At nine twenty-five, I saw the bright glow of headlamps stab the sky some way in the distance. They disappeared, then stabbed the sky again, this time closer, and I began to hear the sound of a car. Two minutes later, a Toyota estate car slowed down and turned right onto the Otjosundu road. It drove slowly for some yards, and then turned left off the road. As quietly as I could, and keeping to the shadow of the bushes, I sprinted across towards where my car was parked. The Toyota placed itself so that its headlamp beams were full on the Datsun, and the dummy silhouetted perfectly; even to me it looked as though there were a real person sitting in the car. The driver got out of the Toyota and walked across to the Datsun. I took the rag from my pocket, and emptied the contents of the syringe into it. Holding the rag in my left hand, I ran up behind him, silent on my rubber shoes, passing the Toyota closely and glancing in to make sure no one was concealed in there.

I waited until he had put his hand on the handle of the Datsun’s passenger door, then I clamped the chloroform-soaked rag over his nose. The shock of it must have made him take a deeper breath than usual, for he went limp right away. I had no trouble in recognizing him from the pictures of him I had seen in the library: it was Lukas Ogomo.

I removed his jacket, rolled up his right shirt sleeve, laid him out on the back seat of the Datsun, and tied his arms and legs firmly together. Then I picked up the syringe and waited for him to come round. The content of the syringe was a pale-yellow, liquid barbiturate, Pentothal. When Ogomo came round, I would inject into him just enough to put him into a happy, relaxed state of near-euphoria – the final point of consciousness before sleep – in which he should completely lose all his inhibitions.

It took about fifteen minutes before he began to stir, and then he started to come awake quite quickly. I stuck the needle into his arm, and pushed in a fairly generous helping of the mixture. His eyes rolled. I lashed the syringe to his arm with the Elastoplast.

‘Hallo, Lukas,’ I said.

‘Man, hi!’

‘Good, eh, Lukas?’

‘That’s good; feels real good.’

‘You relax and enjoy yourself, Lukas.’

‘Sure, sure. Where am I? Where am I? I can’t move – what is all this? Hey? Hey?’ He was starting to panic. I pushed the plunger in further and he relaxed immediately. ‘Who the hell cares,’ he said cheerfully, ‘this is a nice place!’

I gave another gentle push on the plunger.

‘What the fuck’s going on, man?’

‘Don’t worry, relax, lie back, have a nice time.’

‘I’m having a nice time.’

‘Tell me some things, Lukas.’