Philip Kerr - A Philosophical Investigation

So it is also with the art of murder.

‘Crime is common. Logic is rare,’ he informs Dr Watson. ‘Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime you should dwell.’

Yes indeed ladies and gentlemen, logic. Logic, where nothing is accidental. Logic, which deals with every possibility and where all possibilities are its facts.

The logic of murder is a darker knowledge that follows the diligent study of an intellectual hatred. Now unlike love, hate’s a passion in my control, and a sort of broom to clear the soul. Once set free it shows how man at one time walked on earth before Christian love began, and how a man might walk when all such things are past. How hatred of God may bring the soul nearer my God, to thee.

Jake thought it might have been the Scotch. She awoke late and found that she had enjoyed her soundest sleep in years. And she felt better than she could have imagined possible. Better than perhaps she had a right to. As if she had been purged of something. True, she had thrown up, but now she was more ravenously hungry than something as epistemological as the voice of conscience would have allowed. It was not just a complete absence of guilt for what had happened: after all she had not meant to do anything but wing Parmenides. It was something else altogether. A feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her, that it was time to put certain things behind her and start again.

For once Jake had something in the fridge. She made herself a lavish breakfast of fresh orange juice, Greek yoghurt, bananas, strawberries, seedless grapes, toast and honey, and some strong coffee, and wolfed it all down.

She knew it was wrong to think that some kind of account had been settled, but that was how it felt. And try as she might, Jake could not experience a sense of revulsion at the notion that somehow Doctor Blackwell had been right after all. That the horror she had experienced at having shot and killed a man had dislodged something that had been stuck like a fishbone inside of her. There were no easy explanations for what had happened but, for perhaps the first time in her adult life, Jake felt at peace with herself.

When she arrived at the Yard the first visitor to her office, Ed Crawshaw, managed to restore Jake’s faith in herself even further.

‘I tried to call you last night,’ he explained. ‘Where were you?’

She shrugged. ‘I didn’t feel like speaking to anyone.’

Crawshaw nodded. ‘I was at the Greek’s flat all night, in Balham,’ he explained. ‘I thought you might feel better about what happened if you could have seen what we found there.’

‘What did you find there?’ she said quietly.

He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘Hell,’ he said, finally, and then shook his head. ‘Unspeakable.’

‘Then just tell me that I shot the right man, Ed.’

‘No doubt about it. Parmenides was the Lipstick Killer all right. We found some tapes he made: sort of a diary I guess. Pretty sick stuff, most of it. Apparently he came here and met you, right? And he was VMN-negative?’

Jake nodded.

‘And this Lombroso killer tried to top him as well?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes, well it seems as if Parmenides thought that almost becoming the victim of another multiple killer himself endowed him with a kind of immunity. He decided that acting as any normal citizen would have acted in the circumstances and coming here with the Lombroso killer’s A-Z was the best way of demonstrating that he was just that: a normal citizen — just in case anyone wondered any different. Least that’s what was in his diary, anyway.’

‘I guessed it might be something like that,’ said Jake.

Crawshaw shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe he also reasoned that by coming here and, within the course of the Lombroso inquiry, confessing that he was VMN-negative, it might also have nullified the effect of his mental state becoming known to us within the context of our inquiry into the Lipstick killings.’

Jake frowned. ‘Well, I met him and I’m not sure he would have been capable of the kind of sophisticated thinking you’re suggesting, Ed. I think I prefer your first explanation.’

Crawshaw nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.’ He smiled and moved towards the door. ‘Incidentally,’ he said. ‘It was the bookshop where he was selecting them. In his flat we found hundreds of murder-mysteries. The funny thing was that he never seemed to read any of them. Most of the books were still in their paperbags.’

He nodded with an air of tired satisfaction.

‘I think it’s time you went home and got some sleep,’ said Jake.

Crawshaw yawned. ‘I guess you’re right.’

‘And, Ed?’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Thanks.’

Later that same morning, after receiving a congratulatory call from Gilmour, Jake tried the Ministry of Health again.

For several minutes she was shunted from one bureaucrat to another like a delivery of horse manure. Finally she was permitted to explain her request to a civil servant called Mrs Porter, whose double chin and smoker’s cough seemed to Jake a poor advertisement where matters of the nation’s health were concerned. Mrs Porter was not enthusiastic about Jake’s request.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ she wheezed. ‘You want someone in this department to check the personnel records of all male nursing and auxiliary medical staff in London and the South East, to see if among them, there are any men who are German, or of Germanic origin. Is that right?’

Jake confirmed that it was.

‘Are you quite sure that you can’t be a little more specific, Chief Inspector?’

Jake offered that if she could have been more specific she would very likely have been halfway to making an arrest. ‘All I’ve got is a suspect’s racial genotype and the probability that he’s employed in some kind of nursing or auxiliary work.’

‘I don’t mean to sound unhelpful,’ said Mrs Porter, ‘it’s just that since we became part of Federal Europe, there are quite a few Germans working in British hospitals. It would help if we could try and narrow down that sample. If you could give me the name of a few regional health authorities, something.’

‘I can’t, I’m sorry. Couldn’t you use your computer to do the checking?’

Mrs Porter’s voice took on a weary tone. ‘Yes, well I wasn’t planning to try and do it manually,’ she said. ‘Look here, what I mean to say is, I’ll do my best for you. All right?’

‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

‘But these things do take time to set up. Much longer than they take to carry out.’

Didn’t it always? reflected Jake. There could be little question that the male obsession with mathematics had helped to make the world a more dangerous place. But had the technology which it had inspired actually made things any easier? Jake had her doubts.

‘How long?’

‘A couple of days.’

It was depressing, Jake thought bitterly, but managed to fix a smile to her face all the same.

‘Any earlier than that would be great,’ she said. ‘But a couple of days would be fine.’ There was no point in trying to bully the woman. No point at all. Unless she wanted to end up with nothing.

She was beginning to wonder how much her own reliance on male technology was affecting her ability to reason as a woman. Jake liked the idea of feminine intuition a lot more than she liked the phrase with all its implied patronisation. She preferred a more scientific approach to account for sex difference in cognitive ability. But there was no doubt in her mind that it was something like feminine intuition which was now required in this particular case. A change in attitude and approach of the kind that she had lectured the conference in Frankfurt about.