About the Author

Ken Smith was born in London, England. He was educated in

South Africa, mainly at Durban High School and Natal
University.
He is an admitted Attorney of the High Courts of South
Africa and Lesotho, Barrister and Solicitor of the High Court
of New Zealand and Legal Practitioner of the Supreme Court
of New South Wales, Australia, who practised law in South
Africa for many years. He now resides in New Zealand.
His daughter is an Auckland teacher and his son a Durban
lawyer.
He enjoys sailing, board-sailing and long-distance running.
This novel is dedicated to Maureen, my wife and best
friend.
Copyright © Ken Smith

The right of Ken Smith to be identified as author of this work has

been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the

product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978 184963 630 8

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

 Acknowledgments

Thanks to Maureen, Lisa and Jason, to Gordon and Carrie

and also to Chris and Jill for their encouragement.

Thanks, too, to Theo for being there to discuss legal issues.

Also, to Lynn and Judith, thank you for your support

through various stages of the book.

Lastly, a big thank you for your work to Annette, Vinh and
the team at Austin Macauley.
 Chapter 1

Michael awoke from a deep troubling sleep. Vague shadowy

dreams lingered.
Years later he would remember this twenty-four hour
period as being shared in part with an alleged murderer and in
part with an alleged scissors-packing stabber. It would be the
more memorable as the period during which someone exciting
entered his world, as well as the beginning of a time when he’d
endured gut-wrenching tension.
Now, however, he thought glumly,
“This will be another day of murders, rapes and
stabbings.” Ironically, he knew that most people would find
such matters fascinating. For him, though, his occupation was
turning into just a job. He knew, too, that something else was
missing and wondered what it could be.
He lay there, thoughtful.
“Where’s this all going?”
Random thoughts came. He lived alone. He hadn’t met
anyone he wanted to share his life with, so that couldn’t be the
problem. He couldn’t put his finger on the answer. Perhaps it
would come to him later. Anyway, he couldn’t stop to think
about it now.
“Let my real day begin,” he thought, leaping into action.
He had a lot to do and a funeral to attend later, so the sooner he
started the more he would accomplish. He showered, shaved
and put on a dark suit, crisp white shirt and quiet tie.
From Ireland originally, he was a lean and lanky dark-
haired lawyer in his early thirties, now settled in Durban.
He drove through the outskirts of the city to the nearby
prison, locked his car and stood at the first entry gate to one of
several high brick buildings until, after being scrutinised by the
guard, he was admitted. He wrote his name in the entry book
as well as the name and prison number of the accused he had
come to visit.
Then he waited. He knew from past experience that even if
you arranged the day before to see a prisoner, you would have
to wait at least half-an-hour. Seated on a shabby chair, he tried
to ignore his dingy and uninviting surroundings.
Finally he was ushered through another two sets of gates to
the interview room.
Peter Collins entered through an inner steel door that
clanked shut behind him. He was short, dark and
unprepossessing. His eyes darted around the room then settled
on Michael.
“Mr. Collins, my name is Kilmartin. I have been asked by
your sister to represent you in court,” said Michael.
Collins stared silently at him.
“I need to know what you have to say about the charge
that’s being brought against you. We can then work out what
to do in your best interests.”
Still silence. Collins continued staring at his visitor.
“When you were arrested did the police tell you what you
were being charged with?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say the charge was?” asked Michael.
“Murder.”
 Chapter 2

Michael shivered and wished he had worn a thicker coat.

“What happened,” he asked, “On the night of the
incident?”
“It was dark,” said Collins. Once he started talking, he
seemed unable to stop. “I went into the kitchen to get a candle
– there was a power cut in the electricity earlier and the candle
in the lounge burnt out.
“It was late. By the light of a candle in the kitchen I cut
another candle in half to make two lights in the lounge.” He
was clearly agitated, rocking back and forth while he spoke.
“As I was going to leave the kitchen, my brother came
through the door. I had the unlit halves of the candle in my left
hand and the knife was in my right hand with the blade up.
“My brother was drunk. He swore at me. He called me a
bastard and I told him to voetsak.” Michael smiled inwardly –
the expression sounded like putting feet in a sack but actually
meant something close to ‘piss off.’
“Why did he call you that?” asked Michael.
“My mother wasn’t married when I was born,” said
Collins. “She married my brother’s father and whenever my
brother loses his temper he calls me names.
“He called me a bastard again. I didn’t know what he was
going to do and then the knife in my hand jumped to his
chest.”
“Oh, hell,” thought Michael wearily. “I’m dealing with a
bloody nut.”

*****

Michael drove to the woman’s section of the prison,

parked the car and repeated the consultation process. He met
Meryl Jacobs and they discussed her case that was to be heard
the next day. He couldn’t be sure, but was she coming on to
him? This was the second time they’d met and he’d felt that
she was attracted from the beginning. And now he saw signs of
it again. She leaned forward while speaking and lowered her
eyes to peer coyly at him through her lashes.
He felt a twinge of attraction but was hard on himself. He
was there for a job and this wasn’t the time to be sidetracked.
He avoided her gaze.

*****

As he drove from the prison in the summer heat Michael

barely noticed the scorched scrubland around him. On other
occasions he might have taken notice but his thoughts were
miles away. He was disturbed by his attraction for an alleged
criminal.
“What the hell’s going on?” he wondered. The Collins
case, too, brought him right back to the way he felt when the
day began.
“I wish I could get to the bottom of it. What’s bugging
me?” No, he didn’t have an answer yet.
He headed for the office, where he gulped down some
coffee, dealt with his telephone messages and caught up on
some work. His office suite was in a side street off the Victoria
Embankment. He wanted his clients to feel at home so the
reception area consisted of several comfortable armchairs, art-
works and magazines. The inner offices were tastefully
decorated and fresh-ground coffee was brewing. Clients were
either offered this or, much later in the day, a drink from
Michael’s well stocked bar. No clients disturbed him now,
though, in his concentration.
At two o’clock he left for John Soames’ funeral. Michael
had known Soames for a few years and found him likeable. He
worked hard as a salesman but always had time for a quick
joke and a laugh. Michael had been stunned when, at the age
of forty, Soames had died from a heart attack. Michael would
miss him.
 It was a graveside service. The minister spoke comforting
words and Michael glanced around the group. The mourners
looked fairly ordinary although he recognized amongst them a
couple of ‘lawyers’. He used the expression loosely because a
client had once told him that you could identify lawyers by
their rumpled suits, pointy noses and bad haircuts. Since
hearing the expression Michael had done his damndest not to
comply with the apparent norm.
Then he saw a vaguely familiar handsome man in his mid
fifties with silver-grey hair.
“I’ll bet the ladies love you,” thought Michael.
He was embarrassed that this thought had crossed his mind
in the present circumstances and chased it away. The grey-
haired man glanced in his direction and nodded as if he knew
Michael.
Michael turned back to the minister, who was inviting
everyone to the church hall for refreshments.

*****

He helped himself to a sandwich and a cup of tea. He

didn’t know Soames’ widow very well so his condolences
were purposely short. He never really knew what to say at
these times and therefore he moved away as soon as he could.
The grey-haired man wasn’t anywhere to be seen and he
didn’t know the people there. He had a word with the minister
and then left.

*****

It was still too early to go home.

Michael usually went running on most days of the week
but today he parked outside the ‘Café Fish’, his favourite bar,
which stood on piles in the sea and overlooked the yacht basin.
He ordered a draught beer from the friendly bartender, a young
Kiwi who had stopped over in South Africa as part of his
‘overseas experience’. Michael wandered out on the veranda
and peered at the yachts.
 Before relaxing completely, he checked the in-box of his
cell phone, which had to be turned off in court. He preferred
clients to contact him through the office, although he gave out
his number for emergencies. Now there were no messages, as
he’d expected. He telephoned the office.
His secretary, Gina, said, “There was a call from someone,
and when I said you weren’t in, he asked where he could reach
you urgently and I told him. He didn’t leave his name.”
“That’s O.K,” said Michael. “If it really is urgent he’ll get
hold of me somehow.”
Now he could relax. Or could he? The new found anxieties
began to nibble.
He took a sip of his drink, put on his sunglasses to protect
his eyes from the glare and looked across the water again,
visualizing himself on a yacht sailing across a blue ocean. He
was often engulfed by these daydreams when he sat there. He
wondered if one day he’d turn the dreams to reality.
And then it dawned on him – he knew with crystal clarity
what his problems were. He needed a special someone to love.
He also needed a drastic change before he became trapped into
a humdrum existence by the life he led.
Both problems were huge.
“How do I solve them?” he thought, drumming his fingers
on the table and glancing around distractedly.
He noticed a lovely redhead sitting alone, staring
thoughtfully at her glass of wine. She was clearly not a pick-up
and seemed to be waiting for someone. She was beginning to
redden from the sun.
“Probably been waiting for a while,” he thought, looking
away.
Below, a chartered catamaran yacht came in under motor
power. The crew leaped onto the jetty and fastened the
mooring lines. The guests stepped off the yacht, talking and
laughing loudly.
“They must have had a great day,” Michael thought
wistfully.
“Pardon me.”
Michael turned. The redhead was next to him.
 Michael scrambled awkwardly to his feet.
“My date’s stood me up,” she said. “I’m only in Durban
for tonight and I really would like to see as much as I can. Are
you free?” she asked bluntly. She had an American accent.
Michael liked her refreshing directness.
“I certainly am,” he replied with a smile.
He finished his drink and the barman waved as they left.
 Chapter 3

She seemed pleasantly surprised that he should own such an

elegant, high-performance car.
“I haven’t seen many of these around,” she remarked, as he
drove towards the South Beach.
“I travel a lot and I need a reliable car,” said Michael, as he
parked. He knew the car was impressive but it wasn’t in his
nature to boast about his possessions. For all that, he liked to
roll up his sleeves and buff it until it sparkled.
They strolled along the beachfront, looking at the surfers,
the gulls wheeling overhead and the people. The ocean smelled
of oysters and seaweed.
Her name, she told him, was Claire and she was an
airhostess with Pan American Airlines. She had just flown into
Johannesburg and, on a whim, decided to see Durban. An old
friend was supposed to have met her at the ‘Café Fish’ but had
turned out to be, as she put it, a ‘no-show’. She was leaving the
country again the following day.
She was from San Diego, California and she had always
wanted to see if Durban was at all like the area close to home.
The beaches seemed very similar but she noted that there were
no houses just above the waterline. Michael told her that the
sea and the seashore was State land in South Africa and, as a
result, the building of homes on the shoreline was a rarity as
the land needed to be acquired from Parliament.
She looked at him in an odd way and he wondered if he
sounded like a stuffed shirt.
“Watch out for your pointy nose,” he thought in
amusement as he turned towards her.
“I didn’t mean to sound ‘know-it-all’,” he said, “But I’m a
lawyer and sometimes these things just pour out of me. I’m a
mine of useless information.”
 She laughed. It was a hearty laugh and he would remember
it. His mind was clearing. The questions of earlier were not
troubling him anymore
They went back to the car and he drove her along the
popular ‘golden mile’ where they stopped for something to eat.
After admiring the lights which had been turned on, and the
grandness of the festively lit City Hall, the architecture of
which impressed her, he parked outside the opulent Royal
Hotel and led her inside, holding her hand. .
They found a table for two at the “Top of the Royal”,
where a piano was playing softly in a dimmed corner, and
Michael ordered drinks. He noticed vaguely that she smelled
of flowers. They were talking like old friends. He was
enjoying himself and he was sure that she was too.
The harbour spread out below was an incredibly romantic
setting, thought Michael, as he gazed at the twinkling lights
and the berthed ships. Some lights were moving on the water,
boats on business or pleasure. Claire was peering below with a
dreamy look. He took in every detail, to store it in his memory.
She looked up at him as if she read his thoughts and smiled.
“Come on,” he said, “there’s more to show you.”
They drove north to Umhlanga Rocks where they had a
drink at the ‘Oyster Box’, well known for its seafood, and
watched the lighthouse below flash its warning out to sea.
Michael led her to the nearby walkway that meandered
above the shoreline through natural vegetation to the beach.
All the hotels and holiday flats made use of it. It was well lit
and Michael had often run along it with his friend Dieter.
She took his hand. They talked some more. He led her off
the walkway to a hotel where he knew there was a disco. She
didn’t seem to need any invitation, leading him straight onto
the dance floor.
The music throbbed, lights flashed and she was like liquid
flowing to the beat. He felt his shirt clinging to his chest and
couldn’t tell if she was flushed or if it was still the sunburn but
he could see no moisture on her. She was fascinating.
 They stopped for a drink and then wandered back along
the walkway to the beach below. A soft wind cooled Michael
and teased at Claire’s skirt.
The moon glinted off the dark water as they took off their
shoes and walked into the gently lapping waves. He was
entranced by the scene and by her but she had begun to talk
about the best beaches she had ever seen which were at
Skiathos, a small Greek island. She said that you seemed to
find a beach around every turn in the road and she liked
nothing better while there than enjoying the sun, downing a
beer, and eating a huge Greek salad after a hectic swim in the
clean green water. Michael could just picture it.
Their feet crunched on the sand as they wandered back to
the walkway. It was clear that neither wanted the night to end.
He took her back into town where they found another
disco and danced into the early hours, enjoying their time
together. They had a light breakfast and he drove her to the
airport to catch the first flight to Johannesburg.
“Don’t wait, Mickey. I hate good-byes,” she said.
No one had ever called him ‘Mickey’ before. He realized
that he quite liked the name. He gave her his telephone
numbers. She couldn’t be reached because she would be on
international flights.
“I’ll be back in two weeks,” she said. She smiled at him,
turned and entered the airport building.
He would remember this day, but for now he was alone
again.
 Chapter 4

A few hours later and it was another day in court. Outside was
sunny Durban weather, inside was cool but well lit, although
he didn’t notice the changes in his environment, outside or in.
He thought about his earlier attraction towards his client. That
didn’t seem real. He realized, with a jolt, the effect Claire had
on him.
He was seated with the other attorneys towards the front of
the court. To his right was the witness box and behind him the
dock for the accused. Behind this was the public gallery.
Everyone faced the magistrate, elevated at his end of the court.
Michael yawned and then stretched carefully so that it
wouldn’t be noticed by the magistrate. He was fully prepared
for his case but by the time the prosecutor was ready for court
and began to work through his roll, it was ten o’clock.
There was nothing Michael could do but wait.
Another matter was remanded. Then Michael sat up
straight.
The prosecutor turned to the accused.
“This is the case of the State versus Meryl Jacobs,” he
droned to the magistrate.
“At last,” Michael thought. He felt as if he might have
actually started nodding off if the matter hadn’t begun soon.
The prosecutor turned to the accused, a lovely woman in
her late twenties.
“You are charged,” he said, reading from the charge-sheet,
“with the crime of assault, in that you did on 12 August last at
or near Durban unlawfully and intentionally stab Joyce
Emmanuel with a pair of scissors and did thereby cause her
certain wounds or hurts.”
Michael had told her how the charge would be read to her.
 “Do you understand the charge?” asked the magistrate,
looking up from the bench.
“Yes.”
“And how do you plead?” asked the magistrate.
“Not guilty.” It was said firmly.
Michael stood up.
“I confirm,” he said, “that the plea is in accordance with
my instructions. At this stage the accused does not wish to
disclose the basis of her defence and she puts all the elements
of the charge sheet in dispute.” He sat down.
“I see,” said the magistrate. Turning to the accused he said,
“And do you agree with what your attorney, Mr. Kilmartin, has
just told the court?”
“Yes,” said Meryl.
“Very well,” said the magistrate, nodding towards the
prosecutor. “You may bring in your first witness.”
Joyce Emmanuel was called into court and directed to the
witness box. She, too, was a twenty-something woman and
was also quite attractive. She was nervous.
“What are your names?” asked the magistrate.
“Joyce Heather Emmanuel,” said Joyce softly.
“And do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth, so help you God?” enquired the
magistrate.
“So help me God,” said Joyce.
Michael began to make notes of the questions and answers.
He needed a record of what happened in court but, more
importantly, he would use this information for his defence.
“What is your occupation?” asked the prosecutor.
“I’m a machinist in a clothing factory,” Joyce replied.
“I’ve been there for ten years now.”
“And do you know the accused?” asked the prosecutor,
waving in Meryl’s direction.
“Ja. I know her,” said Joyce. “She lives near me and works
at the same factory.”
“And do you recall the events of the 12 August?”
“Ja,” Joyce said again.
 “Miss Emmanuel, you’ve elected to speak in English.
Please say ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” said the magistrate.
“Okay,” said Joyce. “Sorry, hey.” Light laughter filled the
courtroom.
“Tell us,” the prosecutor invited, “what happened.”
“It was a Friday. I’d worked hard that week and really felt
like a couple of drinks after work,” she said, smiling
conspiratorially in the direction of the people in the gallery.
“I’d phoned a friend of mine the night before and arranged to
meet her at the ‘Keg and Thistle’ in Florida Road.”
“What is the friend’s name?” asked the prosecutor.
“Mary Smith. Can I carry on?” Joyce asked.
“Please do,” said the prosecutor.
“When I arrived, Mary wasn’t there yet. I got a drink and
sat close to the door so I’d see her when she got there. Just
then Fred James came over. I’ve known Fred for years. We
talked a bit and then he went to the gents’. As he walked off I
saw Meryl at the pub entrance. She just stood there a minute
and then left.
“Fred came back and started to talk to me again. He had
his back to the entrance and I was facing him when I saw
Meryl come in. She didn’t say a word. She just marched up to
me and stabbed me.” Joyce stopped speaking.
“What happened next?” asked the prosecutor.
“I couldn’t believe it,” said Joyce. “I stood up and said,
‘Why did you do that?’ and she stabbed me again. I was taken
to hospital and got stitched for two wounds on my arm. They
were deep and it was sore.”
“And after you were stabbed…” began the prosecutor.
She didn’t let him finish. “I felt weak. Somebody tied a
cloth around where I was cut.”
Michael expected the prosecutor to bring the witness under
his control and steer her thoughts back to what happened at the
time of the stabbing. He didn’t.
“You said you were taken to hospital?” Obviously he had
decided to follow this line of enquiry.
“Ja – yes. I was put on drips,” she said, clearly
remembering her hospital time again.
 “And did anything else happen to you in hospital?” he
asked.
“I lost power and fell down. I was given tablets – I don’t
know what for. Once I was injected. They told me this was so I
wouldn’t feel pain when I was stitched. I was in hospital for
three days.”
“And I’ll bet you didn’t enjoy them,” thought Michael.
“You mentioned,” said the prosecutor, “that you lost
power. What did you mean?”
“I just did.”
“I see. And did the police ask that a medical report be
completed?” asked the prosecutor.
“It was done while I was in hospital.”
“Is this the report?” asked the prosecutor, showing Joyce a
medical report.
She nodded.
The prosecutor handed it in to the magistrate. Michael
confirmed that he had seen it and had no objection to it being
handed in as evidence.
“And what had you drunk at the ‘Keg and Thistle’, Miss
Emmanuel?” asked the prosecutor.
“Well, like I said earlier, I’d just arrived. I was having my
first brandy.”
“What happened at the pub after you were stabbed?”
enquired the prosecutor, picking up the thread that Michael
had expected him to pick up earlier.
“Meryl screamed and ran towards the toilets but before she
got there she was caught by two of the people in the pub. I saw
Fred force her to give him the scissors.” She shifted her weight
from one leg to the other.
The prosecutor had finished. Michael stood up to attend to
cross-examination.
“Why,” he asked, “do you think Meryl stabbed you?”
“I haven’t got a clue,” she replied. “I hadn’t done anything
to her. I was just minding my own business.”
“My instructions are that there is bad blood between the
two of you,” said Michael. He looked straight into her eyes.
“Isn’t it true that you have a deep dislike for Meryl?”
 “No.” Michael wondered why she was denying it.
“Didn’t you learn that your boyfriend and Meryl had
sexual relations while he was going out with you?”
“I don’t know nothing about that,” she scowled.
“Do you want me to get him to court to see what he has to
say?” asked Michael.
She did not reply.
Michael continued, “Weren’t you angry with both of them
when you found out?”
She didn’t respond but she had denied knowledge of the
relationship earlier and Michael knew that he couldn’t follow
this line much further.
“So angry, in fact, that you threatened to kill Meryl if it
happened again.”
“I didn’t threaten her.”
“Well, what did you do?” asked Michael.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Michael needed another route. “Who is your boyfriend?”
he asked.
“Andy Brown,” she replied.
“Prior to 12 August, wasn’t there another night when you
and Andy went to the same pub?” asked Michael.
“We’d been there a couple of times,” she said, opening the
gate to a fresh line of enquiry from Michael.
“I’ve been there, too,” said Michael. “Have you tried their
dixie pie?”
“Ja. It’s delicious.” She was visibly relaxing.
“On one of those occasions when the two of you went
there, didn’t you see Meryl?” he asked.
“No.” Her relaxed manner had disappeared. She had
tensed up again.
“Meryl will say,” said Michael, knowing that this witness
would deny it all, “that prior to 12 August she went to the ‘Keg
and Thistle’ one night and saw you and Andy there. You deny
this?”
“Yes.”