Philip Kerr - A Philosophical Investigation

And for what had she saved him? It was as well, she reflected, that she was not a sentimental person, because she well knew what it was to which she had delivered him. Jake lit a cigarette and smoked it, irritated with herself now, for there is nothing of so infinite vexation as one’s own thoughts. She tried to tell herself that what happened to Wittgenstein, to Esterhazy, was not her affair. She had done her duty, according to the law, and in spite of the very best endeavours of nearly everyone around her.

It would be up to others now, the lawyers, the judges, the psychotherapists, and probably the politicians, what became of him. Perhaps he would succeed in a not-guilty plea by reason of insanity. She remembered having once said something about making sure that he got medical help, so she would make sure that a forensic psychiatrist other than Professor Waring was able to examine him. Perhaps the fact that there had been several articles in the various medical and psychiatric journals to the effect that, based on his writings alone, the real Wittgenstein might have suffered from some sort of bipolar-affective disorder (what was once called manic-depressive psychosis), would count for something in helping to sustain a plea of insanity.

The truth was that having done her duty Jake’s sincerest hope was not that she could help the Crown Prosecution Service to build a water-tight case against Esterhazy, but that he might end up with something better than an ice-cold needle in his vein. This was a strange sensation for her. Normally she didn’t much care one way or the other what happened to the men she arrested. But then Esterhazy was hardly like any other man she had ever known.

That was what she hoped. But in Jake’s heart she knew it would be different. In her heart she had always known it would be different.

She sat down at Esterhazy’s desk to wait for the scenes-of-crime officers. She noted all the computer equipment, and then the black-rubberised Reality Approximation Outfit which lay on a special leather recliner like a discarded shadow. If he had been into that kind of shit, she said to herself, then there was no knowing what might be in Esterhazy’s mind. There were some people who said that protracted use of RA was every bit as dangerous as LSD. Then she noticed two notebooks on the desk, one brown and one blue, and curious about what was in them she opened the brown book.

Six Months Later

A crowd had gathered outside the front gate of Wandsworth Prison. It was early evening and its number continued to be swollen by people who were on their way home from work. The mood was quiet but even so, a small squad of riot-police was in attendance.

Jake arrived early, having misjudged the time needed to get through the evening traffic. She parked her car in a nearby garden centre and, to fill in time, bought some geraniums for her window box. As she waited for the assistant to debit her cash card, it crossed Jake’s mind that she could buy some flowers for Esterhazy, that he might welcome some colour in the last few hours of his conscious life. She glanced about her and, seeing nothing that wasn’t rooted in soil, asked the assistant if they had any flowers. He sniggered and pointed out to the yard where there were hundreds of plants flowering.

‘What do you think they are?’ he sneered.

‘No, I want cut flowers.’

The man’s sneer grew deeper. ‘This is a garden centre,’ he said. ‘Gardens grow, know what I mean? You want cut flowers I suggest you walk down to the cemetery on Magdalen Road. You’ll get cut flowers there, although speaking for myself, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to cut something down as was already growing.’

‘Spare me the botany lecture,’ said Jake, and selected a well-bloomed hyacinth, one of the new red variety, from a box nearby.

‘You don’t want to take that one,’ said the assistant. ‘That one’s in full flower. Be finished in a day or so. Best have one that’s still budding.’

Jake shook her head. Another day would be too late for Esterhazy. ‘No, this one will do just fine.’

‘Please yourself,’ said the man.

Having placed the geraniums in the boot of her car, she walked on towards the prison gate. She thought it was probably safer to leave her car where it was, than in front of the prison. Just in case anyone decided to slash her tyres on the off-chance that the car belonged to a member of the prison staff. The sun had set but she kept her sunglasses on, to stop anyone recognising her. Esterhazy’s trial, and her own role in his capture, had been well reported on television. But the crowd paid Jake little attention as she walked up to the gate, deceived by the red flower she held in her hands. There weren’t many police or Home Office officials arriving at HMP Wandsworth who brought flowers with them. She had presented her ID and was through the door in the gate before any of the demonstrators were aware that it had opened and closed.

‘You here to see the jab?’ enquired the warder still holding Jake’s identity card in his gloved fingers.

She said that she was and the warder picked up a computer.

‘Just a mo’, while I check you off on the guest-list,’ he said. He grinned to himself as his forefinger held down one of the keys. The computer clicked like a geiger-counter as it scrolled down a long list of names. ‘We wouldn’t want any gate-crashers, would we? Yes, you’re all right, ma‘am.’ He glanced uncertainly at the potted plant.

Jake wondered if he was thinking of inspecting it for drugs or something.

‘Is that for him?’ he said.

‘Yes. All right?’

The warder shrugged. ‘Under the circumstances, I s’pose so. I’ll get one of my men to walk you down to the new wing.’

‘Don’t bother. I know my way.’

‘Fair enough,’ said the warder and returned to reading the previous day’s edition of the News of the World. On the front page was a photograph of a rather bemused-looking Esterhazy, underneath a headline which read, ‘PSYCHO KILLER GETS THE HOT MILK TOMORROW’.

Jake grimaced and walked quickly away.

Wandsworth’s Punitive Coma Wing was of recent construction. It had even won an award from the Institute of European Architects. Built of red brick, like the Victorian walls which surrounded it, the PC wing was a large dome resembling an observatory from the outside, and a library from the inside. Reinforced-concrete ribs supported a ceiling of many windows which from beneath looked like the huge eye of God. Around the interior circumference were what seemed to be large filing drawers, many of which, like a mortuary, contained the comatose bodies of convicts.

The PC wing was colder than the outside air, being partly refrigerated, and, dressed in a light linen summer-suit, Jake was soon shivering. She quickened her step as she crossed the main floor underneath the eye of the dome, heading towards the holding cells.

The sight of one open drawer, slightly larger than a coffin, interrupted her step. Curious, she stopped to examine it more closely. The bottom of the drawer was upholstered in soft black calf leather, which was the only concession made to the prevention of pressure sores. A number of tubes and catheters, which would be attached to the convict’s body, protruded from the drawer’s sides. On the front of the cabinet was a small flat screen on which the body functions could be read and a card key lock to prevent anyone from interfering with the drawer’s occupant. Jake’s shiver progressed as far as her jaws, and rubbing her bare arms she quickly carried on her way.

In an antechamber close to where Esterhazy was spending his last few conscious hours, a small group of people had assembled. Most of them were faces she recognised from the Home Office and the Brain Research Institute: Mark Woodford, Professor Waring, and Mrs Grace Miles. For the first time, television cameras were also there to cover the event, having successfully petitioned the High Court that if print journalists were allowed to witness such events, then why not other media as well?