A Philosophical Investigation: A Novel (2 page)

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.’

The first detective looked up from trying to thumbnail some of the dirt off his forefinger and shook his head back at her. ‘When did the Lipstick Man ever use a hammer to kill his victims? When did he ever put a bag over their heads? Never. That’s my man’s M.O.’

‘And when has this Hammerer ever so much as indicated that he even knows how to write - let alone with a lipstick?’

‘Maybe he read about it in the papers?’

‘Oh come on,’ said Jake. ‘You know better than that. All special features of a killer’s
modus operandi
are held back from the papers for precisely that reason.’

Anticipating some further argument from the second detective, Jake turned to face him, and added, ‘The fact that this girl happened also to be a receptionist is purely coincidental.’

‘It may be convenient for you to look at it that way, Chief Inspector Jakowicz,’ he said. ‘But if you’ll think about it for just a minute longer you’ll remember what you’re so often telling the rest of us. Multiples tend to pre-select a type of victim to murder and then stick with it. Whereas the M.O. can vary a great deal, depending on the killer’s level of confidence, which is itself a factor of how many people he’s killed.’

‘I don’t think you can ever properly define a type of victim by profession,’ argued Jake. ‘Her age and physical appearance are what count most of all. And for what it’s worth, I’ve never been all that convinced by your theory that the Messenger is predisposed to kill only receptionists. As I recall, one of his early victims was an office cleaner. Moreover he has never attempted to penetrate any of them, with or without a condom.’

Jake felt herself flush with anger. She made a fist and tried to hold on to her temper. The fact that Mary Woolnoth had once been a beautiful young woman with her whole future in front of her seemed to have escaped her two colleagues. She stared balefully at the third detective, the one who had declined to examine Mary Woolnoth’s forensic photographs and who, until now, had remained silent.

‘What about you?’ she snapped. ‘Are you in the game or not? You’d better put up now, or keep out.’ It was indeed, she considered, like some ghastly game of poker.

The man raised his hands in surrender.

‘No, not mine, this one,’ he said. Looking around the table he added, ‘But for what it’s worth, I agree with the Chief Inspector. This looks to me like the work of the Lipstick Man.’

‘I must say, I agree,’ said Dalglish.

The first detective pulled another face.

‘Come off it, George,’ said Dalglish. ‘Look, I know you’re desperate for a lead, but this isn’t it, I’m certain. Your Hammerer’s never once murdered outside of Hackney.’

The second detective remained resolutely unconvinced.

‘Receptionists, typists, cleaners,’ he said moodily. ‘Fact is, they all work in an office. We know that’s the way the Messenger selects his victims. He kills them while he’s making a delivery.’ He paused for a moment and then added, ‘Look I’d still like Mary Woolnoth as a possible.’

Dalglish glanced at Jake who shrugged back at him.

‘Provided my man gets the first credit for this kill, I’ve no objections,’ she said. ‘And if there are any developments, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

Dalglish returned to his computer. ‘All right then, we’re agreed,’ he said. ‘That’s number - ?’

‘- six,’ said Jake.

‘Number six for the Lipstick Man.’

After the meeting Jake stopped the detective who had supported her claim, to thank him.

‘That’s all right, ma’am,’ he said.

‘Detective Inspector Stanley, isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but as head of Gynocide, I’m supposed to know all the cases of multiple murders involving females - ’

Stanley lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Actually, I’m Homicide, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Really I shouldn’t have been there at all, only there was a bit of a mix-up. Somehow we received information that it was a man, not a girl who had been found. I’m looking for a multiple who’s killed seven men. Well, I didn’t want to say anything in case I looked stupid.’

Jake nodded. That explained why he hadn’t bothered to examine the photographs.

‘As it happens,’ Stanley added, ‘I found it quite fascinating. Are these meetings always like this?’

‘You mean, do we always squabble about whether a body belongs to this or that investigation? No, not often. Usually, things are a little more clear cut than today.’

As she spoke, Jake thought of the pictures of Mary Woolnoth and of what the pathologist’s scalpel had done to her. You couldn’t get more clear cut than that, she reflected. For a moment something started to rise in her throat. No murder was ever quite as brutal as what took place on the autopsy slab. A clear cut, from chin to pelvis, the skeleton and the organs hauled out of the flesh, like a suitcase ransacked by customs at the airport. She choked back her emotions with another question.

‘A multiple who preys on men. That’s quite unusual, isn’t it?’

Detective Inspector Stanley agreed that it was.

‘I presume that this would be the Lombroso Killer that we’re referring to?’

He nodded.

‘I thought Detective Chief Superintendent Challis was in charge of that investigation.’

‘He is,’ said Stanley. ‘It was him who sent me along to this meeting. Just to check that it wasn’t one of ours.’

‘What’s his M.O.?’

‘Who, the Lombroso Killer? Oh, nothing particularly unusual. He always shoots them in the back of the head. Six times. Mafia-style. Why do you ask?’

Jake shook her head. ‘No reason. Just curious I suppose.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Well I must be going. I have a plane to catch. Not to mention my own multiple.’