Philip Kerr - A Philosophical Investigation

Jake winced. ‘And what persuaded you that he might be something else?’

‘This man following me has left something behind him in the church and which I picked up. It is an A-Z, of London. And I am scared when I look at it later, in my cousin’s restaurant, because the road where I live in Wandsworth — really, it is Balham — has been underlined, in the index at the back. With the number of my house. So have others too. Well, now it’s yesterday, OK? And the fact is that I finally get up my courage to open this letter that my counsellor has given me. The one which the police have written, telling me please to make contact soon for my own safety. The reason I have not opened this before is that I am afraid that it is maybe some sort of deportation order — maybe even to quarantine people like me. Anyway I read what it say and then I remember the book and I think maybe the two are connected. And that maybe the man with the book is the one who has been shooting men in the head, and that these men are people like me. So, I come here today.’

‘Did you bring the A-Z?’

Jones handed over a clear plastic bag containing the book.

Jake nodded. ‘You certainly did the right thing, Mr Parmenides,’ she told him. ‘Do you mind telling me your VMN codename?’

The Greek grinned sheepishly. ‘It is William Shakespeare,’ he replied. ‘What a great honour, yes?’

‘Well sir, I think you’ve had a very fortunate escape,’ said Jake. ‘You were perfectly right. That man is the man we’re looking for. The one who’s killed all the other men. And he would almost certainly have murdered you too, had you not acted when you did. But I must ask you not to tell anyone else about this. You see, our only chance of catching him is by making sure we don’t alarm him. If he suspects that any of his potential victims will be expecting him, then he’ll go to ground and we might never get him. Do you see?’

Parmenides nodded. ‘Sure thing. I understand. No problem, miss.’

‘I’d like to ask you another favour, sir. I want you to go with Detective Sergeant Jones here and look at some computer-generated pictures we have of this man. See if you can’t improve them. After all, you’ve had the best look at him of anyone so far.’

‘Like on the telly. I know. Yes, OK.’

Jake nodded at Jones. ‘And when Mr Parmenides has finished, Jones, have a car take him home. Then I want a guard watching him for twenty-four hours a day.’ She smiled at the Greek.

‘It’s just a precaution,’ she explained. ‘I think you probably scared him off for good, but we can’t afford to be too careful.’

The Greek got up. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘No; thank you, Mr Parmenides.’

‘All right, sir,’ said Jones, ushering him through Jake’s doorway. ‘This way, please.’

‘And, Sergeant...’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Do you know where Inspector Stanley is?’

‘Not exactly, no, ma’am.’

‘Find him, will you? Tell him to get himself in here.’

‘Certainly. By the way, you’ll find a list of all the addresses that have been underlined on your desk, ma’am. Do you want me to pass the A-Z on to the lab, for fingerprints?’

‘It’s all right. I’ll do it. And, Jones? Well done.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

When Jones and the Greek had gone, Jake read through the list of addresses he had typed out for her. A few of them she recognised as the homes of some of Wittgenstein’s previous victims.

Ten minutes later a grumpy-looking Stanley presented himself in her office.

‘Where have you been?’

Stanley looked aggrieved. ‘In the canteen,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to be able to eat something today.’

‘You can forget about dinner,’ Jake said. ‘You and I have got work to do.’ She explained about Parmenides finding Wittgenstein’s A-Z. ‘Apart from the ones he’s already hit, I want every one of these addresses put under round-the-clock surveillance. Don’t inform the occupants. No sense in alarming them unnecessarily. But if Wittgenstein tries to kill inside London again, we’ll have him.’

Jake allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction.

‘Let’s just pray he’s not tired of working in London,’ said Stanley.

Jake smiled. ‘You know what they say about the man who’s tired of London...?’

A lecture in memory of John Williams, before the Society of Connoisseurs in Murder, is traditionally an occasion to celebrate the fine art of murder, and I am honoured to have been asked to deliver it.

John Williams, one of the earliest British members of the modern aesthetic movement in murder, was a distinguished representative of those cultural values which are closest to my own heart. Like paintings or sculpture it is certain that murders too have their own peculiar differences and shades of merit, and when one examines the facts surrounding the two murders which John committed in December 1811, it should be clear to us all that he was indeed a great artist.

He was not trained as such; nor was he particularly aware of his gift. But I think he would have been the first to recognise that Art is never standing still: that what might be dismissed as foul murder today might be Art tomorrow. This principle is also mine. That one murder is better or worse than another in point of aesthetics is something I have based my whole philosophy of life upon.

As Thomas De Quincey, the previous occupant of this illustrious chair, said, in the first of his two Williams lectures: ‘Murder... may be laid hold of by its moral handle (as it generally is in the pulpit and at the Old Bailey); and that, I confess, is its weak side; or it may also be treated aesthetically, as the Germans call it — that is, in relation to good taste.’

The moral issue is neatly disposed of by De Quincey. He argues that when a murder has not yet been done, when there exists merely an intent to commit murder, then it behoves us to treat it morally. But once a murder is over and done with, then, he says, what’s the use of any more virtue? What indeed? But enough has been said about morality. Now comes the turn of taste and the fine arts.

I do not propose to spend too long referring back to De Quincey. But it would be wrong if I did not acknowledge my own personal debt to the thoughts which he expressed to this society as long ago as 1827, on the need to murder philosophers.

Would that Descartes had been killed, says Thomas. Hobbes was a fine subject for murder. Certainly one might have counted on Leibniz being murdered. Kant narrowly escaped being murdered. And, despite what is commonly held, De Quincey reveals not only that Spinoza met a violent and well-deserved end, but also that Bishop Berkeley murdered Père Malebranche by means of an argument which deranged his liver.

Today it is even more obvious just how much good can result from the murder of one dusty, arid, old philosopher. Both Marx and Freud were murdered by Jaspers. Bertrand Russell and G. E. Moore should have been murdered by Wittgenstein, as Ramsey certainly was. Heidegger died very properly at the hands of A. J. Ayer. It can be argued that Quine may indeed have murdered Strawson, however if he did, it could only have been with the assistance of Skinner. And Chomsky, well Chomsky may turn out to have killed nearly everyone he came into contact with.

That is another matter, however, and I shall say no more of it on this occasion. But before I come to the main subject of my lecture, which is ‘The Perfect Murder’, it is worth reminding my audience that such views as are expressed here are not likely to find favour with certain sections of the community. The gap which exists between the aesthetic ideals of this society and the dead letter of the law is dramatised, as I hope I may be excused for pointing out, by my absence. I must apologise for this. I did ask myself if I should take a risk and deliver my lecture in person. The answer was, more or less, ‘What would be the chances of my being arrested and prevented from finishing my lecture?’ With regret and out of respect to the memory of John Williams, I took the point.