to John Stratton’s home a few kilometres away. The butler knew that his employer had got himself ensnared in a horrendous financial trap and was on the seam of a nervous breakdown. He had heard rumblings about investigations, missing shares and millions of rands owed to him by Glenn Agliotti and had pieced together snippets of conversations he had overheard on the patio – it was difficult not to hear when Brett was holding court, even though he made a point of keeping quiet when the butler came within proximity of the dining table. He had also read in the newspaper that his principal had been deposed from the boards of his companies and the signs were ominous.
Andrew considered himself to be fairly astute and always believed he had unique insight into Brett’s business dealings, but things were becoming more obscure. This time he couldn’t establish just how profound his boss’s troubles were or what exactly had gone wrong, but he knew it was severe. Together with Joyce, the domestic worker, and Joseph, Brett’s trusted driver, Andrew had spent the past few weeks purging the house of documents. They had been tasked with burning the papers. Large swathes of documents were fed into the roaring fire which burned in the lounge, surrounded by an elaborately decorated facade that reportedly cost Brett over a million rand.
On that Tuesday morning, Andrew arrived at work at 07:00 as was the norm. Since he had begun working there three years earlier, the awkward, slightly skittish butler had always started his day at that time and knocked off when coffee was served after dinner. Alternatively, he would work until whatever time Brett required him. Guests would usually retire to the lounge at about 22:00 or 23:00 and then he’d head off home to Townsview, fifteen or so kilometres away in the less illustrious Southern suburbs of the city, disparagingly referred to as ‘the South’.
His primary task at the residence was to manage Kebble’s staff, arrange meetings with guests, maintain the property and cater for the ever-flowing stream of visitors. But of late, his employer had seemed to tire of entertaining and the accompanied fuss.
Brett usually arrived in Johannesburg at midday on a Tuesday, having flown in from Cape Town on his private jet. He spent the greater part of the week with Ingrid and the four kids at their home in Bishopscourt and would usually be in Gauteng for only three days. It was an uncomfortable arrangement necessitated by business but, ironically, he would rarely travel into the CBD where JCI’s head office was located on Harrison Street. He preferred to set up his HQ at home in Inanda and the patio or lounge would regularly become an impromptu boardroom. Joseph would be dispatched at midday on a Tuesday to drive to Lanseria Airport in the west of the city. It was a drive that took a good 45 minutes from Sandton, what with congested highways and interminable roadworks. Brett still preferred that arrangement to the unreliability of commercial airlines and the frenetic Johannesburg International Airport, particularly now that his public profile was taking a thumping. His fall from grace had filled more column space than he cared to remember.
He would stay in Johannesburg until Thursday night when Joseph would ferry him back to Lanseria. Once a month or so, Police Commissioner Jackie Selebi and Glenn Agliotti would come for dinner and Brett would push his flight back, only leaving Inanda at around 23:00. This particular week, though, things were out of sync as Brett had flown in on the Monday morning, a decision indicative of the fact that things were not as they usually were.
Brett rarely broke his Tuesday-to-Thursday routine until a month prior to this particular visit. Many things had begun to change in the past few weeks. The house had become far quieter, fewer people seemed to be visiting the property and Brett would often spend time at the house on his own. It was unsettling that Brett, normally such a gregarious character who revelled in the company of others, had begun to live a house-bound lifestyle. Andrew also noticed that Brett had become quieter and that his eating habits had changed. There was also far less money lying around the house. In the past he would often leave a couple of thousand rand on a countertop. Yet he was the type of character who would leave five cents on a table and a week later want to know where the coin had disappeared to.
That Tuesday morning, Andrew set about laying the table for breakfast. He could never be certain who would make an unannounced arrival for a meal as things just ‘were as they were’ with Brett. While the butler’s job description was to manage Brett’s guests, he would rarely be informed of meetings. A captain of industry or a sunglasses-adorned young political turk would arrive on the doorstep and lunch would be expected. Brett’s personal assistants tried persistently to get him to confirm meetings and arrangements, but he shrugged off their messages, only replying when he felt the need. Having set the table, Andrew began meticulously cleaning the lounge, which was remarkably undisturbed from the day before, except for one peculiarity.
On the table in the centre of the room were two dessert containers. In each bowl, rested against the lip of the container, was a dirty spoon. Andrew immediately thought how very odd that image was. It was extremely unusual for Brett to go to the fridge and help himself to food. He would never really do that. Andrew also found the image of two bowls incongruous. He cast his mind back to the night before, trying to establish who the second bowl might be attributed to. While he would later insist that he had cleaned up after Brett had dined with journalist David Gleason, Gleason himself would contest this recollection, saying he never had dinner with Brett that night. Brett departed the house after dinner, jacket in hand. Andrew had overheard him saying that he was going to meet his associate Sello Rasethaba. Sello was having trouble with his son, Lebo, and Brett was going to chat to him about that. He also had plans to meet up with one of his spin doctors, Dominic Ntsele. Brett left just before 20:00 and Andrew climbed into his car shortly after.
An incident from the night before had unsettled the butler. While driving down Fifth Avenue the previous evening, he had noticed Brett’s silver Mercedes-Benz, with registration CA 8979, parked next to the pavement around 500 metres from the house. He couldn’t see who the driver was, but he presumed it was Brett, as Joseph had already been given the night off. Another peculiarity of late, as Joseph drove him 99 per cent of the time. Andrew didn’t stop and continued on his way home to the South.
Perplexed, Andrew asked the maid, Joyce, who had been at the house the previous evening, but she knew as little as he did. She told him that Brett had returned about fifteen minutes after he had left the house the night before, but she didn’t know of any visitors. Andrew set aside his discomfort and concentrated on the morning errands.
It wasn’t long before the gate alarm buzzed, announcing the day’s first unexpected visitor. It was only 08:00. Andrew pressed the remote and the solid metal gates on Fifth Avenue rumbled open. A luxury vehicle crawled up the long curved driveway past the blooming arum lilies and came to a halt near the shaped flower beds. Dominic climbed out of the front seat and rapped the heavy brass lion-faced knocker on the door, announcing his arrival yet again. Andrew welcomed him into the lounge. Dominic’s was a familiar face at the house and he would often arrive at this hour. Brett consulted extensively with Dominic about his turbulent media profile, as he did with others in the industry too. Brett and Dominic had become firm friends over time and their relationship extended beyond the professional. Dominic would even occasionally sit on the edge of Brett’s bed, chatting to him as the tycoon fought insomnia. Brett would often resort to sleeping pills to help him fall asleep.
The spin doctor had had plans to meet Brett the previous evening at a Japanese restaurant in nearby Norwood. After receiving a message from Brett saying he was running late, Dominic cancelled the meeting. Brett also scrapped his scheduled date with Sello the night before via SMS. Dominic and Brett had already exchanged messages that morning, but the conversation had come to an abrupt halt and Dominic assumed Brett may have dozed off again. At 07:04, Dominic’s phone had beeped with an SMS from the magnate: ‘Hi dom. I am not feeling well had bad biltong snacks last eve. Can we meet latr?Shud b nk by lunch.Apolgies.’ But Dominic had gone to Hoëveld House because he only read the message once he had arrived.
Andrew set a tray bearing a teapot and a cup and saucer on the table in front of Dominic. He fired off an SMS to his boss at 08:04: ‘Mr kebble,mr ntsele is here’. Brett didn’t respond so Dominic scribbled a note saying, ‘Hey Chum, I was here’. With that, the visitor went on his way, to return later that night. A third party was due to join them at the morning meeting so Dominic cancelled via a text. He and Brett exchanged messages throughout the afternoon about the day’s news agenda and political developments. Nothing about their discourse suggested things were out of the ordinary.
It was a relatively uneventful morning for Andrew, who spent much of the time wrestling with the riddle of the dessert bowls. Finally, at 11:30, Brett made an appearance downstairs, his shock of brownish-grey curls dishevelled and unruly. He was dressed in his normal uniform of smart trousers, collared shirt and slip-on loafers. Brett complained that he was feeling queasy and suggested it was because of the prawns that Andrew had prepared for him the night before, the sensitivities of the housekeeper inconsequential to his boss. Brett made little effort to endear himself to his house staff and, as a result, they considered him to be arrogant and even, at times, a bully. He turned down the offer of breakfast, waving away the butler’s suggestion and the already set table. Instead, Brett blearily made his way over to the drinks cabinet and proceeded to pour himself three stiff gin and tonics in quick succession.
This unusual development added to Andrew’s discomfort. It was strange for Brett to have a drink so early in the day. Andrew also found it odd that a person with an upset stomach would be drinking alcohol. However, Brett had begun to drink more and more heavily lately, although he did have an astonishing capacity for alcohol. He was always ahead of everyone else at the party. He would normally open the bar cabinet up around 17:00 and he and his guests would have wine or whisky as an aperitif before dinner. During the meal, he could consume two to three bottles of wine on his own and always drank the most out of everyone at the table. And then, after dinner, there would be a grappa or some or other liqueur as a nightcap. Despite this, three gin and tonics at 11:30 on a troubled stomach seemed odd.
Brett retired to his bedroom and whiled away the time watching rolling news channels and savouring the shade from the sprawling Belhambra tree that filled the bay window. Legend has it that the tree was planted by the initial owners of Hoëveld House from a seed brought to the country in statesman Jan Smuts’s pocket. It’s believed the seed was imported into South Africa from Italy, but Brett was never entirely convinced of the veracity of the legend. It is a tree of South American descent so the story is unlikely to be correct. Whatever the truth, the baronial tree provided good cover to the main bedroom from the spring sun. At 12:01 he received a message from Gulu, his term of endearment for Ingrid, his wife. ‘Leaving 4 malagas now my love 2 you x.’ She was taking the kids to Lily Cottage, their weekend retreat on the banks of the Breede River in Malgas in the mountainous Overberg.
After reading the message, he arose to lunch with David Gleason. Also present on the patio was former stockbroker Martin Irish. It was not uncommon for Brett to entertain journalists at his home. The charm offensive was Brett’s favourite modus operandi when it came to sceptical journalists who were writing spurious articles about him. Andrew served fish and pasta and left the trio to their talking. At 14:30 Gleason and Irish went on their way. As they walked down the driveway, Brett said something to Gleason that he had never said before. He urged him to ‘take good care of yourself’. The veteran reporter would later reflect on that lunch and recall that he had the impression that while Brett was a bit subdued, he gave an indication that he was considering a raft of new plans. The businessman had been humiliated and disgraced but gave no hint that he was depressed.
Just fifteen minutes later the metal gate was rumbling open again. Sello Barini arrived from Tilus Security, the company that was mandated to run the systems at the house. The company was responsible for checking the beams and monitors as well as the telephone lines. Usually, one of Barini’s staff members would be tasked with the job of checking the systems but occasionally he would do a house call himself. Barini also ran the IT work for JCI, so he was well known to Brett. The two went into the lounge and had a brief meeting. Barini was gone by 15:30, less than an hour after he had arrived.
When Brett checked his phone he saw that a message had come through from Gleason at 15:30 letting him know that Neal Froneman, his competitor at Aflease, had secured permission from the Reserve Bank to restructure the company. ‘Aflease/SCR deal approved by SARB.’ Nine months earlier, Brett’s company Randgold & Exploration had sold a 19 per cent stake in Aflease Gold and Uranium Resources, a year after nearly seizing control of the company. Froneman had driven the move to have Brett booted from the boards of his three companies, stating that shareholders had had enough and needed more transparency from public companies. There was another message from Rita Meininghuis, his PA in Cape Town: ‘reminder abt yr dinner tonight with sello – 19h30, sello’s home’ followed by the address. He shot off a quick message to business associate Lunga Ncwana who was a prominent ANC Youth League member. ‘Pl ph me’.
He made a brief call to Dominic and then spoke to his old friend and stockbroker Peter Gray, who had inherited his positions at JCI and Randgold & Exploration. Brett had spent the past year grooming Peter to take over his positions. At around 16:15, Brett chatted to Minister in the Presidency Essop Pahad. The two spoke about a multimillion-rand fundraising dinner which Pahad was organising in Timbuktu on behalf of President Thabo Mbeki, with tables going at R500 000 a pop. The magnate had committed to a R3 million donation to the museum project in Mali and Pahad was phoning to collect his debt. Eleven days earlier, Brett had sent a message to the high-ranking politician. ‘Dear Essop sorry abt not getting back to u. Busy week. Wil fix mali event on Monday. Best to u and meg. Brett’.
At 18:40 he received an SMS from another Youth League politician, Andile Nkuhlu. The message was written to Gray and copied to Brett: ‘Peter ps call me its urgent. I need to share the bad news from lazarus’. Lazarus Zim was the CEO of mining powerhouse Anglo American and had been supporting JCI through its recent tribulations. But the Anglo board had decided to turn down JCI’s offer for shares which it held in Western Areas. The company wanted an additional R40 million which JCI simply could not afford. This would mean an intricate empowerment deal would collapse as a result. Yet more bad news for Brett.
Dusk began to envelope Inanda and the long shadows from the weeping willow tree in the garden brought sunset prematurely. The din from the rush-hour traffic beyond the high walls fought with the noise of the passing swallows and the abrasive hadedas for the soundtrack of upmarket suburbia. Brett strolled into the kitchen as he did on most days to discuss the evening meal with Andrew. Brett considered himself to be a fairly capable cook, and if he was not the producer of meals in the kitchen, then he was certainly the executive producer. He had a refined palate and enjoyed the culinary process. It was not unusual for him to haul the chef out from the kitchen of a Michelin star restaurant so that they could debate the merits of a dish. Some found it awkward but it endeared him to many, as underlying the perceived pretentiousness was a deep appreciation for food. Even the choice of jam at breakfast would not be a simple thing. There would be the option of at least twenty preserves and he would want his guests to taste them all, even if he did not do so himself. Breakfasts at Brett’s house could easily be mistaken for those at an upmarket hotel – there would be crumpets, croissants, muffins and anything else one could possibly desire.
His wine pairing was equally exemplary and he would take great care in his choice of accompaniment with each evening meal. That night he selected a red wine to complement the steak and chips that Andrew was preparing for dinner. Brett had been invited for supper to Sello’s house as the former Prime Minister of Namibia, Hage Geingob, was in town and was being courted by the mining industry players. Linda Makatini, an advocate, would also be there. Sello was the CEO of Orlyfunt Holdings, the latest BEE conglomeration to be created by Brett. He knew that Sello would have got caterers in and the food would have been standing on hot trays since four o’clock in the afternoon. He knew it would taste like ‘a fucking chalkboard’ and often told Dominic as much. With dinner production in full swing, Brett took a seat at his Steinway grand piano and began to play. He continued for quite some time, immersed in the brilliant beauty of each note and didn’t even notice his friend standing at the doorway. Finally, Brett caught a glimpse of Dominic’s shortish, stocky frame and broad grin and immediately his fingers fell from the keys. He never liked an audience, even though Dominic did not consider himself to be one.
The two men chatted in the lounge for a while before moving into the dining room and sitting down to dinner. The conversation traversed all manner of topics, including Mbeki’s siege of his deputy, Jacob Zuma, and finally returned to Brett’s piano playing. Dom would often implore Brett to play for him but he was always reluctant and shy about his ability. Finally he conceded, but only on the condition that Dominic would sing as he played. His friend had a rich baritone voice which was easy on the ear. They alternated their choice of songs and finally decided on ‘Summertime’, but argued over which version they would sing. They considered the Ella Fitzgerald interpretation, but settled on Mahalia Jackson’s take on the Gershwin classic.
Brett played and Dominic sang but occasionally the host would belt out a ‘Don’t you cry’. The two-man concert ended with a chuckle and they returned to the couches in the lounge. Brett was reluctant about going to dinner at Sello’s house. He had told his empowerment partner that he would be only going for dessert, but he was reticent nonetheless. He hated these schmoozy functions and attempted to cajole Dominic into going with him. Several times he asked his friend to drive him the few short kilometres to Sello’s home, but Dominic had other commitments. Dominic got up to leave and Brett walked him out of the front door as he always did. Even if he was conducting a business meeting at the house, Brett would get up and walk him out. There was a slight chill in the spring air and Dominic shivered. His shirt sleeves, the cuffs embossed with the letters ‘DOM’ were buttoned at his wrists while Brett had the sleeves of his pale lilac-and-white checked shirt rolled up. They chatted briefly and Brett sent his friend off with a familiar parting remark: ‘Take care of yourself, Dom.’ It was the same comment he had made to Gleason earlier in the day. Dominic manoeuvred his way down the driveway and turned onto Fifth Avenue, taking the route past the Inanda Club, left at the traffic circle, down Pretoria Street and onto Katherine. He joined the highway heading north and shot through to Midrand.
Meanwhile, Brett shut the heavy front door behind him and walked through to his study. He sat down and wrote a letter before bellowing down the passage to Andrew to bring him an envelope. Once Andrew had found one he looked around for Brett and was shocked when he found his boss urinating in the garden under the Belhambra tree, casually holding onto a branch to keep himself steady. It was an inexplicable sight as the butler had never seen him do such a thing before. Brett read the letter before placing it in the envelope and sealing it. Curiously, he told Andrew the letter was addressed to cabinet minister Essop Pahad, but didn’t reveal the content of the document. It was out of character for Brett to mention detail like that. And then something even more curious occurred – Brett complimented Andrew on the dinner he had cooked. It was a rare remark which the butler relished.
At 20:30, Brett got up to leave. Earlier in the night, whilst overseeing dinner, he gave Joseph the driver the night off again. It was the second day in a row he’d given the peculiar instruction and Joseph knocked off reluctantly. As a consequence, Brett would be driving himself to Sello’s house in his Merc. As he left, Andrew noted that Brett still had his shirt sleeves rolled up and that he didn’t have a jacket with him. He always had a jacket with him when he had a dinner appointment and there was still a cold chill in the air. He also wasn’t carrying a gift for his host which was very unusual. Brett usually went to the pantry and collected a box of chocolates or a bottle of wine, but on this particular night he would be arriving empty-handed.
Brett left for Sello’s and Andrew tied up a few loose ends before driving out shortly after him at around 20:45. The butler stopped for a cup of coffee at Italian franchise restaurant Mimmos and arrived home at 21:30, still feeling unsettled from the day.
Earlier, when Brett was walking out of his house, he had called John Stratton and they spoke for four minutes. While they were on the phone, Brett received a text message from his prayer partner, Trevor, at exactly 20:40: ‘Thinking of u, up in the Crags, cold, raining now, nice sound on the roof.Just love God, He’ll pull you thru. Let go + let God have his way. Luv u,t.’ A few months prior, Brett had been baptised in the swimming pool of his good friend Peter George’s Cape Town home. A number of close friends had witnessed the spiritual rebirthing. George had provided Brett with guidance for years and assisted him in taking the plunge to be ‘reborn’.
As he was driving past the Wanderers Club, Brett switched to his car phone and his ‘slave card’ on the device kicked in. At 20:45 he called the landline at Lily Cottage in Malgas. He steered his way through the tree-lined avenues of Birdhaven and Melrose, spending seven minutes on the phone to Gulu or one of his four children. The details of that conversation would never be made public, and it was the last call he would make.
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