Philip Kerr - A Philosophical Investigation

‘Is that all you care about? What about due process? What about this man’s life? Think about that for a moment. You’re talking about persuading another human being to take his own life. Exactly where does that fit into moral philosophy, Professor?’

‘You’re right to regard it that way, as it happens,’ he said. ‘This is almost certainly one situation where moral philosophy can make a practical contribution to the solution of an actual moral dilemma. I’ve thought about this a great deal and I think society will be served if I can persuade this maniac to kill himself instead of other people.’

‘Sounds to me as if you’d rather rely on utilitarianism than on your own intuition, Professor,’ Jake replied. ‘Your own gut-feel.’

‘It’s no good basing a moral approach on intuition. No good at all. Different people have different intuitions.’

‘But surely you don’t reject the idea of intuition altogether?’

‘Not for a moment, no. I’m in favour of intuitions. But which ones? We have to judge intuitions, to see which is the best one to have. And the best way of doing so is through a higher level of critical moral thinking.’

‘And how’s that to be done?’

‘We have to do our moral thinking in the world as it is,’ he argued. ‘But at the same time we are constrained by the logic of concepts. Facts are observed. Values are chosen. The intuitions we ought to cultivate are those which have the highest acceptance utility. Now I can’t see many people, apart from you, Chief Inspector, who would argue with trying, for the greater good, to persuade a man who has already killed a dozen innocent people to do away with himself. It seems to me that you are arguing from a rigidly legalistic principle. But you’re not looking at the facts of the matter. Look at the facts first, then decide what principles you should adopt.’

‘So why does my intuition tell me that what you’re planning to do makes you feel uncomfortable, Professor?’ she asked him. ‘Is it that you prefer to contemplate these moral dilemmas from the comfort of your rooms in Trinity College perhaps? Utilitarianism is a rather sharp sword for a philosopher to have to wield.’

‘Oh it’s not that I’m squeamish,’ Lang declared. ‘Only that I doubt that philosophical argument is entirely equal to the task. In my opinion they would be better advised in having a forensic psychiatrist to talk to this fellow. However, Professor Waring disagrees. He believes that Wittgenstein would prefer to talk to me: that he finds it intellectually flattering to cross swords with a Cambridge professor of philosophy. Waring says that philosophy is what this whole thing is about.’

That much seemed certain, Jake thought.

She turned away from the empty pictophone screen and banged her desk with frustration. Somehow she knew that Waring’s plan might well work and that unless she thought of something, and quickly, Wittgenstein’s collar was going to slip through her fingers. Perhaps his own as well.

Later that same morning, Jake’s thoughts returned to this picture she had of things slipping through fingers. Somehow it brought to mind Wittgenstein’s A-Z again, and a teasing game she had sometimes played at school.

She called Detective Inspector Stanley and asked him to bring Wittgenstein’s A-Z to her office immediately.

It had been a simple childish sort of joke which involved grabbing a novel by D. H. Lawrence, or some other moral iconoclast, from the briefcase of a friend and, with the aim of embarrassing her, trying to determine if the book was at all inclined, by the implication of an excessively frequent consultation, to fall open at one of the more lurid pages. As if to confirm her theory now, Jake drew open the desk drawer and took out her own copy of London’s A-Z. She balanced the book by its perfect bound spine on the palm of her hand and allowed it to fall apart into two sections, at the pages covering that area of south-west London where New Scotland Yard is located.

Stanley arrived carrying the A-Z in a plastic evidence bag as if it was a goldfish he had won at the funfair.

Jake flung her own copy aside and grabbed the bag from out of Stanley’s outstretched fist. His jaw dropped as she tore off the special warning label that had been stapled on to it.

‘This is such a simple idea that I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before,’ said Jake, and took hold of the book.

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Stanley. ‘That’s evidence. You can’t handle that. There are fingerprints on it — you’ll spoil them.’

‘Shut up,’ said Jake and repeated the simple manoeuvre. The book parted itself slowly and then lay open on her palm like an exhausted bird. Jake uttered a yell of satisfaction.

‘Just like Lady Chatterley’s Lover,’ she said. ‘It opens first where it’s most been read.’

She scanned the two facing pages of streets, underground stations, parklands, dual carriageways, fire stations, and hospitals, closely, as if she had been reading from the Book of Life.

‘Pages seventy-eight to seventy-nine,’ she murmured. ‘From Waterloo Station as far east as Rotherhithe; Tower Bridge down to Peckham Road. Let’s see now. There are one — two — three — four hospitals in this area. And one of them is Guy’s.’ She stated this last fact as if it had been what the thunder said.

Stanley corrected his shirt collar. ‘I’m sorry I don’t quite see the significance,’ he said.

‘Don’t you?’ said Jake, turning to her pictophone screen and keying out Mrs Porter’s number at the Ministry of Health. ‘Guy’s Hospital was where the real Wittgenstein worked, during the war. In the pharmacy.’

‘That’s a hell of a hunch you’re playing.’

‘Have you got a better one?’

Stanley shook his head.

When Jake found Mrs Porter, she asked her to check for a German or a man of Germanic origin who might be working at Guy’s.

‘My goodness, you have narrowed it down,’ said Mrs Porter. ‘Right then. No problem at all. Just give me a couple of minutes.’ She turned away from the pictophone camera and devoted her attention to her computer.

Jake waited with patient expectation, like someone having her Tarot read by a famous clairvoyant. Stanley looked on, vaguely disapproving. Finally, Mrs Porter looked back at the camera.

‘At Guy’s Hospital there are three male persons of the racial type you’ve designated,’ she said, with all the natural sententiousness of her profession. ‘A Mister Hesse and a Mister Deussen, but both of them are surgeons. And then there is a Mister Esterhazy, who works in the hospital pharmacy.’

‘He sounds interesting,’ said Jake. ‘Can you send me all there is on him?’

‘Well really I should get the Chief Secretary’s permission...’

‘Mrs Porter,’ said Jake. ‘I can’t tell you too much, but people’s lives are at stake here.’

‘Then I can’t very well refuse,’ said Mrs Porter. ‘It’s not much, but I’ll send you what’s in the file.’

‘Is there a photograph?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Damn,’ said Jake. ‘A handwriting sample, perhaps?’

‘Er yes, a small one.’

‘Then send that as well, if you would, please. And thanks, Mrs Porter. You’ve been a great help.’

Jake gave Mrs Porter her computer’s data communication number and then watched as the information started to arrive on her screen.

‘Right,’ she said to Stanley. ‘Let’s make a MAP.’

Jake moved the Ministry of Health’s data onto one half of the computer screen while on the other she called up an investigative menu. From the twenty available files she selected the one titled ‘Criminal Information Database’. The computer gurgled for several seconds and then provided Jake with another list. Finding ‘Multiple Homicides’ featured as File Number 15, Jake typed that number and waited. The system was hopelessly antiquated with a response time that could infuriate all but the most patient of people: sometimes Jake found herself waiting as long as thirty seconds for the computer to find a specific information file. Once again the computer gurgled and once again a series of further choices appeared before her eyes. Finally Jake managed to key into the Multiple Analysis Program.