Philip Kerr - A Philosophical Investigation

Wittgenstein allowed himself a small chuckle.

‘You know, instead of trying to hunt me down, you should be grateful to me, Policewoman. Just consider how many of my brothers might have turned into killers of women. Tomorrow’s gynocidal maniacs. That’s your bag, isn’t it, Policewoman? Serial gynocide? At least that’s what the papers say, and we always believe what we read there, don’t we? Like poor Mr Mayhew’s brave struggle for life in hospital?’ He laughed again. ‘Anyway, you just ask yourself how many more lives may have been saved as a result of the few that have already been sacrificed? Is this not simply a kind of utilitarianism?

‘You challenged me to communicate with you, Policewoman. And I have now done so. Both semantically and syntactically you may find the message — or at least the first part of it — not much to your liking. No doubt you should have preferred it if I had seemed more obviously criminal. And if there had been a few clues to help you track me down. Sorry. I’ll try harder the next time we play our little game. Expect a telephone call from me any day now, when I’ll tell you where to find the next body. And thanks. This is so much more fun. Frankly I was becoming rather bored just executing brothers one after the other, day in day out.

‘Until then, I urge you to sharpen up your thinking and to consider carefully the grammar of what you will say to me. Remember, when eventually we communicate in a real sense you and I will be doing Philosophy. So be prepared. Yours bloodily, Ludwig Wittgenstein.’

Jake switched off the disc player.

‘Well,’ said Gilmour, ‘I’ve never heard anything like that before.’

‘It is quite unusual,’ Jake admitted. ‘However, the subject’s sense of omnipotence, his feeling of invincibility is entirely typical in cases where a multiple killer has contacted police. It’s something I’m familiar with, sir. Even Jack the Ripper was given to telling the police that he didn’t think they were going to catch him. So to that extent at least he was actually conforming to type.’

Gilmour nodded approvingly. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Jake,’ he said.

Although Jake knew she was correct in what she was saying, at the same time the killer’s disembodied words had made her feel anything but confident within herself. She had recognised a certain logic in what he had said about the need to eliminate those other VMNs. Hadn’t she said as much herself?

When Jake returned to her office she found Ed Crawshaw at her desk, writing out a note. As Jake came through the door he crushed it in his hand and stood up sheepishly.

‘I know you’re busy with this other thing,’ he said, ‘but I thought you’d like to know: we’ve a sort of lead in the Mary Woolnoth case.’

Jake closed the door, squeezed past Ed Crawshaw’s large frame and dumped herself in her chair. She felt the colour rise in her cheeks.

‘So what am I — your bloody nanny?’

Crawshaw shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Jake sighed and closed her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Ed,’ she said. ‘It’s this other thing, as you put it. It’s got me worn out. Sit down.’ She pointed to the chair on the other side of her desk.

He sat down and opened his mouth to speak, but Jake stopped him.

‘No,’ she said, ‘don’t say anything for a moment. Just let me try and clear my mind.’

Crawshaw nodded and, adjusting his belt, leaned back in the chair.

Jake opened her shoulder bag, took out a small hand-mirror and checked her make-up as if trying to render herself more human. Her eyes looked bloodshot and her hair was a mess. The ends were split like bamboo. She could hardly remember the last time she’d been to the hairdresser. At the same time, out of the corner of her eye she observed that Crawshaw was putting on weight. His grey suit fitted him rather too snugly, she thought. He had always been a big man but now she could see how he had the potential to become a fat one. It was an impression made easier by the red-haired Crawshaw’s lardy complexion. He was spending too much time in the office and probably not eating properly: the wrong kind of food at the wrong time of day. It was easy to let yourself get out of shape when you were at the Yard. Jake counted herself fortunate that she wasn’t much interested in food.

She found her lipstick and fixing her mind on the lipstick writing she had seen on Mary Woolnoth‘,s dead stomach, she touched up the corners of her diamond-shaped mouth. Finally, as she studied the waxy red end of the lipstick she said, ‘So what sort of a lead do we have, Ed?’

Crawshaw opened the manila file on his lap, drew out a sheet of yellow paper and floated it across the desktop to her.

‘Detailed lab report on the dead girl’s clothes. The collar of her jacket showed light traces of olive oil. Her mother says that Mary was always very careful with her clothes. She spent a lot of money on them, and had things regularly dry-cleaned. So the chances are it didn’t come from her. The olive oil on the collar lapels would be consistent with the killer having grabbed hold of her. There was just a trace of the same olive oil on the clothes of one of the other victims too.’

Jake glanced over the sheet of paper.

‘ “Cold pressed olives from the Tuscany region of Italy”,’ she read, ‘ “producing extra virgin olive oil.” Interesting. So we could be looking for — ?’

‘- for a wop.’ Crawshaw grinned. He shook his head to indicate that he was joking. ‘For someone who eats pizza with his fingers. Or maybe someone who prepares it.’

‘For that matter it might be anyone involved in food preparation,’ said Jake. ‘I think I’ve got some Italian olive oil in my own kitchen at home.’

And that was probably all she had, Jake told herself. The kitchen might have contained every modern convenience, but of food itself there was really very little. Somehow the late supermarket was never quite late enough.

She sent back the paper. ‘Look, see if we can match this oil to a specific supplier.’

‘That’s not going to be easy,’ said Crawshaw. ‘This stuff’s pretty common. I mean olive oil is olive oil, right?’

Jake smiled. ‘I hear what you say, but do your best. By the way, how’s the golden apple operation coming along? The one in the Mystery Bookshop.’

‘No bites so far.’

‘You might take a look at their stock,’ she suggested. ‘Maybe our greasy-fingered killer left a few prints on a book.’

Crawshaw nodded.

‘Anything else?’

‘Er no.’ But Crawshaw stayed in the chair, shaking his head vaguely. ‘Well, yes: some of the squad were wondering what’s going to happen to Poison. I mean to Challis.’

‘Challis is suspended on full pay, pending the result of an inquiry. That’s all I can tell you, Ed.’

‘On full pay, eh? Shame. A meat-hook would have been better. The word is that it was Poison’s incompetence that got that copper killed.’

‘That’s for the inquiry to determine,’ Jake said firmly.

‘I guess so.’ Crawshaw smacked his thighs and stood up. ‘How’s it going anyway? This other thing. Making any progress?’

‘Some.’

‘Need any help?’

‘Thanks for the offer, Ed, but no. But what I need right now is a tame philosopher.’

My own feelings at the time of the death of Socrates were quite extraordinary. It never occurred to me to feel sorry for him, which you might have expected at the death of a brother. But he seemed quite happy, both in his manner and in what he said. He met his death obediently, without fear and with some nobility. I could not help reflecting that on his way to the other world he would be under the providence of God, and that when he arrived there, all would be well with him. So I felt no sadness or sense of remorse.