Things Go Better...

Seals go better with Coke...

Hard to believe, eh? We saw this Great White off Gansbaai early Sunday morning. Zonker got the first shot from the Dutch Boy's boat and, about half an hour later, when he lured the thing to the side for a better shot of the logo, I took the second (without luck, I'm afraid). He's a big bugger—the shark, not Zonker. I've cropped these pics, but the link gives higher-resolution copies. I reckon it must have been darted before the Coke logo was ironed to its belly.


Getting Ahab to expose himself...

The way South African ecotourism's going, this sort of thing doesn't surprise me in the least. They've a guy called the Whale Crier down the road at Hermanus. Sponsored by an oil company and a retail outlet that cares, he blows his horn when the whales, predominantly Southern Rights, for whom Walker Bay's a reserve, drift close to shore. Tourists rush to the railings and most point excitedly at the windblown sea, seeing nothing.

I took some crappy video (on a Norwegian-speaking camera) of a couple of whales past Gansbaai when my friend Amé was down a couple of months back, but these shark stills are far better.

The Shark is not a friendly fish | That fact it's always proving | It seems this creatures' favorite dish is | Anything that's moving | He'll chew your face off in a flash | Or cheat you if you let him | So never loan him any cash | And be careful when you pet him.

Weird Al Yankovic | Shark

Shades of Pale

Yakhal' Inkomo

Found something on the Web, written by my old man—his novel improves with each page.

POTGIETER GM, GOLBY HH: A comparative study of the autopsy incidence, histological distribution, and relation to cirrhosis, of liver siderosis in the three racial groups of Cape Town. S Afr J Lab Clin Med. 1960 Mar;6:1-11.

Remembered something by one of his favorite authors...

"See," Ochwiay Bianco said, "how cruel the whites look. Their lips are thin, their noses sharp, their faces furrowed and distorted by folds. Their eyes have a staring expression; they are always seeking something. What are they seeking? The whites always want something; they are always uneasy and restless. We do not know what they want. We do not understand them. We think they are mad."

I asked him why he thought the whites were all mad.

"They say they think with their heads," he replied.

"Why of course. What do you think with," I asked him in surprise.

"We think here," he said, indicating his heart.

C.G. Jung | Memories, Dreams, Reflections

A world from another time...much the same as it is today.

In the run-up to yesterday's quest for rugby's Holy Grail, Cape Town and the world's rugger buggers had their minds massaged at Brookside before and after each eighty minutes of blood and thunder by Amampondo, Kusasa, Ezra 'Duke' Ngcukana and others.

I stumbled into the green and blue marquee the size of the Hindenburg last Sunday morning, my head tight as a drum beaten to hell and beyond by Robbie Jansen and his gang hours earlier. Hundreds of South African flags, blurred rainbows hung from the cathedral ceiling, assaulted my fragile senses. Shutting my eyes, I slumped in front of the stage with a stock of Cokes to revive my flagging spirits.

I was jerked back to virtual reality by the rhythms of Sammy Hartman's keyboards rolling like a freight train across the sunbaked plains of my psyche. Blowing a mean "Wake Up" whistle into the vacuum of my mind was the short, coal-faced maestro from Gugs on sax. Mankunku and friends were coming to town, Hartman's jangling keys and Ngozi's golden horn calling it time to play as they coasted in on upbeat sound.

Suddenly changing track, the keyboards opted for contemplative, mischievous musing. The sax seeped like incense into the dialogue, speaking quietly, arguing softly to informed response from the intelligent ivories, finally reaching agreement with the burnished brass blowing a strong statement of laid-back intent.

Hartman, with Lionel Beukes's self-effacing bass and Denver Furness's brushed drums then took a lazy turn down an alleyway coloured with rich, rolling chords and melancholic keys. Hidden, they turned on their toes in monkey delight, upping tempo, running, racing, the keyboards dancing and weaving, Furness chopping and scything, Beukes plucking and driving, stopping dead just short of main street, sauntering with élan to a sunny close.

Mankunku, still spinning spells, plays a cadenza like a Ming vase suspended, holding for small eternities exquisite sounds of flawless indefectibility striking the listener to stillness, while Hartman's original pieces are rare delights of evocative tranquillity to savour or engrave into the musical memory.

Hartman, Mankunku, Beukes and Furness belong together. The drums are hard-edged, the keyboards grand and dusted with a pervasive genius. The irrepressible sax remains a wellspring of unbridled creativity and the solid, sonorous bass emerges as the patriarchal line threading a sound of wonderful acoustic clarity, instinctual joy and jaunty revelry; in short, a font of infectious sass bursting with spontaneity.

We left the tent, now seething with electric, bare-neuron energy as Jonah Lomu trampled the shredded Cross of St George.

Mankunku, the little jazz giant who loathes interviews, twirled smiling and wide-armed in the open air, sunlight dancing off his shades, the peak of his cap pointing to the sky. His right hand clasped his chest, then pulled away, saying it all. "It comes from the heart."

Sunday Times | Jazz Massage for Walloped Rugby Junkies ['95]

Skulls

"Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go."

Claudius

I have a human skull in the living room. It sits on a shelf. For all practical purposes, that's about as far as it goes. I know nothing of it. But nothing does not deter Frank Paynter, and his evocation of Hamlet on reading of my dalliance with Kate Moss surprised me. It shouldn't have. The Colonel, Frank—not my grandfather—has through sheer bloody-mindedness, a disturbingly acute mind, and wordplay more pointed that any rapier, reached the highest rank possible in the mighty army of the EGR Irregulars.

It's not for nothing that apparently nothing does not escape his notice.

After my father's death in 2000, I carried his ashes about for eighteen months before disposing of them. My tardiness was due, in part, to having had—on instruction—his remains divided into three portions, two of which were for relatives overseas. I guess everybody wanted a piece of him.

As it turned out, the three boxes remained in the trunk of my car for several months. On taking out weekend shopping, work-related materials, or anything else for that matter, I'd be greeted by all that remained of my father—who, as I mentioned in one of the posts to which Frank refers, was a pathologist as used to dealing with those no longer of this world as I became used to dealing with him. To prevent them getting wet, I took his ashes out one winter and stashed them in a bedside cupboard for several months. My relatives no longer seemed all that keen on shipping out portions of their dead father, so I was lumped with him. In three boxes, each covered by a certificate of cremation.

In June 2002, I took the old man's remains down to the Atlantic and, casting fire on the waters, gave him a Viking's funeral. It was a fitting end to a great man and my best friend.

"We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart."

Hamlet

Click the graphic to appreciate Amazon's Shakespearean wit

In a library of incomparable works, Hamlet arguably stands out as Shakespeare's best. From its opening, it's apparent we're not dealing with the bard's usual penny horrible. The result? Most are baffled, some trash the protaganist—for the most part, the only really sane character at court, and others call the play an intricate mess. Some write dissertations on the psychology of the work and others quote, with simplistic selectivity, from its vital complexity.

I last read from Hamlet in 1979 (I've seen Shakespeare performed only on screen, but I've not seen this play at all), and was gob smacked by that much of it I read. I had little idea why. Today, I do. In Hamlet, Shakespeare brings it all together and reflects life in the raw. Forget your paupers and peasants and princes and kings. Hamlet and all those with whom he interacts are each of us.

On hearing of Hamlet's encounter with his murdered father's ghost, it's perhaps inevitable, given his day-to-day circumstances (his mother's marriage, within a month, to his uncle and father's poisoner—who then becomes his 'father') that we should, like the prince, think first of 'revenge'. At the theatre, witnessing a play within the larger play of life, and before we begin to appreciate the depth of it, we are pretty superficial—hollow vessels into which Shakespeare pours his genius.

And revenge is what society expects of us. Hence, in the United States, the last march of the 1,000 and the deaths of millions beneath the bombs. Given that Shakespeare wrote the play several hundred years' ago, revenge is what society's (we've) always expected of us (ourselves).

But on whom exactly do we wish Hamlet to exact his revenge? His father Hamlet, his guilt-ridden uncle Claudius, his adulterous mother Gertrude, the fatuous Polonius, the duplicitous duo of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Denmark—a country groaning under the weight of war and pervasive evil, or himself? Who pays for his mother's and his uncle's sins? Because the economy of life dictates that somebody, or all of us, must pay. Drawing us in with its main character, it's this bloody but unsatisfying and transient social convention, i.e. revenge, which lends the play its mystery.

Hamlet wants revenge only insofar as we, through his father's ghost (whom he has not laid to rest) and our projection, want it. Unlike Hamlet, who—appreciating life's cruel paradoxes—is here, there and everywhere, a popular, talented, and courageous prince possessed of a disposition shaken "...with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls", it is we who carry the desire for revenge through the play. The brooding prince realises its futility and it is left to us to feel, "Get on with it, man. Kill the Cheney character and let's all go home."

Known to most of us, and wrapped in the platitudes of the hypocritical, meddlesome Polonius, whom Hamlet dispatches before anybody else, prevarication and equivocation are Shakespeare's game. A master to our novitiates, he messes with our heads. Frequently accused (perhaps even more by himself than by the play's critics) of being a procrastinator, Hamlet is anything but. Unlike his peers, and those who witness his tragedy, he lives on many levels. "...I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe."

He is passionate, active (a continental traveler and better than Fortinbras at swordplay), brilliant, moody, violent, sensitive... he encompasses our humanity, embodies our prejudices and uncertainties, our contradictions and ambiguities. He sees more and he feels more than most. Far from being a procrastinator, he's too busy practically and mentally dodging the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune to indulge in childish games of tit for tat. And whatever need for revenge he does feel has more to do with an internalised anger born of trying to reconcile life's conflicts projected onto those around him than it has to do with avenging his father's murder.

We know Hamlet loves Ophelia, a most unlikely Hilarity Jane. Gnawing at the roots of his and our self-negation, it is in his protection of her from his own possible intent, that he shows himself both empathically intuitive and, paradoxically, a vicious sociopath. He is frequently deemed, by the play's characters, we who see him through their eyes, and the play's critics, mad. If he is mad, his is a studied madness because, not do we only see it only through the eyes of the dupes he so despises (I guess that includes us); Shakespeare deliberately juxtaposes the eminent sense and scathing wit of his supposed non-sense with the babble of Ophelia who, through her differently pointed words and actions, shows herself decidedly barkers and later, most unlike the willow, snaps.

More, Horatio is, throughout the play, a decidedly sober and well-grounded confidante. He mirrors the clear-sighted, cold-blooded sanity of Hamlet's insight and far-sighted level-headedness.

[I dreamt of my wife a couple of months ago. I seldom remembers dreams, so the short image impressed itself on me and I related it to my therapist—yeah, yeah... I'm overlooking a lake, and she, neither alive nor dead but both, is staring up at me as she rises slowly to just beneath the surface, where she remains. Bedevilled by a severe personality disorder that's visited hell on the family over the years, the dream immediately made sense to me. But it did not make as much sense as it did when I came across the scene of Ophelia's death.]

Why pretend insanity? I assume Shakespeare merely dresses Hamlet's bile, confusion, mistrust of self, grief, and predilection for unsettling his vile mother and uncle as madness to more clearly delineate the crass vulgarity of those about him. It is in anger, with a barbed contempt, and through a veil of near-misanthropic scorn, that Hamlet uses his crazed "Words, words, words...", an armoury suited to unsettling the sensibilities of unfeeling, unseeing dullards.

He is not at all insane.

Who is Hamlet? He is his mother, his father, and his uncle. Like it or not, we carry our ancestors within. Born of them, we take over from them. After them, we are next in the firing line. From babies born chalk-white and blue, we grow and go unwillingly to our crabbed age and death. And, as Laertes points out to Ophelia, we are 'constrained' by those who came before. An existential dilemma, it's also a bastard Satre would not appreciate.

Our natures cannot choose their origins or their ends. Whether we keep our parents' ashes in cupboards—yeah, we've pieces of the skeleton lying about the house (it belonged to a friend, I swear) and we make merry with the bones—or eschew our ancestral constraints, we know and fear our entrapment and eventual death in those who gave us life.

And this, intuitively, Hamlet the Younger, he who rails at entropy (be it natural or moral), knows. He echoes and reiterates one of Shakespeare's recurring complaints, that of our transient 'being'. We are all idiots, "...full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Why rail at it? Why the need to contemplate suicide or 'death on our own terms' before we mature to an acceptance of the so-called natural order? Swine ourselves, we always want more. We want a shot at redemption and immortality.

Paradoxically, though, if Hamlet and we are to survive ourselves and save others' similar fates, our task is to disobey, overcome, kill, destroy and, finally, lay to rest the ghosts of those who came before us.

So where lay the tragedy of this brilliant man with whom we identify through passion felt in a sea of indifference? Why do so many feel Hamlet to be a 'mystery'? The tragedy of his story lies, after his exposure of his uncle and his escape from murder in England, not in his effecting a climactic slaughter rather than a revenge, but in his having to die to outlive his forbears. His tragedy is that by killing the king in selfish anger, he becomes the uncle he so despises.

Crushed by life's ambiguities, the passionate, insightful prince who could deliver Denmark from its drunken swinery and would be king—and, indeed, was in the half-hour of dying following his poisoning and the murder of Claudius, Gertrude (a mother he cannot but love) and Laertes—becomes King Hamlet; but he does so as his father reincarnate, a violent, reactive brute like those he so despises, and he is rendered unremarkable, but for Shakespeare's remarkable rendering of him.

His tragedy is that, in dying in a manner expected of him, he becomes the Hamlet we know, i.e., an all-too-familiar figure.

Hamlet's tragedy likely belongs to all of us; a catastrophic end preceded by a life we ultimately decide is well worth living. Catastrophic? Yes. We each face a personal apocalypse, the sudden obliteration of a life we grow to accept. Also, we all share our poisoned chalices by attempting to 'kill' or transcend those we know (of our and preceding generations) as and before we ourselves shuffle off this mortal coil.

It is the only way we have of becoming ourselves or shooting for immortality. If we are to save ourselves such tragedy, we need to live and die in a manner becoming to and of us; not others. But, in all likelihood, we will do what Hamlet did. Instead of transcending others, we will become them.



"He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again."

Hamlet

I've a sad feeling my father merely suffered his father. He did not 'bump off' the old bugger and relegate him to the land of the dead. I've a sad feeling my father, great though he was, could have been greater still. Rather than becoming a middle-class Hamlet, whose memory we continue to love and cherish, he might have become more fully himself.

Around thirty-five years ago, he wrote a novel. In much the same way I post in threes or divide my posts into three sections (see my posts on Kate Moss, my grandfather and me), my father's novel comprises three sections. I've two of them on disk right now and had hoped to publish the complete work on this blog. I doubt I will. Sorry, Dad, but you were right. It's a lousy novel. While I'll make use of many wonderful pieces, I'm panning the whole.

[Where are the broad, sweeping strokes of your far-reaching imagination; the genius of your interweaving, conflicting, segueing ideational tides, the crosscurrents, eddies, vortices and still ponds of our innermost thoughts? You had 'em all, but you didn't deliver. Why?]

Without belabouring the point, I'll tell you why. Born in 1922, my father's worldview was shaped before WWII. His stilted, strictured outlook was much like that of his father. Unless you're a baby boomer or over 45, you're probably unlikely to have many friends who grew to adulthood before 1939. To us who have known them, such people—or those whose worldviews could not adapt to the post-war boom—come from another world, one which, when dressed in its restrictive norms and values, is completely alien. Its constraints must have been suffocating.

Frankly, they—and most of their books—were drop-dead boring. Intensely sensitive, intelligent and possessed of a photographic memory, my father appreciated the staid, stolid stodginess of his world and tried to follow the flow to post-modernity. Stuck on ideas that the likes of Eliot represented the most crazed side of our creative natures, he didn't make it. Handicapped as an only son dispatched to boarding school by his policeman father, he lost his mother while fighting in the Western Desert Campaign and, after overcoming two bouts with tuberculosis, subjected himself to ten years of medical specialization before waking up to the fact he was alive.

What did he do with his realization? Crippled by a wretched, self-mutilating Catholicism, he married, had four kids and, beyond the occasional revolutionary outburst wherein he showed an enormous ability to appreciate and assimilate a fast-changing world, he retreated and resigned himself to his lot, eventually dying in a manner expected of him. At least he did so with dignity. That's something in mighty short supply these days.

Becoming oneself is not a part-time thing. I should know. I reckon inherited delusions of honour, romance, duty, ideals and obligation have seen me lose twenty-five years of... what, I don't know. The onset of middle age tells me a large part of it involves attractive women but, in the grander scheme of things, the details don't matter. The feeling persists. I've been gypped. Or I've gypped myself. It's depressing to think that, at some time in the future, some might say, "He lived in a manner expected of him."

Fuck that! I am not my father, my father's ghost or my father's father. And yet, although I will again enjoy Kate's company this weekend—it's disgusting what they ask these girls to do in the pharmaceutical industry; she has realized the error of her ways, has begged me to take her back and I, remembering our happy cavorting last weekend, relented somewhat too easily—realize the absurdity of protest.

A swine, I want more. Perhaps I am reliving Hamlet's futile sense of God's caprice and our injustice. Perhaps, like my father and his father before him, I am merely another unremarkable tragedy in the making. I am becoming of them rather than becoming me.

I suppose I could do far worse. But, hell, none of us likes mediocrity. We all seek our own stories. I've a terrible suspicion that fifty years from now, much like Frank (oh yes, my friend), my forbears, and the skull sitting on the shelf in my living room, I won't have any but Hamlet's to tell.

The rest, thank God and as the Dane points out, is all silence.



"...worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table: that's the end."

Hamlet

Note
Lest anyone think I am "not all at home" following this line of thought and slap-dash analysis, let me lighten the mood.

After removing my father's ashes from the trunk of my car, the immobiliser packed up. I had the Automobile Association circumvent it, but needed an effective car-theft deterrent. So, being South African, I replaced my father's ashes with the skull. We South Africans have inordinate respect for bones, and few would do anything to displease the dead.

It worked. In a year or more, the car was not stolen.

On filling the car with gas one day, I asked a station attendant to fill the car's spare wheel, located in the trunk. I opened the lid, his eyes widened to saucers, and he backed off, emitting strange "Whoo, whoo, whoo..." noises. I removed poor Yorick, and calmed the pump jockey by telling him the skull belonged to a medical student. For some reason, and although he asked me to fill the tyre myself, he accepted my story.

I then decided to move the skull back to its customary place in the living room and buy a conventional gear shift lock instead.

A Messy Picture

"Now that is certainly not art." "No. It's bloody ugly."

What had to come, has come. The question is no longer if American forces will be withdrawn, but how soon — and at what cost. In this respect, as in so many others, the obvious parallel to Iraq is Vietnam. ... Clearly, then, the thing to do is to forget about face-saving and conduct a classic withdrawal. ... withdrawal probably will require several months and incur a sizable number of casualties. As the pullout proceeds, Iraq almost certainly will sink into an all-out civil war from which it will take the country a long time to emerge — if, indeed, it can do so at all. ... Such an endeavor, one would hope, will be handled by a team different from — and more competent than — the one presently in charge of the White House and Pentagon.

[...]

For misleading the American people, and launching the most foolish war since Emperor Augustus in 9 B.C sent his legions into Germany and lost them, Bush deserves to be impeached and, once he has been removed from office, put on trial along with the rest of the president's men. If convicted, they'll have plenty of time to mull over their sins.

Martin van Creveld | Costly Withdrawal Is the Price To Be Paid for a Foolish War

To describe Iraq as the most foolish war of the last 2,014 years is a sweeping statement, but the writer is well qualified to know.

He is Martin van Creveld, a professor at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and one of the world's foremost military historians. Several of his books have influenced modern military theory and he is the only non-American author on the US Army's list of required reading for officers.

[...]

The inescapable fact is that the processes Mr Bush unleashed on March 20 2003 (and imagined he had ended with his "mission accomplished" speech six weeks later) will take a decade or more to run their course and there is little that anyone, even the US, can do now to halt them.

In his eagerness for regime change in Iraq, Mr Bush blundered into a trap from which in the short term there is no way out: the Americans will be damned if they stay and damned if they leave.

Guardian | Nowhere to run

Yeah, well, I told you so.

Then Again — What Do We Know?

Portrait of a Decent Republican [Ralph Steadman]

Expedition To The Moon

Details Of Atomic Space Ship

LONDON Dr. Ananoff, chief rocket designer of a group of Frenchmen planning to make a trip to the moon, has given the Daily Express correspondent in Paris details of the space ship which it is hoped with carry the scientific expedition there.

Known as the Astronef, the ship will be a central cabin propelled by two high-powered rockets. The cabin will be pressurised and heavily insulated against friction with asbestos. It will carry a crew of four or five, including a doctor, a geologist and an astronomer.

Oxygen must be supplied throughout the journey and during the stay on the moon's surface. For and water for a three weeks' trip will take up a large part of the ship's space.

The Astronef will be provided with auxiliary rockets with nozzles pointing forwards. As the moon's surface is approached the rockets will be turned on to slow down the missile.

It will not be possible to do this by means of parachutes as their is no air round the moon. The space ship will be strengthened to withstand the impact at high speed of dust particles in space.

Dr. Mineur, a well-known astronomer at Paris Observatory, has assured the space-ship designers that the chances of being hit by meteorites during the journey to the moon are extremely small.

The world's first blue-prints for a jet engine driven by atomic energy have been drawn up for the moon project by Professor Albert du Crocq, top-ranking French physicist, who believes that inter-planetary travel is possible.

This consists of a metal cylinder fitted with a jet and packed with a mixture of the plutonium atomic material of the Nagasaki bomb and graphite. Under the influence of the graphite the plutonium is arranged to give off a stream of high-speed particles from the jet, thus driving the whole cylinder forward.

Professor du Crocq has calculated that such a motor could not weigh less than 400 tons, giving a total weight to the Astronef of 3,000 tons.

Twenty-six tons of plutonium would be needed to get this missile to the moon and back.

Note: Now that's a grave and imminent threat!

Daily News Correspondent

The Natal Daily News Saturday, September 21, 1946

Hmm... Okay, enough. I think I'm getting a bit ahead of myself here...

The Trouble with Kate... (III)

"Genetics," she answered promptly.

"I see dead people... Some of them scare me."

Cole Sear

If today was not an endless highway, | If tonight was not a crooked trail, | If tomorrow wasn't such a long time, | Then lonesome would mean nothing to you at all. | Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin', | Yes, and if I could hear her heart a-softly poundin', | Only if she was lyin' by me, | Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

I called Kate and told her to come on over.

"Fuck the paparazzi," I told her. "You need the break. We'll just hang out at my place and do nothing."

She came. Afterwards, relaxed, we lay around smoking dope and listening to old Bob Marley albums.

I was rolling a spliff. "What the fuck is it?" I asked.

She giggled. "A blade. A Rizla. You're rolling a joint."

"No, not that. What is it that gets old men to write things down on pieces of paper?"

"Nothing better to do?" she slyly opined, closing the window and snuggling closer. We could still hear the sounds of Alexander Cockburn giving Juan Cole a thorough beating in the garden, but we paid them no mind. "All you dumb males need is a woman in your life."

"I have many women in my life," I replied. "In fact... ah, fuck it, no, it's definitely not for want of women. I don't think my grandfather was the type to mess about."

"And you?"

"Me? You're joking. I'd never be unfaithful to my wife. I'm Catholic."

Taking a toke, she gazed up at the smoke drifting lazily through the dream catcher hanging beneath the light shade. "I dunno. You've all been perfectionists in a weird kind of way."

"Me?" I asked, feigning disbelief.

"Particularly you," she replied, sitting up and looking directly into my eyes. God, she gives me goose bumps.

"In fact," she stated firmly, steel flashing momentarily across hers, "You can be a goddamn pain in the ass."

That startled me. I've been nothing but good to this girl. She is a dear and close friend who sees things much as I do. We seldom need to speak.

"Eh?" I asked.

"Yeah," she continued. "You're just like Mr. Plod. Duty, obligations, integrity, honor.... that sort of shit. My God! I could puke. How long's it been now?"

"How long's what been?"

"That we've known each other?"

"Dunno. Forever?"

"Right. And in that time, how often have you bought me flowers?"

Okay, so she had me. I didn't know where this was going, but somehow she'd turned the whole thing around. Duty? Flowers? Christ, I had more important things to deal with.

"Well, a couple of times."

"Yeah, maybe a couple. And that's two. In all these years?"

"Agh, come on, Kate, you know I'm a hopeless romantic at heart. You know everything there is to know about me. I've been completely open with you. You know you don't want flowers."

"I bloody well do."

Well, what could I say? Things had taken an ugly turn. I certainly hadn't planned on this. She was upset.

"And another thing..." I really do love it when she gets angry. "You're a control freak. You always need to know the reason for everything. Sometimes, for Christ's sake..." She paused and took a deep breath, "There is no reason. Things just are."

We'd been there before and I wasn't into it. I know these things, but life has a habit of intervening. There has to be balance—a mix.

"Yuh, listen Kate," I interjected. "I know where you're going with this, but I've no inclination to revisit this. Let's just chill awhile, smoke a bit more and listen to more music. You want a cup of tea?"

She did, settled back, and I headed for the kitchen.

"I need simple answers," I hollered back towards the bedroom. Grinning inwardly, I added, "I can't handle complexity."

"Genetics," she answered promptly.

"Genetics?" I asked, carrying through the tea. "You think that my grandfather, my father and me all being psychological and mental bureaucrats who need to put pen to paper boils down to genetics?"

"What else?" she asked.

She had a point. My grandfather was a policeman and my father a senior state pathologist.

"'I see dead people'," I muttered.

"What?" Kate looked worried.

"'I see dead people... Some of them scare me.' My grandfather and, after him, my father, worked with dead people. The one delivered corpses to the other. What am I to do with them now?"

"Let them sort it out themselves," she answered without hesitation. More thoughtfully, she added, "Perhaps it's easier to work with dead people. Most live people are a pain in the butt."

"Sure," I mused. "But sixty years ago there weren't as many dead people as there are now. We're now creating them at an alarming rate. Particularly the Yanks. Everywhere you look..."

She interjected. "...you see dead people."

"Yeah."

"And so that's why you work with computers. They're less messy."

"Well, I dunno. Windows..."

"Can it."

"Okay, but this whole genetics thing doesn't say much for the human race then, does it?" I asked, hopping back into bed. "I mean, fuck it, it doesn't say very much for Free Will either?"

"What's Free Will?" she asked with a knowing smile.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. It's a crock. But really, I mean this plays right into the hands of Skinner, Maslow, and the other neo-Nazis."

"And I can blame my dope-smoking, coke-snorting, heroin-spiking ways on my folks," mused Kate. She introduced a whine into her voice. "It's all their fault; I didn't ask to be born."

"Okay, but you don't do that shit," I reminded her.

"Y'see, that's your problem," she said pointedly. "I do do that shit. I choose to do that shit. You just refuse to accept it."

"I don't refuse to accept it," I shot back. "I just refuse to believe it. A nice girl like you..."

Propping herself up on her elbows, she glared at me. "I am not 'nice'. I am a person, damn it."

"If you say so," I answered, wrestling her back down. "But to me, you're just an extraordinarily pretty and wonderfully sexy girl. Hey, what about my grandfather's story? It's his big gig. You wanna listen to it?"

She looked at me, her eyes playfully wide. "Listen to it? I thought he'd blogged it."

I shrugged. "Podcast. 1940s-style. I taped it."

She wriggled playfully. "Okay, why not? Turn it on."

As the Colonel's voice filled the room with tales of mayhem and murder, I did.

I can't see my reflection in the waters, | I can't speak the sounds that show no pain, | I can't hear the echo of my footsteps, | Or can't remember the sound of my own name. | Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin', | Yes, and if I could hear her heart a-softly poundin', | Only if she was lyin' by me, | Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

The Loskop Murders: Natal 1929 — 1936

When at dusk on the 17th of May 1929 an Indian storekeeper named Suliman Ismail Kharva was shot dead at the door of his lonely store on the farm "Moorburg" in the Ntabamhlope area of the Estcourt district, it was little realized that this was the first in a series of crimes that was to shock Natal and arouse considerable interest in the other parts of the Union.

The crime was at first regarded as an isolated one and an European was arrested in connection with the matter, but he proved, on further enquiry, to be in no way implicated. As cash only had been taken from the store, there was little for the police to work upon and thorough investigations met with no success.

On the 29th January 1933 — almost four years having passed — an Indian storekeeper named Hassan Mia Armoordeen was shot and killed at his store on the farm "Cornfields", some miles from "Moorburg", but also in the Estcourt district. The similarity of the crimes was recognized, but that one individual had committed both was by no means evident, although again cash was all that was taken.

While, however, investigations into the "Cornfields" murder were in full progress, case number three occurred for, at Ntabamhlope on the 26th of April 1933, but three months afterwards, Mohamed Ebrahim Motala was shot dead in the late afternoon, while his Indian assistant accompanied by the store native had gone into the nearby plantation to examine snares.

During the initial investigations an Indian was arrested on suspicion, but he established the bona fides of his own story, and a native who had testified against him proved unreliable. He was accordingly released.

That one person was responsible for both this and the "Cornfields" crime now seemed probable, with the possibility that the "Moorburg" shooting, though so long previously, was a link in the chain. Features common to all three cases were that the shootings took place in the late afternoon at isolated stores, cash only was searched for and taken at each place, and no eyewitness was present on any occasion.

While the scene of the third crime was at Ntabamhlope, 35 miles as the crow flies from the "Cornfields" store, it was nevertheless in the same district as the farm "Moorburg".

At "Cornfields", a native meagrely described as "dressed in khaki coloured clothes", and carrying under his arm "something wrapped up and long", had been seen approaching the store which he should have reached about the time the fatal shot was heard, while a native similarly dressed was seen riding from the locality shortly afterwards.

In the Ntabamhlope store, the police found a piece of blanket that had apparently been wrapped round a gun and which retained a strong native odour. It was therefore considered that the gunman was a native who knew the locality well, and a long and intensive search commenced. Owing to the slender clues available, investigations were necessarily of a general, though thorough nature and included a checking up on shotguns throughout the area.

In both the "Cornfields" and Ntabamhlope cases, the wads of 12-bore guns were found at the scene, although no cartridge cases were left behind. Some few months prior to the "Cornfields" and Ntabamhlope tragedies, a local farmer had reported the loss of a 12-bore shotgun and ammunition, and soon after this an European motorist, returning one evening from a sale, was held up and fired at by a gunman, believed to be a native, on the main road near Chievely.

Ejected cartridge cases were, in this instance, left on the road. It was strongly suspected that the stolen gun was the weapon used in this affair and in the two last killings, and every effort was accordingly made to trace it. A native had been convicted of the theft of this gun, which was stolen in May 1932, but others were known to be involved in the matter and the weapon was never recovered.

The actual thief was in gaol when the last murders occurred, and his associates had either been effectively shadowed without result or were proved to be absent from the area when the crimes were committed. One associate was followed to Durban where an informer obtained employment with the same firm in the hope, which proved vain, that useful information could be secured. No avenue of investigation was neglected but the police efforts, which never flagged, went unrewarded.

With the passing of time, public interest tended to wane until, on the 13th of June 1934, one year and two months after the Ntabamhlope case, it was rudely reawakened. On the farm "Heartsease" in the Loskop district — between "Cornfields" and Ntabamhlope — an Indian storekeeper named Ismail Hajat, his assistant Hassan Mayet and native servant Nkunzana Mazibuko were, during the night, all shot dead.

Like the scenes in the previous crimes, the "Heartsease" store was in an extremely isolated position. It was surrounded by hills, and separated by some 17 miles of difficult country roads from Loskop itself. The murders, which were committed about 7 p.m. were first discovered by native customers who, the following morning, were perplexed to find the store had not opened.

After some delay, during which they realized that something was seriously wrong, the natives made their way to a distant farmhouse and told their story which, of course, had to be confirmed. Considerable time therefore elapsed before the police received their report and could reach the store, which gave the culprit every advantage to anticipate the hue and cry he knew would surely follow, and cover his escape.

From investigations on the spot it appeared that at the time the murderer arrived, the native servant, an umfaan of about 14 years, was in his room at the back of the store, and possibly assisted by the unwilling but intimidated umfaan, the culprit induced the younger Indian to withdraw the bar and open the back door of the store which gave access both to the kitchen on the right and a general room on the left.

Observing that the caller carried a gun, the Indian retreated hastily to the general room to get a revolver kept in a rough wooden drawer. The caller, however, stepped immediately through the door, and seeing the elder Indian in the kitchen, shot him across the stomach, tearing it open and causing him to collapse: he followed this up with a shot below the shoulder, and the victim died almost immediately.

The murderer then turned and fired at the young Indian, who appears to have rushed through the general room, and around through the store to the kitchen, where he was promptly shot through the head, and killed outright, his revolver, unfired, clasped in his hand. After that the culprit, accompanied by the native, went to the front of the store where he forced the till which contained not more than £6, and apparently endeavoured to compel the native to point out where other money might be hidden.

A tin box, covered with dust, and ordinarily kept out of sight on a high shelf, was found near the till and proved to have been handled by the native. Nothing else was touched.

On leaving the store the murderer ordered the native boy to his room and, as he entered, shot him at close quarters through the back so that he fell forward, dying instantly in the doorway. A big dog belonging to the storekeeper was also shot – probably at the same time as the native.

A thorough examination of the store itself yielded no immediate clue, but an organized search of the locality resulted in one cartridge case being found outside the back door, and, some five hundred yards distant, a condensed milk tin that had been freshly opened. This tin, believed to have been handled by the culprit, and the cartridge case, were the most valuable clues that so far had been obtained in the whole string of murders.

Enquiries at native kraals in the vicinity helped no more that to fix the time of the tragedy, for the significance of the shots, which were mistaken for other sounds, had not there been realized. Again the murderer made his escape unnoticed, and by killing the native, he disposed effectively of the only witness to the crime he set out to commit.

Public apprehension in Northern Natal became increasingly evident, and representations expressing horror and alarm were made to the government by various Indian organizations. The police however, needed no reminding of the seriousness of matters and both uniform and plain-clothes branches of the force pursued with unrelenting zeal every possible line of investigation and enquiry. Advantage was taken of the fact that for the first time a compatriot had been killed, to encourage the native population of the district to more sympathetic effort.

A thorough check up of known criminals was made and many possibilities regarding suspects and guns mentioned in letters from the public were carefully investigated. Allegations of rivalry between various storekeepers were tactfully sifted and various informers employed, but progress was slow and uneventful until, just before Christmas 1934, when the next dramatic act took place.

At 1 p.m. on the 20th of December 1934, a young European named Hall, travelling to the Rand by motorcycle from Durban, reached a point on the main road one-and-a-half miles from Frere, which he was approaching, when he noticed a native sitting in the long grass to the left of the road. When the motorcyclist was within a few paces of him, the native reached for a gun and fired at Hall from an angle of about 45 degrees, spraying him with shot in the lower chest, abdomen and left hand.

Hall, who was travelling at between 35 and 40 m.p.h. managed to keep going for some four or five hundred yards where, in a dip in the road and out of sight of the gunman, he met a native work-party and managed to dismount, although in considerable pain. After rendering such aid as was possible, the natives, who had been joined by an European, informed the police at Frere, and the European took Hall in his car to the hospital at Colenso.

An immediate search by all available police from surrounding stations was organized, but once again the culprit, favoured by his start, eluded capture and the police dogs, which arrived during the afternoon from Pietermaritzburg, failed after leading to a stream two miles across the veld. Wads, apparently from the cartridges from a 12-bore gun, were found at the scene, and the daring, accuracy of aim and apparent motive of the gunman identified him with the "Killer" of the previous crimes.

Since the "Heartsease" murder, hopes had from time to time been aroused that the gun used by the murderer would be located within the Frere – "Cornfields" boundary, but it had not been possible to obtain more definite information. There was, however, now reason to believe that the gunman did not carry his weapon the day his crime was committed, but that he secreted it beforehand nearby, and then awaited a favourable opportunity for its use.

As, therefore, the gunman had not profited from his attempt on the motorcyclist and, from the circumstances may even have believed he missed with his shot, it was felt not unlikely that might soon turn his attention to a fresh effort.

With the possibility therefore of surprising the culprit while transporting his gun, special and, it was hoped, unsuspected measures were taken in regard to the examination of the property and persons all natives travelling within the area of the crimes, while motor decoys in the guise of "easy marks" made frequent use of likely stretches of road. Success however came no nearer, and investigations were not helped by an unwitting reference in one of the local papers to the systematic search that was arranged.

Six months after the Hall affair came an unexpected development, for the gun, which had been sought with such futility, was recovered under circumstances that negated its value so far as tracing the murderer was concerned. Its finding was, in actual fact, a stroke of bad luck. During the early part of June 1935, natives belonging to a road party working in the Frere District found in a culvert at the side of the road, a long parcel wrapped in sacking which, on being opened, revealed a shotgun.

This proved to be the 12-bore weapon reported stolen in May 1932 and suspected to have been used when the European motorist was shot at near Chievely shortly afterwards, and in the subsequent murder of storekeepers. Tests by an arms expert confirmed this suspicion, the conclusion being reached that the cartridge cases found after the Chievely hold-up, and the one discovered at the scene of the "Heartsease" murder, had been fired from the weapon.

With the gun in the hands of the police, its possibilities as an aid in locating the culprit faded away wholly, and there was now little likelihood of its recent ownership being established.

Success, therefore, seemed more remote than ever when the police found themselves with this unexpected and rather unique handicap, but, notwithstanding that no eye-witnesses were available, the investigating officers were not unduly disheartened, and worked with renewed zeal on their unenviable task. Efforts were made to identify the sacking, in which the gun had been wrapped, and touch was maintained with storekeepers, while uniformed and plain-clothes officers were constantly on the alert in the area.

Suspects were eliminated almost as quickly as they appeared, and nearly twelve months went by until, on the 4th of November 1935, another shooting occurred on the farm "Moorburg". Just after 2 p.m. a native carrying what appeared to be a bundle of sacks over his shoulder, arrived at the front of the store and spoke to an Indian lounging on the veranda. The latter, believing the native wanted to sell the sacks, suggested he see the "boss" inside.

The visitor bent to put his bundle on the ground to the right of the veranda steps, and then, to the astonishment of the Indian, produced a gun. Looking through the door of the store, he shouted "Bekani! Bekani! (Look! Look!) Yes! Yes!" and, having attracted the attention of the storekeeper, who was standing in front of his counter, aimed at him and fired. The storekeeper, Amod Suliman Patel, ran to the side of the store, and was struck in the forearm by about 10 pellets, but he was not seriously hurt and the bulk of the shot went into the frame of the door.

While the native was reloading his gun, the Indian on the veranda entered the store, and accompanied by the storekeeper and two native customers, dashed into the kitchen at the back, where they remained until the gunman left. Before departing, the gunman took about £10 in cash and a bunch of keys from two drawers that served the store as tills.

When free to raise the alarm, the storekeeper sent a message to the European owner of the farm who lived about a mile away, but by the time he arrived the gunman was on the ridge of a hill some two miles off and disappearing in the Ennersdale direction. After telephoning the police at Estcourt, the European, armed with his own gun, went in search of the culprit, being joined with the minimum of delay by the police from the neighbouring stations.

The country surrounding the store being mountainous and studded with gum and wattle plantations, the advantage again lay with the gunman, who once more escaped. The police dogs, which were early on the scene, were unable to take scent. In addition to the Indians and two natives at the store, the gunman was seen by a third native who had fled when the shooting took place. All were positive they had not seen the culprit before, and although undoubtedly terrified by what had taken place, they gave a description of the wanted man and said he was dressed in an old khaki overcoat which came below the knee, and wore a black close-fitting knitted cap which may have had flaps over the ears. Native women and children, who had seen the gunman hurrying from the store, stated he was a stranger in the locality.

No cartridge case was left at the scene, but a wad picked up indicated that a 20-bore weapon had been used. For the first time the police now had definite information regarding the culprit and systematic investigations were resumed with zest. It was apparent, however, that many natives were afraid to speak, and feared that if the gunman were arrested and not sentenced to death he would kill those who had assisted the police.

Terror gripped the countryside, and less than three weeks after the shooting at "Moorburg", a further tragedy was enacted. At 11.30 a.m. on the 23rd of November 1935, a native dressed in a long khaki overcoat and khaki trousers entered a store at the foot of the Hlatikulu mountain some 27 miles South-West of Estcourt, and asked the native in charge, one Abraham Hlatshwayo, if he could accommodate his horses. Abraham replied, "No", whereupon the visitor asked if he could off-saddle there for a while.

On being told he could, he went out, but reappeared almost immediately in the doorway and pointing his gun, shot Abraham through the heart as he stood behind the counter. He then entered the store, and aiming his gun in turn at each of the three customers (a native woman and two girls) ordered them out. They fled. The gunman next rifled the cash box, taking about £16 in notes and silver, but leaving a cheque, some postal orders and a quantity of copper. He took also the store keys from the person of Abraham whom he again shot, through the back, as he lay on the floor.

Outside, the gunman fired a third shot at no particular target and departed up the hill at the back of the store towards the mountain. The woman and girls ran to the kraal of a chief some three or four miles off, and he in turn reported the occurrence to the owner of the farm who communicated without delay with the Estcourt police. Local police and detectives from Pietermaritzburg were still in the district and immediate action was taken to organize a thorough search of the area. Farmers were asked by telephone to send helpers and the aid of all local native chiefs was sought, while, of course, surrounding police stations lent every available man.

Before, however, the search had been long in progress, a heavy mist enveloped the mountain and, spreading over the adjacent area, severely impeded operations. The conditions at and around the store were all against the successful employment of dogs and once again the gunman made a safe getaway. No cartridge cases were found, but cardboard wads picked up indicated that a 20-bore gun had again been used.

Of the three native females who were in the store, only one could give a fair description of the gunman, and the discovery of his identity seemed as far off as ever.

Storekeepers throughout the extensive area were thoroughly alarmed, demanding special protection, which it was not possible to give. As, however, it was the practice of the gunman first to reconnoitre a store before his attack, they were advised regarding precautionary measures they should take, and of means whereby investigations would be helped should they be attacked. That the last crime had been committed during the daytime was attributed to the fact that stores were now heavily barricaded at night and fierce dogs were employed to keep guard.

Vague information, received second and even third hand through informers, was at this stage beginning to connect a local native with the shootings. He was reported from various sources to have been seen going towards the store at Ntabamhlope just before Patel had been shot: to have had money and left the district soon thereafter: to have possessed a gun: to have "lost" a gun some months back (the gun recovered in the culvert was found in June), and to be known as the culprit to a female relative who had remarked, "How can I speak against my own flesh and blood?" His description tallied with that of the wanted man, and, although he was absent from the district for long periods at a time, he was at his kraal a few days before the Hlatikulu tragedy. Investigations however proved that he was in Durban when the shootings at both Ntabamhlope and Hlatikulu took place, with the result that, like others before him, he had to be "written off" as a suspect.

Efforts to encourage the giving of information were now made by the offering of a reward of £100, and making this known as widely as possible — especially among the natives of the district and surrounding territories.

Following the publication of the reward, the police received much information necessitating considerable work, but little progress was made until June 1936 when a farmer of the area reported the disappearance of a 20-bore shotgun. He could not say when the loss had occurred, as he had last used the weapon during the 1935 shooting season and had not required it again until he found it to be missing. It was therefore possible for this weapon to have been used at the "Moorburg" and Hlatikulu crimes of November 1935, and that the gunman was one of his servants or a native belonging to a neighbouring farm also associated with them.

The clearing up of the theft of the gun was now the first objective, and among the suspects was native Timana Sundwane, a kitchen boy employed by the owner. Another other suspects were natives who answered the descriptions on hand, and one had even the same "Isibongo" (surname) as the native connected with the theft of the first (12-bore) gun, but he proved to be unrelated to him. Although the theft could not be pinned down to any particular individual, daylight was beginning to dawn, for while these investigations were in progress, the last murder, and the final attempt at murder, took place.

On Friday the 7th of August 1936, one Mbulawa Hlopi arrived from Johannesburg at Bergville where he arranged to sleep before resuming his journey on foot to the location where he lived. Curing the evening he made the acquaintance of a strange native to whom he confided that he was on his way, after working on the gold mines. The two, apparently discovering they were bound for destinations in one direction, left Bergville late the following morning, accompanied by a third native named Japie Hlongwana.

At about 2.30 p.m., and after covering some nine miles, the trio arrived at a gate on a farm road leading to the location where Mbulawa lived, when, without warning, the strange native produced a gun from among the effects he was carrying and fired three times at Mbulawa, who was killed by the third shot which was aimed at point-blank range. Japie Hlongwana fled to cover afforded by an avenue of trees nearby, and escaped without injury.

Although the deceased's pockets were rifled, showing the motive for crime to be robbery, the gunman overlooked £14 which was left in a vest pocket. Apart from the discovery of wads indicating that a 20-bore shotgun firing No. 6 shot had been used, no other clues were obtained on the spot, and an organized search proved abortive.

At about 2.30 a.m. the following morning, a native named Jameson Nxumalo was fired at on a road some four miles from Frere and about 35 miles from the scene of the Bergville shooting, and hit in the leg. He was not injured seriously, and his assailant walked off without interfering further with his victim. There were no clues to be found beyond that the pellets indicated that No. 6 shot had been used. This event, taking place exactly 12 hours after the Bergville affair, showed unusual mobility on the part of the gunman.

By Monday the 10th of August, 1936 the initial investigations into both crimes were complete, and early the following morning use was made of Japie Hlongwana, the witness to the Bergville tragedy, to test his claim that he could identify the man who had killed his companion. Among the suspects was Timana Sundwana [Mtimane Msundwana], hitherto regarded as possibly responsible for the theft of the 20-bore gun, and who at the moment was not in the service of his master.

He was located at his kraal at 6 p.m. the same day, and immediately identified by Japie and detained. As by then it was too dark for a proper search to be made, a close guard was set over his kraal for the night. At daybreak, the search of the kraal resulted in the finding of a long khaki overcoat, a black woollen cap, ten rounds of live 12-bore shotgun cartridges, four rounds of live 20-bore shotgun cartridges and three bunches of keys.

The cartridges and keys were found in the thatched roof of the suspect's hut, but Sundwane denied any knowledge of a gun. When, however, the investigating officers commenced to pull the hut to pieces, he intervened and volunteered to show where the gun was hidden. He then took the officers to a point in a riverbed some half-a-mile away where a 20-bore gun wrapped in sacking was found and identified as the missing property of his master.

Sundwana was taken to the Estcourt Charge Office where, after being formally charged with the Bergville murder, he confessed before the Magistrate to the attempted murder at Ntabamhlope on 4th November 1935 and the murder at Hlatikulu on 23rd November 1935. The keys found at the search of Sundwana's hut were identified as belonging to the stores at these places, which the accused afterwards pointed out as the scenes of his crimes.

At Estcourt on 18th September 1936, Sundwana was committed for trial in respect of the murders at "Heartsease", Hlatikulu and Bergville, and the attempted murders at Chievely, "Moorburg" and Frere. After the rising of the Court, he confessed further to the shooting of the motorcyclist Hall, the Ntabamhlope murder on 24th April 1933, the "Cornfields" murder, the theft of the 20-bore gun, the Hlatikulu murder and the subsequent Frere shooting.

This left only the first of the offences, the murder at "Moorburg" on 17th May 1929, unaccounted for. On 30th October 1936, however, he admitted this offence also, stating that he shot the Indian with a 12-bore gun which he from, and replaced on, his master's gunrack without the weapon being missed.

On 25 November1935, before the full Bench of the Native High Court at Estcourt, Sundwana was convicted of six counts of murder and sentenced to death: four counts of attempted murder and two counts of theft were withdrawn by the Crown. The death sentence was duly carried out, and thus, after taking eight lives and making attempts on four more, the "Loskop Killer" who had been born in the area and had lived there the 35 years of his life, met his end.

No story of these crimes would be complete without mention of the late Detective Head Constable H.H. Burnham of the Pietermaritzburg C.I.D., to whose zeal, courage, and tenacity, tribute must be paid. Possessed of a high sense of duty, Head Constable Burnham never spared himself throughout the difficult period, and no one was more deserving of ultimate success than he, to whom chief credit is due. His passing, in the prime of life, was a great loss, not only to the Natal C.I.D., but to the whole South African Police.

Lt-Col P.H. Golby, Deputy Commissioner S.A. Police (Criminal Investigation Deparment)

Kate's gone now—she took a high-flying job with a large pharmaceutical company, and her problems appear to be behind her (heh). And, I must say, with her titillating the fancies of men and women the world over, I'm mighty relieved to be back where I belong, behind this blog.

Too much of a good thing and all that... y'know?

It's been good to have my grandfather about for a short time too. But, in all truth, the closest I want to be to a cop right now is a generation removed.

Obiturary

Col. P. H. Golby, a former chief of the Union C.I.D., died in Cape Town on 4 September [1956]. He was also Editor of The Nongqai for five years after his retirement in 1946. During his service in the Force, Col. Golby was responsible for the arrest of the infamous Loskop killer who terrorised Northern Natal for many years and murdereed nine natives before he was captured and hanged.

Col. Golby had one of the longest periods of service as a commissioned officer in the S.A. Police and was one of the youngest to reach commissioned rank. Born in England in 1891, he started his career in 1911 with the Natal Police in Pietermaritzburg. In 1920 he was promoted to Head Constable and was commissioned in 1923. In 1937 he was transferred to Cape Town where he succeeded Col. J.J. Coetzee as head of the Cape town C.I.D. He went to Pretoria in 1944 as Chief of the Union C.I.D.

Col. Golby leaves a widow and a son and daughter to whom we extend our sincere condolences.

I just have to say, this day today has been one very special day... I wish we all could stay and play.

Malcolm Crowe

There's beauty in the silver, singin' river, | There's beauty in the sunrise in the sky, | But none of these and nothing else can touch the beauty | That I remember in my true love's eyes. | Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin', | Yes, and if I could hear her heart a-softly poundin', | Only if she was lyin' by me, | Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

Bob Dylan | Tomorrow is a Long Time

Kate's Difficult Life (II)

"Pity about the watch."

"Life is difficult."

So begins the 1978 global bestseller and psycho-spiritual blockbuster, The Road Less Traveled: A New Psychology of Love, Traditional Values and Spiritual Growth, by eminent psychiatrist and author M. Scott Peck.

But I did not need to read M. Scott Peck to know that life is difficult. I found that out at age three, when I smashed my grandfather's gold pocket watch against a dresser in my parents' bedroom. To me, swinging the golden orb about my head, it represented the sun cycling the sky above the ocean outside my parents' bedroom window.

Mine was, to that age, a gossamer world bathed in a continuous stream of bright and enduring light. Pity about the watch. To my parents, my misadventure represented a heinous crime, for which I paid dearly, learning during and after the event, that life is indeed difficult.

Dark too.

Kate Moss certainly did not need to read M. Scott Peck. The scurrilous accusations of synthetic drug abuse levelled at this lovely young woman by the voracious publicity machine some continue to call the press, must surely have taught her that life can, at times, be dark and difficult.

In fact, I doubt M. Scott Peck's fellow travelers in the New Age business need read his work. One visit to Mystic Bourgeoisie, where their beliefs are effortlessly rendered meaningless before being shredded with disdain, should convince them that those responsible for maintaining the Road To Enlightenment have gone absent without leave.

But, beyond Kate's innocence, which continues to occupy my thoughts, this is all beside the point. The point is that my grandfather, who landed me in the shit some fifteen years after his death, knew that life was difficult before M. Scott Peck was a twinkle in his father's eye—and a look of resigned desperation in his mother's.

How, you might ask, could I draw such a conclusion. Let's, as my grandfather might have said, investigate.

The Pietermaritzburg Taxi Murder — 1931

At about 8 p.m. on Monday, 21st September 1931, a well-known Maritzburg taxi driver named Kimber was on his rank in Commercial Road opposite the City Hall, when he was seen to answer a telephone call. Immediately afterwards, a man and a woman came out of the call-box almost opposite, crossed the road, spoke to Kimber and entered his car which turned round and went off in the direction of Durban.

Kimber did not return home that night, and early the following morning his wife, becoming alarmed, went out to look for him. Driving up the Durban road, she had not far to travel to confirm her fear that all was not well for, as she passed King Edward Avenue, she noticed her husband's taxi, a distinctive eight-cylinder Hudson, standing with its lights burning, about two hundred yards along that thoroughfare to her right.

She went to the car and found it empty. On opening the door, however, she saw on the left front seat a pool of blood in which a spent bullet rested. A second bullet and a cartridge case were elsewhere on the seat, and, where the driver had sat, lay a man's handkerchief, which did not belong to her husband.

The matter was reported immediately to the police who, soon thereafter, were informed by telephone that the body of an European was lying at the side of the Durban road near Ashburton some seven miles out. The body proved to be that of the missing taxi driver, death having apparently been caused by two shots through the head.

There were indications that a car, which had left tyre impressions similar to those of the taxi, had stopped at the spot, and from it the body had been carried and placed where it was found. They had then made a hurried turn and driven off in the Pietermaritzburg direction. A fired cartridge was picked up near the body, and as Kimber was a man of rather heavy build, it was considered that at least two persons had been required to move it.

There was nothing to suggest his clothing had been thoroughly searched, as a small amount of cash was still in the pockets, and a chequebook and a packet of cigarettes remained in the fold of the coat. A wallet, however, was reported to be missing, but apart from two ten shilling notes usually kept as change, it was said to have contained personal documents of minor importance only.

From an examination of the taxi and the man's wounds, the opinion was formed that after being asked to stop, Kimber had first been shot from the left-rear seat of the car, and after falling to the left-front seat, he had received the second bullet. A further search of the vehicle resulted in the finding of a live bullet of the same calibre and make as the empty cartridge cases found respectively on the front set and at the spot where the tragedy had occurred. It was thus established that a 6.35 mm pistol had been used, while the letters "S" and "B" at the base of the cases identified the ammunition as the product of the German firm of Sellier and Bellot.

Two people who had seen the taxi on its outward journey from Maritzburg said it was travelling very slowly. The first man who overtook it at the beginning of Polly Short's Hill some five miles from Maritzburg, saw a man and a woman in the back seat and recognized Kimber by his habit of resting an arm on the ledge of the driving window. The second man overtook the car some two miles from town, and thought that there was a male passenger in the front seat with Kimber, and that two other persons, whom he could not describe, were at the back. From the fact that the taxi was travelling slowly, he concluded it had a courting couple at the back.

Enquiries showed that the taxi had been abandoned in the King Edward Avenue before 9 p.m. on the day of the crime, and a witness came forward to say he had seen a man and a woman answering the description of the couple who had entered the taxi at the City Hall, making their way along Commercial Road in Pietermaritzburg about 9.15 p.m. the same day.

It was not unusual for large cars to be parked on the King Edward Avenue until the late hours, and accordingly the taxi had not attracted undue attention during the night. Apart, therefore, from possibilities resulting from the extensive local enquiries made, the chief clues were the handkerchief, a live cartridge, the fired cases and the expended bullets.

The handkerchief was a striking article; it was large, of pale blue silk and had a broad hem. Near the hem was a small darn, while in one corner was a laundry mark in the form of a slightly smudged letter which might well be taken for an "M". The ammunition was not of uncommon type, though it was not procurable locally. It was, of course, realized that valuable evidence was likely to be afforded by the discharged cases and expended bullets.

Particulars of the crime and details of the clues on hand were speedily circulated Union-wide through police channels, and the matter received considerable publicity in the daily press. A motive sufficient for so dastardly a crime was difficult to establish, but its cold-blooded brutality suggested that personal animosity, real or imaginary, might have been the impelling urge.

Suggestions from the public were readily forthcoming, and in addition to details of many incidents in which any man may become involved, such information of the "confidential" type, varying from complications with an origin in the Rand strike of 1922, to the names of "dangerous" individuals with homicidal tendencies totally unsuspected by the man in the street, were received. On individual, an European, tried to give himself up as an "accessory", but on being questioned was found not to know what an accessory was.

Another who claimed knowledge of the affair had, according to his statement, been involved in every crime of violence committed during the preceding 10 years. He proved to be mentally deranged, but the fact that he had some two or three years previously been concerned in a street shooting case in Johannesburg, caused considerable work before he could be eliminated.

Enquiries were uneventful until, 11th October 1931, when information was received from Cape Town regarding a young man named M_ and a woman named T_ who had there been the subject of some enquiry. It was reported that an Astra automatic pistol of 6.35 mm calibre And 20 rounds of "S.B." ammunition had been found in their possession, and that they were in Pietermaritzburg at the time the murder was committed.

Confirmation was soon obtained that the suspected couple had stayed at an hotel near the centre of that City from the 18th to 26th September, using the name of "Mr. And Mrs. Phillips". They had notified their intention of departing on the 21st September (the day of the murder) but did not do so. It appeared, however, that they had left the hotel early in the evening of that day, and returned unobserved between 9.30 and 10 p.m. the same night.

Their general description was not unlike that of the persons who had entered the taxi at the City Hall rank, and it corresponded more completely with that of a man and a woman who, about 9 p.m. on the night of the murder, had enquired at the corner of Boshoff and Bulwer Streets for the street in which the hotel was, and then said they merely desired to get to the centre of the town.

The spot where this incident occurred was one where the suspects might reasonably have found themselves had they returned to their hotel, through the less conspicuous streets from the place where the car was abandoned. A warrant was accordingly issued for their arrest on a charge of murder, and investigations were narrowed down to meet this new development.

It was learned that both suspects had been living in the Tarkastad District in the Cape there the man, a settler from overseas, had been sheep farming. The couple had apparently "eloped" from Tarkastad and, acquiring a new motorcar for which they had not paid in full, had enjoyed a hectic and somewhat carefree tour handicapped by a shortage of ready money. After visiting Johannesburg, they had driven to Durban where they planned to dispose of the car and sail for Europe.

Using an assumed name they actually obtained a passport, but unfortunately for them, the would-be purchaser of the vehicle demanded a receipt to support the ownership claimed. A telegram was eventually sent to the sellers, and just as the purchaser was about to hand over his cheque, a reply was received stating that £250 was owing. The "deal" fell through, and leaving the car in Durban, he couple travelled to Maritzburg by the night train.

After their arrival at Pietermaritzburg from Cape Town under arrest, a witness who had observed the man and woman walk towards the taxi rank just before 8 p.m. on the fatal night, failed to identify T_, but picked out another woman whose build and features were similar, but who had darker hair. He afterwards explained to the Court that having noticed the woman begin to bite her lip, he thought she must be the guilty party, so he chose her rather than the other.

The witness from whom the enquiry had been made at the corner of Bulwer and Boshoff Streets quickly identified the couple as the people he had met. An alleged identification of the handkerchief was made at Tarkastad, where some months previously a young European had been found shot under circumstances indicating suicide, but which had not been satisfactorily cleared up. This man had been on very friendly terms with M_ and T_, and a resident of the town declared he had seen the handkerchief in use by the deceased.

This provided the first link between the article and the two accused. Further identification of the handkerchief was obtained from a native washerwoman who had been in the employ of M_ for some months prior to his leaving of Tarkastad. Out of a miscellaneous bundle of silk handkerchiefs, this woman picked out two known to belong to her master, and also the one found in the taxi.

Additional evidence regarding ownership was obtained in Durban, where a laundry claimed that the smudged letter in the corner of the article had been made when the handkerchief was included in the bundle received from the male suspect and supported its statement by a washing-list. A stocking similarly marked, was later connected with the female accused.

Enquiries throughout the Union showed there were many places, particularly in the more remote areas, where "S.B." cartridges of 6.35 mm calibre could be obtained, but no sale of interest to the investigating officers could be traced. A government arms expert however, reported that the fired cartridge cases found respectively in the taxi and where the body was discovered had, in his opinion, been fired from the Astra pistol, which had been seized. Of the two spent bullets found in the car, the expert concluded that one had been fired from the weapon in question but reported that the second was too badly damaged and distorted for proper comparison.

Other evidence obtained was that on the night of the tragedy, the proprietor of the hotel awaited the return of "Mr. and Mrs. Phillips" as he was rather anxious about his account, and a special lookout was arranged. Although careful observation was kept, they were not seen to enter in the ordinary way through the front door. At 10 p.m. however, on his going to their room, the Indian porter was somewhat astonished to find the couple inside.

Seeing no light, he had tested the door and found the room occupied. He apologized for his action, and on explaining he had been instructed to collect the amount of the bill, was informed by "Mrs. Phillips", who came to the door in her night attire, that she and her husband would not be leaving until after breakfast the following morning.

It was possible, though regarded as unlikely, the couple had come into the hotel through the kitchen; the only other way entrance could have been gained unnoticed was by a fire-escape ladder, which led to the front balcony. Investigations proved the couple to be very short of cash, and this fact clearly could now become a likely motive for the crime.

Tests were carried out regarding the times that would be required, at the speed suggested by witnesses, to drive from the taxi rank to the spot where the body was found, and then at an ordinary speed back to the King Edward Avenue, the distance to the hotel along the route taken by the suspects then being walked. The results showed that if the evidence that the taxi had left the rank at about 8.pm. was accepted, the suspects, on returning to their hotel, could have been seen at certain points at the times indicated by the various witnesses.

In a diary kept by the suspects, was a record of their financial affairs, which showed almost every penny received and spent from the time they left Johannesburg. From this a statement of their transactions was drawn up, and its accuracy was proved by the fact that the credit balance arrived at tallied almost exactly with the amount found in their possession at Cape Town. The importance of this was emphasized when it was discovered that, on the day following the murder, the male accused had cabled to England for money at a cost of exactly one pound.

This expenditure was not mentioned in the diary, and it was presumed, not unnaturally, that payment for the cable must have been made by the two 10/- notes believed to have been in the taxi man's wallet. Statements alleged to have been made by the female accused both at Cape Town soon after arrest, were regarded as evidence of first importance in the case against her. The Pietermaritzburg statement, in fact, appeared to corroborate the presumption regarding the payment for the cable to England.

Such therefore, were the main features of the case the prosecution had to present. In view of the wide-spread nature of the investigations necessitated by the arrests, the preparatory examination held was unusually drawn out, and after both accused had been committed for trial, there was further long delay in a awaiting the next Session of the Supreme Court. Although the crime had taken place in September, it was no later than the 8th of March following that the trial, which was to be one of the most sensational ever held in the Union, commenced.

At the opening, the defence applied for separate hearings in respect of the two accused persons, and after long argument the Court not only ordered this, but directed that the male accused be tried first. The decision to grant separate trials was not received with universal approval, while the exclusion of the Attorney General's discretion as to which case should first be tried, was the subject of even more comment. It was clearly not understood by many well qualified to form an opinion. The position had, however, to be accepted and a last minute readjustment of the prosecution's case became necessary.

The trial of the male accused lasted until the 24th March, and without the records, it is not practicable at this date to review in detail the evidence given or describe fully the varying twists the case took. Incidents there were which can hardly be forgotten, and of these, perhaps, the most striking was one that arose from the evidence of the officer used as an arms expert by the prosecution.

With a view to forming an opinion as to whether the expended bullet cases and discharged bullets had been fired from the Astra pistol taken from the accused, this officer had experimented with the weapon, and formed the conclusion that they had. He duly gave evidence to this effect, and during the course of a cross-examination, which was unusually long and severe, made an unfortunate mistake.

On being shown a photographic exhibit of four cartridge cases with scratches on the body, he had said that the third one was the "test" and that the other three were the exhibits. The first case — which showed a bevelled edge — was in fact the "test", but the witness would not agree and stuck doggedly to his guns. He had erred, and those who can recall the trying ordeal he had undergone, may well understand the lapse.

While however, one afternoon a day or two later, the Court was giving a ruling on a point which had been raised, a telegram was handed to the senior defence counsel, who at once opened it, rose, and sought permission to read it out. The judge demurred, whereupon counsel exclaimed, "My Lord — it is from the arms expert and is of considerable importance to the court!"

This statement was dramatic in its effect, and the somnolence induced by the sultry afternoon was quickly replaced by an air of intense expectation. The court was then informed that the arms expert admitted his mistake and had agreed that the defence, was, after all, correct when it had claimed that the first cartridge case was the "test". The sensation created was not only out of all proportion to the real merit of the incident, by probably caused the evidence of the expert to lose much of its credibility.

It transpired that this witness, while on his way back to Pretoria, became suddenly conscious of his error, and forthwith dispatched two telegrams, one to the defence counsel, care of the Supreme Court, and the other to the Attorney General. The latter, of course, was delivered at the Attorney General's office in town, while the former, coning to the court direct, arrived first, a circumstance of which the defence counsel was of course entitled to take fullest advantage.

During the calm that followed the thrill, the telegram for the Attorney General, sent over from is office arrived, and passed almost unnoticed. The identification of the handkerchief had naturally to be strongly attacked, and an European from Tarkastad who had deposed to seeing it there, resented his cross-examination in a manner that tended to discount the value of his evidence.

The native washerwoman was clearly overawed, and despite the most careful handling by the prosecutor, was too fearful of her responsibilities to make a good witness. At the preliminary examination, for instance, on her evidence being read over to her, she had burst out "I do not say it is (accused's handkerchief), I only say it looks like it", indicating her lack of understanding, and fear of mistake.

When giving evidence, the accused was confidence itself and answered promptly all the questions put to him by his counsel. He admitted it was he and his friend who had made enquiries of the witness at the corner of Bulwer and Boshoff Streets on the night of the murder, and explained he and his fiancée were then taking an evening stroll "as lovers might be expected to do". It might here be mentioned that the witness involved was a Maritzburg man whose reputation for integrity stood very high.

In cross-examination, the accused did not appear to such advantage, especially when questioned at length on his finances as revealed in his diary. On more than one occasion the Attorney General was interrupted by the court, which professed itself unable to understand the purpose of the questions, and, while the accused was being "grilled" regarding the payment for the cable sent to England, an adjournment was somewhat unexpectedly announced. On resumption, the accused had recovered much of his more confident manner, but the point that, to my mind, was rightly being pressed, was summarily abandoned.

Towards the concluding stages of the evidence, telegraphic information was received that a man then in South West Africa, while visiting at a house in the King Edward Avenue, saw the ill-fated taxi arrive, and two people walk away after alighting therefrom. The S.W.A. police who were requested to investigate the matter as quickly as possible, replied the following day that the man had been located, but was vague regarding the time, and unable to say whether the people were men or women or, indeed, give any helpful description of them.

Hopes, therefore, which had suddenly been raised of fresh and possibly conclusive evidence, were almost as quickly dashed. After addresses by the Attorney General and Counsel for the defence, the Judge's summing up was followed with rapt attention. His analysis of the evidence was clearly in favour of the accused. He directed attention to a number of discrepancies, the significance of which had hitherto escaped those concerned with the prosecution, and recalled that the accused and his friend appeared composed and unruffled at the time of the enquiry at the corner of Bulwer and Boshoff Streets. Would, it was suggested, anyone who had committed a murder, risk being seen when there was a possibility of blood being on their clothing?

The accused had been ably defended and the trial was protracted. In view, therefore, of the summing up, it was not entirely unexpected when the jury, after a comparatively short absence, returned a verdict of "not guilty". This was received by a section of the public in court with cheers, which, of course, were quickly suppressed. After careful consideration the charge against the female accused was withdrawn, and the case thus ended.

Lt-Col P.H. Golby, Deputy Commissioner S.A. Police (Criminal Investigation Department)

As a great man once remarked, we win some and we lose some. Had, however, my grandfather been told that, following accusations of substance abuse, the charming young lady pictured above would have contracts cancelled and be deprived of earning a living, he might have embarrassed himself and shown his contempt for the Court in a most inappropriate manner.

A civil servant, he was a closed, reportedly cold man who assiduously and with dogged thoroughness sought answers, albeit after the fact. The civil service was, perhaps, not his choice. In 1910, at age 19, he arrived in Natal from Coventry, England.

He needed a job and probably used a letter of recommendation to obtain one.

All I know of his father, Thomas Golby, was that he was a senior police officer of that city, and that he once travelled to Australia by ship to apprehend a felon and return him to justice in England. I've an idea the felon, as the case was written up in the Coventry newspapers at the time, was a pigeon thief.

As many uncertainties as there may exist, I am sure, that were he in a position to have been present shortly after his stupid watch was broken, my grandfather would have chortled, patted me on the head, and said, "Never mind, my boy. You win some; you lose some."

Picking me up and placing me on his arm, he would have walked to the window and, pointing to the ocean, said, "There, look at the sun shining on the diamond sea."

Ho ho.

Note It should be noted that, while fighting WWIV (see my previouse post below), I found my grandfather had blogged the material contained therein.

It appeared in The Natal Daily News of Saturday, September 21, 1946. The Daily News was not quite Blogger, but I suppose it was all that was available to him.

Under the lurid subhead, "Four White Women Died At The Hands Of A Cunning Killer", we are told to expect "...another interesting 'inside' story of a South African crime, told by Lt.-Col. Golby, who was head of the C.I.D. at the time."

Christ, I really hate golf...

Finding Kate Moss (I)

"Some say she does coke. But I don't believe them."

mike i rate the things u right are pretty good but why do u always right about the friggen war on iraq...your other writings are so much better ....and yes i may have only have said this 10000kays away but someone had to say it.

Anonymous

Ah, yes, well... Of course, I could respond to this comment from a visitor with The Happy Tutor's injunction to those unable to stomach his site, i.e. "Fit in or Fuck Off." Few can, I suppose. Stomach his site, that is. The Happy Tutor is a satirist and satire is beyond most. They therefore leave Wealth Bondage with beliefs stranger than those they held when they chanced on, or were lured to, Ms. Candida's house of ill-repute.

They see the Happy Tutor as being no more than a pimp... Hmm, perhaps he would happily describe himself so, but I doubt he drives a Cadillac convertible with fake leopard-skin seats, surrounds himself with peroxide whores, wears lurid, tight-fitting clothing, shades, and loads of bling, or listens to hip-hop and funk.

He may be a pimp, but he is an educated pimp of impeccable taste and the best credentials. He is also my distinguished teaching professor in philanthropy at the University of Blogaria, Jesus Bunker Campus, holds a fifth dan in the carnal arts, and does pro bono work with the young ladies of Brother Marek's on-site Love Clinic.

So I therefore find myself unable to use the Tutor's advice in this instance. All I can do is ask, "Iraq? What about Iraq? Where do you see me writing of Iraq? I do not do so. Like George W. Bush, I get others to do it for me."

As indeed I do.

I should far rather entertain images of young Kate and her innocence—some say she does coke, but I don't believe them—than trawl the Web for pictures of Iraqis blown to smithereens by dumb Yanks.

So I set the likes of John Pilger to work, in the hope that when my great-grandchildren ask me, "Great grandfather, what did you do during WWIV?" I can truthfully tell them that I studied her, rather than my, navel.

But, in so far as it has merit, the charge levelled at me by my anonymous critic deserves an answer. That answer is perhaps to be found at the appropriately named Improprieties, Tom Matrullo's institution of higher learning. Quoting Erich Auerbach, Tom points out:

For it is precisely in the intellectual and economic conditions of everyday life that those forces are revealed which underlie historical movements; these, whether military, diplomatic, or related to the inner constitution of the state, are only the product, the final result, of variations in the depths of everyday life.

I could not put it better myself and, for my critic, it shall have to suffice.

I could, of course, try to dissect rather than reflect the greater reality I see, but that would be useful only in so far as I would be copying or imitating the likes of Timothy J. Freeman, a teacher of philosophy at the University of Hawaii, who sees—in WWIV—the armies of Hobbes clashing with those of Locke The Other, much as the goblins and the other ugly things did in The Lord of the Rings.

But, while Freeman's contribution adds greatly to an understanding of those dragging all of us into the abyss, it does nothing at all to influence my children's behaviour.

Were I to attempt an explication detailing the minutiae of my everyday life, I should try to combine Auerbach's insight with Freeman's observations and look within—deep within. Perhaps not to antiquity, but far back enough to make myself think. As Madame Levy points out, "To be human means above all to bury."

I have often explained to my children that they come from a long line of unremarkable people. Much as we'd like to assume otherwise, we all do. I have also explained to them that none of us had happy childhoods. Much as we'd like to assume otherwise, none of us did.

That I've had to explain these simple truths tries me beyond measure, but I have, through blogging, learned patience. Anyway, although I am a fire and water man myself, let's be human and bury my paternal grandfather, a blogger of note and he who informs my comment-box gravatar, Officer "You will respect my authoritaaay" Cartman.

In fact, to refute my therapist's allegation that I am "bad at endings"—whatever that may mean—let's go the whole hog and bury him in three parts. Burial presupposes life so, for now, let's resurrect the old bugger before putting him back in his place.

You into serial killers? He was. Here is the draft of a blog entry I found. I can't trace the final product on blogspot, but I've a feeling he's allowed his domain to expire.

The Cape Flats Murders — 1940

At about 8.30 a.m. on 4th October, a non-European man living on a farm in the Landowne District noticed a middle-aged European woman, injured and seemingly unable to move, lying in the "Port Jackson" bush a few feet outside the farm fence. He reported the matter to his master who telephoned the local police. Though injured about the head and unconscious, the woman proved to be alive and was accordingly removed to the Groote Schuur Hospital where she died early the following morning without having been able to speak.

Identified as a woman who resided a short distance away, enquiries showed that after visiting Cape Town the previous evening, she was seen by a relative to board a train at 8 p.m. for Claremont where she would have to change to a bus. From the Lansdowne terminus she presumably commenced to walk to her home, and after covering about half-a-mile, was attacked at an isolated part of her route near a path that could have been used as a "short cut". After being struck down, her wrists were bound with one of her stockings and she was dragged across sandy ground towards the farm fence where apparently her hands had worked free.

Her hat, a ring and her handbag, which had contained only a small amount of money, were missing, but there were indications that robbery was not the sole motive of the crime.

Continuous rain throughout the day cheated the police of many clues and little information of value could be picked up and around the scene. A statement was, however, obtained that at about 6 o'clock on the morning the body was found, a large dark motorcar, with a tall European wearing a blazer standing alongside, had been seen near the spot, and that, on being observed, this man had entered the car and driven rapidly towards town.

Expert opinion regarding the injuries of the woman was, that although not inconsistent with those that could have resulted from a motor accident, they could also have been caused by an instrument that had "weight, bluntness and momentum". Apart, therefore, from the suggestion of a premeditated attack, investigations were directed to the possibility of an accident having preceded an ultimate crime.

The field of enquiry was thus very wide and much information of possible value was under investigation when, less than three weeks later, the proprietress of a Kennel business on the Prince George Drive, Wynberg, was murdered as she sat at her living-room table reading the evening paper.

The tragedy, which occurred between 9 and 10 p.m. on the evening of the 22nd October 1940, was discovered at 7 a.m. the following day by the coloured housemaid, who gave an immediate alarm. Investigating officers quickly on the scene found that the victim, again an European woman of middle-age, had been assaulted in a manner similar to that revealed in the last case. There were two wounds on the head, and the pathologist who had been summoned expressed the opinion that a heavy blunt instrument had been used.

Parts of the woman's spectacles were near the opened evening paper on the table, and it was clear that while sitting in her chair she received the first heavy blow. The assailant then dragged the woman to the settee behind the chair where his second blow was delivered. The victim's stockings were removed, and the condition of her clothing established beyond reasonable doubt that the crime had been committed by the offender in the first case.

A handbag, which was on the table, had been rifled, but no other search had been made for money or valuables, the remainder of the house being undisturbed. The deceased had lived alone, and in the yard that was overlooked by the window of the living room, were kennels and "runs" accommodating numerous dogs which were either undergoing treatment by a veterinary surgeon or had been left temporarily at the kennels for care.

The premises were well protected at the sides and back by a high fence and it was unlikely that anyone could have entered the house from that direction without raising an alarm. An examination, however, showed the culprit had forced an entrance through the front bedroom window and then made his way quietly through the house to the room where the woman was sitting.

In so doing, he left an important clue, which was later destined to aid in the establishment of his identity. Apart from this, enquiries in the vicinity did not prove helpful, although it was believed the culprit had made himself well acquainted with both the premises and the locality, and knew that his victim lived alone.

The search for suspects, which had commenced with the Lansdowne case, was continued feverishly throughout the whole area with no success. Police enquiries and unobtrusive patrolling, though seemingly ineffective, may have perturbed the murderer, for the next crime, which occurred on the 11th November 1940, was committed at Wetton, some little distance from the from the scene of both previous cases, in broad daylight.

At about 10.15 a.m. a young European woman was washing clothes near a tap in front of the premises. She had occasion to enter the house and, on emerging, was struck a heavy blow on the head as she came through the door to the front stoep. She fell and was dragged to a bush in the grounds to the left front of the house, where a young Malay returning from the back of the premises where he had delivered groceries, came across the assailant and victim.

The former, who was described as a "strange coloured man" of medium build, ran through the gate to the road, and the Malay, sensing what was wrong, gave chase. After a short distance, however, the fugitive mounted a bicycle and made off in the direction of Lansdowne. The Malay turned back to get his own machine, and by the time he was able to resume the chase, the fugitive, who by then had covered considerable ground, was seen making his escape into the bush some distance off.

The Malay reported the matter immediately to the Lansdowne Police, and a detective who happened to be at the station accompanied him to continue the search. In the meantime the surrounding stations were notified, and with the addition of men mustered from Cape Town, the area was encircled and an intensive search, which continued through the night and well into the following day, was commenced.

After lingering some days the young woman died, and the nature and circumstances of her injuries marked the case as the third crime for which the murderer would now have to answer.

It was found that the Malay, an hour before the assault, had observed the culprit hanging around the house, and, from other information supplied by him and an European woman who had also notice the loiterer, a fair description of the wanted man was built up. Although these witnesses differed rather materially when giving particulars of the clothing worn, one important point seemed established, and that was that the bicycle on which the fugitive had ridden away had red tyres.

Apart, therefore, from some knowledge of the type of person to be sought, the police now had an important clue of which it was desired to reap the fullest advantage. The general search was therefore continued with unabated vigour. Employers — especially of casual labour — were visited and questioned, particularly in regard to the comings and goings of their employees. Men were stationed at suitable vantage points throughout Lansdowne, Wetton and Athlone to keep observation on non-Europeans in the locality and, as one witness in the last case had described the culprit as having "bulging eyes", the possibility of the wanted man being a dagga or drug addict was borne in mind.

It was, of course, realized that careful dissemination of the information regarding the red tyres was necessary if the culprit were not to be warned, and notwithstanding the discretion exercised, regrettable inconvenience was caused to a number of innocent people including at least one University student. Despite however, the intensive efforts of the police, which included the day and night patrolling of wide areas, the searching of huts and hovels and the subsequent checking up of hundreds of possible suspects, no progress was made, and, on the 25th November 1940, a fortnight after the last case, the next crime was committed.

A man boarding with a married couple residing in the Thornhill Rd., Rondebosch, returning in the late afternoon from his work, discovered his landlady lying dead across a bed with her feet touching the floor. Her head had received brutal blows, and in addition there was a gash in the neck, which indicated that a sharp-edged instrument had been used. The room was in disorder and a more complete examination of the scene made it clear that the murder was a further one in the series under investigation.

The house was situate about three miles from the scene of any of the previous cases and although not isolated, was a corner one with Port Jackson bush on the side from which observation could have been kept and the movements of the inmates watched. It was known that the woman had been gardening during the morning, and the presumed time of death indicated that she could have been attacked about midday on re-entering the house.

Footprints were discovered at the back of the property and the spoor of the bicycle tyres were found near the fence. Similar prints in the garden led to the assumption that the culprit had entered the house through the open window of a back bedroom, which adjoined that in which the body was found. Apart from indications that he had ridden off into the bush, the murderer left no clue as to his identity and an immediate search of the neighbourhood did not prove helpful.

The house itself however, did yield a clue, which would be of supreme importance only when the right suspect was in police hands.

The gravity of the situation was now obvious to all, for clearly there was at large in human form a hideous menace, which worked alone but whose lair and identity were unsuspected. With therefore an infallible means of identification at hand, there was now every justification for the unusual course of action which was subsequently adopted.

To relieve the local police of sole responsibility, and enable exclusive attention to be devoted to the further investigation, Senior Detective Officers under the personal direction of the then Head of the Union C.I.D., hurried from the Transvaal to supervise and assist in the greatest manhunt ever organized in the Peninsula and the Cape Flats.

Every possible man being employed, squads of police and detectives worked from dawn to late at night searching the difficult country of sand and bush which extended to Bellville in one direction, and Fish Hoek and Strandfontein in another, while detachments of men were stationed at key points to intercept workers returning to the area from the Cape Town side. Thousands of persons were interrogated and hundreds were detained for more thorough examination.

The inconvenience created was naturally the subject of some complaint, but the need for drastic action was realized and cooperation was more generally met. For two months the hunt was unrelaxed, but although its objective was not attained, no more murders were committed and it was considered not unlikely that the murderer had left the district.

Systematic investigations by the local police were resumed, but there were no developments until the afternoon of 11th March, 1941, when an European woman was molested in a Wynberg street by a coloured man who touched her clothing in an offensive manner. On her showing resentment, the man made off, but later the woman saw him again and asked a delivery boy to follow him. The boy, however, said he knew the man indicated, whereupon the woman reported the incident to the police.

To find the delivery boy, a shop-to-shop search became necessary, and when eventually traced to the employment of a Wynberg butcher, he admitted knowing the suspect, but was unable to say where he could be found. He was asked to try to locate him, and in this he succeeded, for on the evening of 16th March, he directed detectives to the Gaiety Theatre, Wynberg where one Gamut Salie Linneveld [Gamal Salie Lineveldt], a Malay male, 23 years of age, of small stature and slender build was arrested.

Linneveld was found to be minus his left thumb, but in his possession were found a ring and silver hat ornament, which were identified as having been worn by the Lansdowne victim. A bicycle with handlebars of the "butterfly" type described by a witness in the Wetton case and an axe were found in his room, where, hidden away, a red bicycle tyre was also discovered.

Subsequently, palm-prints connected him with the Prince George Drive case, while other prints proved his association with the Rondebosch crime.

Opportunity was given to several European women who had reported unpleasant assaults or cases of criminal injuria to attend a parade, which included Linneveld, and one or two identified him as the man concerned, while others were uncertain. One woman recognized him as the man she had once seen hanging around her house for a considerable time.

The Malay who had chased the suspect at Wetton and had ever since been employed to look for him, failed to pick him out, and it is interesting to record that Linneveld did not conform to any of the descriptions of the wanted man, which had been given to the police. He made no secret of having committed the crime, and readily explained that had chopped his thumb off because he feared the police might have his thumbprint.

In the first three cases he had struck his victims with a piece of hard piping, while in the fourth instance he had used an axe. It was established that the axe found in his quarters had been fitted with a new handle subsequent to the final murder.

On the evidence available, there was never any doubt about Linneveld's conviction, and, before the Supreme Court at Cape Town on the 10th June 1941, he was found guilty of four counts of murder and received the death sentence, which was duly carried out. Thus ended one of the most serious and disturbing outbreaks of crime on record in this country, and it is with no apology that this story ends by quoting the concluding lines of a "leader" which appeared at the time in a well-known Cape daily:-

"An attack on a woman, a fairly common-place crime apparently remote from the crimes, eventually provided the lead which led to the arrest of Linneveld. As reported to the public it looked easy but what must be realized is that for this one investigation which brought success there were many weary scores of others which were followed up with equal promptness, energy and thoroughness. The apprehension of this perpetrator of the most baffling type of crime in the criminal calendar was a triumph for the thorough, painstaking police system and a tribute to the Force, from the Chiefs to the hundreds of detectives and constables who put in so many weeks of heart-breaking effort."

Lt-Col P.H. Golby, Deputy Commissioner S.A. Police (Criminal Investigation Deparment)

That's the first of three murders we'll cover over the next few days. They get better. You'll not, beside the link given, find much on these crimes on the Web. While my friend Bob Dylan tells us Tomorrow Is A Long Time, I can tell you that 1940 is nigh unto Eternity on the Web. My beloved wife might, with customary acuity, point out that that's because it's always summer on the Internet, leaving little time for the songs of the doomed.

Perhaps this is so, but even if it is, we have at least strayed from Baghdad, its surrounds, and the Godawful global situation perpetrated and now being perpetuated by Americans on drugs. We now begin to examine my roots in a colonial past riven by wars of occupation, cultural divides, and the day-to-day preoccupations of mice and men.

For that, I thank you.

"I write. It's what I do. Nothing else matters."

Anonymous