Philip Kerr - A Philosophical Investigation

‘The unfortunate victim, twenty-five-year-old Mary Woolnoth, was found naked in the basement of the offices of the Mylae Shipping Company in Jermyn Street, where she had worked for three years as a receptionist, her face beaten in with a claw hammer.

‘So severe was the beating that her lower jaw was broken in six places, and almost all of her porcelain-capped teeth pounded loose. Disintegrated fragments of the woman’s skull and brain tissue were scattered in the neighbourhood to an extent that was consistent with their newly-acquired momentum. Having recovered the murder weapon it is possible to construct an equation which gives us the kinetic energy of the blow: this is found by multiplying the mass of the weapon by the square of the velocity and dividing the result by two. Using the kinetic energy of each hammer blow, the cranial depth of each fracture, and the angle of depression, the computer has calculated that the killer stands 1.82 metres tall and weighs approximately 85.72 kilograms.

‘The poor woman’s red silk suspender belt was tied tight around her neck although by this stage she was already dead. A Simpson’s store carrier bag was later pulled over the victim’s head covering her ruined features from view. Possibly this took place prior to intercourse.

‘Using a Christian Dior Crimson Lake lipstick from the victim’s handbag, the killer wrote some four-letter abuse onto her bare thighs and stomach. Immediately above the pubic line was written the word “FUCK”, while on the underside of her thighs and buttocks was written the word “SHIT”. Across each breast was written the word “TIT”. Last of all the killer drew a happy smiling face onto the white plastic carrier. I say “last”, because there was evidence of the lipstick having crumbled more during this drawing.

‘The unhappy victim’s vagina contained traces of a latex-based spermicidal compound consistent with the killer wearing a condom prior to intercourse. He was no doubt mindful of the need to avoid DNA profiling. The said spermicidal compound is of a type most used by the RIMFLY brand of prophylactic, commonly used by homosexuals because of its greater strength. In past years we have also found that this is also the average rapist’s favourite condom for the same reason.’

Jake opened the file on the table in front of her to examine the photographs. Before looking at them she took a deep breath that she did her best to conceal from the four men, three of whom were detectives, seated around the conference table with her. Her small sham of equanimity was unnecessary, as one of the other detectives did not bother to examine his file of photographs at all. Jake thought this was unjust. A man could always say something about how it was too close to lunch to spoil a good appetite and nobody would mind. There were, however, no such easy excuses for her. Jake felt quite certain that if she didn’t look at the photographs now they would say it was because she was a woman. No matter that she had already seen the body when first it had been found. With the exception of the detective who declined to look at the pictures, they had all seen the body.

The fourth man at the table, a scenes-of-crime officer whose name was Dalglish, continued with his oddly sympathetic exposition.

‘You will note the poor girl’s right leg folded underneath the left leg, the handbag placed carefully by the right elbow, and the spectacles laid a short way distant from the body.’

Jake glanced briefly at each one of the numerically-arranged photographs, a series of white bodies on the low damp ground. The curious arrangement of the legs put her in mind of a Tarot card: the hanged man.

‘The contents of the carrier bag were laid carefully on the ground. These included a silk-rayon-mix skirt and a bottle of synthetic perfume, both purchased in the store; and a copy of a novel by Agatha Christie, purchased from the Mystery Bookshop in Sackville Street, Piccadilly, and still in its paperbag. The title of the book was The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. But we won’t hold that against her.’

‘Who? Mary Woolnoth or Agatha Christie?’

Dalglish looked up from his notes and glanced around the table. Unable to determine who it was who had spoken he pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

‘Right then,’ he said finally. ‘Who’ll open the bidding?’

After a short silence, the detective seated on Jake’s right, the one who had made the remark, raised a grimy forefinger.

‘I’d like to claim this one,’ he said tentatively. ‘For a start there’s the killer’s M.O. — ’ He shrugged as if nothing else needed to be said about it.

Dalglish started typing onto his laptop computer. ‘You’re the — ?’

‘Hackney Hammerer,’ said the owner of the grimy forefinger.

‘All right,’ said Dalglish thoughtfully. ‘That’s one for the Hackney Hammerer.’ But a second detective was already shaking his head.

‘You can’t be serious,’ he said to the first detective. ‘Look, Jermyn Street is well off your man’s patch. Miles away. No, this is one of mine, I’m quite sure of it. This woman was a receptionist, right? Well we all know that the Motorcycle Messenger has already killed several receptionists and I don’t think that there can be any reasonable doubt that this Mary Woolnoth is his latest victim.’

Dalglish typed again. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re claiming her as well then.’

‘You bet I am.’

The first detective was pulling a face.

‘I don’t know why you’re claiming her, really I don’t. The Messenger always uses a blade. That’s his M.O. So why should he suddenly start using a hammer? That’s what I’d like to know.’

The second detective shrugged and looked out of the window. The wind gusted violently against the glass and for once Jake felt glad to be in a meeting at New Scotland Yard.

‘Yes well why should the Hammerer suddenly decide to move up west? Just answer me that.’

‘Because he probably knows we’ve got the whole of Hackney under surveillance. If he so much as bangs his own thumb over there we’ll have him.’

Jake decided that it was time for her to speak.

‘You’re both wrong,’ she said firmly.

‘I suppose you’re going to claim this as one of yours,’ said the second detective.

‘Well of course I am,’ she said. ‘It ought to be obvious to an idiot that this is the work of the Lipstick Man. We know he preys on girls who wear red lipstick. We know he uses their lipsticks to write abuse on their bodies. We know that for whatever reason, he’s careful always to put the handbag by the right elbow, and that he uses RIMFLY condoms. Of course I’m claiming Mary Woolnoth.’ She shook her head with irritation. ‘I just can’t believe the way you’re fighting over this girl, like she was some kind of prize. Jesus, you should hear yourselves, really you should.’