A Philosophical Investigation

14

Jake stood alone in the room, watching the man on the other side of the lightly tinted glass. He too was alone. He sat motionless in a chair, too tired to seem nervous, staring at Jake and yet not seeing her. Seeing himself and yet hardly interested in a reflection he had become used to during the many hours of his interrogation. He smoked languidly, like a man who had been waiting for a flight long delayed.

She envied him the cigarette. On her side of the two-way mirror, all smoking, even a nicotine-free cigarette, was very strictly forbidden. The glow of a cigarette end was the one thing a suspect could see on the other side of the mirror in the interview room.

The door to the observation room opened and Crawshaw came in. He came over to the mirror and yawned.

‘John George Richards,’ he said. ‘His story checks out, I’m afraid. He did make a delivery of olive oil to the shop in Brewer Street on the day Mary Woolnoth was murdered. But he made the delivery at around three-thirty, which was when Mary’s body was first discovered. One hour before that he was making a delivery in Wimbledon. The time was recorded on the computer when it issued his delivery note. He couldn’t possibly have driven all the way from Wimbledon, selected Mary, killed her, and then made the delivery in anything less than a couple of hours.

‘Then there are the previous victims: Richards was away on holiday in Mallorca when Alison Bradshaw was killed; and he was in hospital having his wisdom teeth out on the day that Stella Forsythe was murdered. All of which puts him in the clear.’

‘I suppose,’ she said reluctantly. ‘We had better let him go. Too bad. He was looking good.’

Crawshaw nodded wearily and turned to leave the room.

‘Oh, and, Ed,’ said Jake. ‘Better put the surveillance team on that bookshop again.’

Back in her office Jake tried to bring her mind back to Wittgenstein. She re-read a transcript of their first dialogue, alongside a forensic psychiatrist’s report which concluded, much as Jake herself had already concluded, that the subject was a highly organised non-social personality — an egocentric who disliked people generally; outwardly it was likely that he was capable of getting along with his fellow man but that he harboured resentment towards society as a whole.

Jake had smiled the previous evening when Sir Jameson Lang had telephoned her at home with his own reaction to this assessment: ‘The way these psychiatrists describe him,’ he had said, ‘he sounds like a typical academic. With a personality assessment like that I should recommend that you conduct your investigation here, in college.’

The report concluded that on evidence other than the killings themselves, there was nothing to indicate insanity. The killer killed because he liked killing. He enjoyed the sensation of power that it gave him. He was playing God.

‘That’s something different,’ Lang had remarked. ‘Now, there you have the typical novelist.’

Jake had asked him how he proposed to handle a second dialogue, assuming that Wittgenstein rang again.

‘Moral philosophical argument didn’t seem to have much effect, did it?’ Lang had said. ‘Next time I thought I’d argue from a phenomenological point of view: scrutinise a few essences and meanings he might otherwise have taken for granted. You know, concentrate on the objective logical elements in thought. It’s rather a useful way of investigating these extreme states of mind. Just the thing if he should turn out to be existentialist. Which wouldn’t surprise me at all.’

But she was not long back at her desk when Wittgenstein did ring a second time; and as things transpired, there was to be no opportunity for Jameson Lang to argue with Wittgenstein.

Immediately he telephoned, Wittgenstein declared that in response to Jake’s own lecture to the EC symposium on techniques of law enforcement and criminal investigation, he intended to deliver his own lecture, entitled ‘The Perfect Murder’ which he claimed he had recently given to the Society of Connoisseurs in Murder.

When Jake tried to open a conversation with him, Wittgenstein declared that they could either listen or he would ring off and kill someone straightaway. So, in the hope of preventing another murder, and in the vague expectation that they might learn something more of Wittgenstein himself, Jake reluctantly agreed.

In all, Wittgenstein spoke for almost eighteen minutes. He spoke as if there had indeed been an audience that was composed of anything but Scotland Yard detectives: as if there had just occurred some splendid dinner at the Guildhall and now, in front of five hundred guests wearing evening dress who comprised the Society of Connoisseurs in Murder, he, Wittgenstein, had risen from his place to give the keynote address.

After several minutes Jake glanced at her wristwatch. She didn’t much care to be lectured by anyone, least of all a killer talking about the perfect murder. It crossed her mind to interrupt him, to challenge one or two of the statements Wittgenstein had made. But at the same time she did not want to risk angering him and provoking him to ring off. So she kept silent, fascinated with this protracted insight into the mind of a mass-murderer, occasionally glancing over at Stanley who, on catching her eye, would tap the side of his head meaningfully.

But when Wittgenstein announced that at the conclusion of his lecture, he would be committing another murder, Jake was finally moved to contradict him.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I forbid you.’

The voice on the telephone uttered a short laugh. ‘What’s that you say?’

‘I forbid you to kill anyone,’ Jake repeated firmly.

There was a short silence. ‘May I proceed with my lecture please?’ said Wittgenstein. He sounded like some dry-as-dust old academic.

‘Only if you promise that you will discuss this matter at the end of it,’ said Jake.

‘What matter is that?’

‘What you said about killing another man. You promise to discuss it or I hang up right now. D’you hear?’

Another pause. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘May I continue now?’

‘We’ll discuss it?’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

‘Very well then. Continue.’

‘Let me turn now to the murders themselves...’

‘Be my guest,’ said Jake.

But this time Wittgenstein ignored her.

Jake settled back in her chair and lit a cigarette. From time to time she glanced at the pictophone screen to see how Sir Jameson Lang was reacting to this bizarre example of public speaking in absentia. But the Cambridge philosopher and Master of Trinity College betrayed no signs of anything but fascination.

She reflected that he was probably thinking of how his own fictional detective creation, Plato, would have handled the situation. Better than she was doing, Jake didn’t doubt. She admired and respected Lang, but all the same she found his interest in crime rather puzzling. She knew that he was hardly unique in this respect. The English fascination with the murder mystery was, as even now Wittgenstein was suggesting, more prevalent than ever. She had no explanation for this peculiar phenomenon other than the purely sociological: that it was the product of society’s own decadence. Of that particular characteristic there was more than enough in Wittgenstein’s twisted lecture and irritation began to give way to a certain astonishment the detective felt with regard to the perversity of a murderer’s arguments.

Astonishment became absorption and after her first interruption she did not challenge him again. Later on, she thought she had been naive to have trusted him to keep his word, for Wittgenstein had no sooner delivered the last phrases of his speech, which was to pass over a series of supposedly traditional toasts to a number of famous murderers, than he had rung off, leaving Jake to curse him for a liar.

But what was far worse than the feeling that she had been duped was the knowledge that somewhere he was almost certainly in the very act of committing his twelfth murder.

Later on that day, Jake was called to the City of London where, beside a public bar on Lower Thames Street, an as-yet unidentified male Caucasian’s body had been found with six gunshots to the back of the head. There wasn’t much to see beyond the simple confirmation that Wittgenstein had struck again and, leaving the scenes-of-crime officers to do their job, Jake returned to the Yard.

She found Detective Sergeant Jones and a tall, dark, unshaven man eating a bag of crisps waiting in her office. Both men stood up as Jake walked in and hung her coat on the hatstand.

‘And who’s this?’ she enquired.

‘This is Mr Parmenides,’ explained Jones. ‘I’ve taken a statement off him, but I think you’ll find what he’s got to say worth hearing yourself, ma’am.’

Jake sat down behind her desk and poured herself a glass of mineral water.

‘I’m all ears,’ she said wearily.

Jones prompted the man with a nod.

‘A few days ago,’ said the man, whose name and accent seemed to confirm that he was Greek, ‘I think it was Monday... Anyway, I left home to go to work. This is at my cousin’s restaurant in Piccadilly. I always start work at around six. But on my way I see this man is following me. I notice him for the first time on the train from Wandsworth, where I live, to Victoria. Then, later on, I see him again when I come out of the Brain Research Institute.’

Parmenides glanced uncertainly at Jones. ‘You sure she all right to tell this?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Jones. ‘The chief inspector won’t tell anyone about you. You have my word.’

The Greek seemed reassured. ‘OK. I believe. Well, Chief Inspector, the fact is that I am VMN-negative. You know about this thing I suppose.’

Jake nodded.

‘I am going to the Institute once a week for counselling on how to deal with situations which may make me feel very violent, sometimes. Like football. And Turks. What will happen to me, I am not sure, but—’ He shrugged nervously.

‘Please go on,’ said Jake, more interested now.

‘Well you see, this man comes after me. I take the underground from Victoria and he is there again when I come up in the Green Park. Then I am walking along Piccadilly, to my cousin’s restaurant like I say, and I say to myself, “Why should this guy be following you, Kyriakos?” So I go into the church there, I–I don’t remember the name—’

‘It’s St James’s Church, ma’am,’ said Jones.

‘I know the one,’ said Jake.

‘Yes, that is it. And the man follows me inside. Now I am sure of him following me. He sits behind me, several seats behind. So after one or two minutes I am feeling very angry indeed at him. And so I get up and grab him round the throat and say “for why are you following me, you bastard?” ’ Parmenides made an apologetic sort of gesture. ‘You know, I have this fear that maybe he is something to do with the Lombroso Program. That maybe he is some kind of secret policeman.’

‘Did he say anything?’ said Jake.

‘He say that he is a tourist. So I give him a good shake and say I don’t believe. I say he will tell me for why he follows me or I will hurt him. Then what happens is that these two people come into the church and for one second I think they are with this man, and for another second I suddenly realise how I am behaving inside a church, of all places. I try to remember what my counsellor has told me about keeping my calm and holding my cool and so, I let him go and he runs off. Well after that, I think maybe he is just some sort of queer or something and maybe he just fancy me.’

Jake winced. ‘And what persuaded you that he might be something else?’

‘This man following me has left something behind him in the church and which I picked up. It is an A-Z, of London. And I am scared when I look at it later, in my cousin’s restaurant, because the road where I live in Wandsworth — really, it is Balham — has been underlined, in the index at the back. With the number of my house. So have others too. Well, now it’s yesterday, OK? And the fact is that I finally get up my courage to open this letter that my counsellor has given me. The one which the police have written, telling me please to make contact soon for my own safety. The reason I have not opened this before is that I am afraid that it is maybe some sort of deportation order — maybe even to quarantine people like me. Anyway I read what it say and then I remember the book and I think maybe the two are connected. And that maybe the man with the book is the one who has been shooting men in the head, and that these men are people like me. So, I come here today.’

‘Did you bring the A-Z?’

Jones handed over a clear plastic bag containing the book.

Jake nodded. ‘You certainly did the right thing, Mr Parmenides,’ she told him. ‘Do you mind telling me your VMN codename?’

The Greek grinned sheepishly. ‘It is William Shakespeare,’ he replied. ‘What a great honour, yes?’

‘Well sir, I think you’ve had a very fortunate escape,’ said Jake. ‘You were perfectly right. That man is the man we’re looking for. The one who’s killed all the other men. And he would almost certainly have murdered you too, had you not acted when you did. But I must ask you not to tell anyone else about this. You see, our only chance of catching him is by making sure we don’t alarm him. If he suspects that any of his potential victims will be expecting him, then he’ll go to ground and we might never get him. Do you see?’

Parmenides nodded. ‘Sure thing. I understand. No problem, miss.’

‘I’d like to ask you another favour, sir. I want you to go with Detective Sergeant Jones here and look at some computer-generated pictures we have of this man. See if you can’t improve them. After all, you’ve had the best look at him of anyone so far.’

‘Like on the telly. I know. Yes, OK.’

Jake nodded at Jones. ‘And when Mr Parmenides has finished, Jones, have a car take him home. Then I want a guard watching him for twenty-four hours a day.’ She smiled at the Greek.

‘It’s just a precaution,’ she explained. ‘I think you probably scared him off for good, but we can’t afford to be too careful.’

The Greek got up. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘No; thank you, Mr Parmenides.’

‘All right, sir,’ said Jones, ushering him through Jake’s doorway. ‘This way, please.’

‘And, Sergeant...’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Do you know where Inspector Stanley is?’

‘Not exactly, no, ma’am.’

‘Find him, will you? Tell him to get himself in here.’

‘Certainly. By the way, you’ll find a list of all the addresses that have been underlined on your desk, ma’am. Do you want me to pass the A-Z on to the lab, for fingerprints?’

‘It’s all right. I’ll do it. And, Jones? Well done.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

When Jones and the Greek had gone, Jake read through the list of addresses he had typed out for her. A few of them she recognised as the homes of some of Wittgenstein’s previous victims.

Ten minutes later a grumpy-looking Stanley presented himself in her office.

‘Where have you been?’

Stanley looked aggrieved. ‘In the canteen,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to be able to eat something today.’

‘You can forget about dinner,’ Jake said. ‘You and I have got work to do.’ She explained about Parmenides finding Wittgenstein’s A-Z. ‘Apart from the ones he’s already hit, I want every one of these addresses put under round-the-clock surveillance. Don’t inform the occupants. No sense in alarming them unnecessarily. But if Wittgenstein tries to kill inside London again, we’ll have him.’

Jake allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction.

‘Let’s just pray he’s not tired of working in London,’ said Stanley.

Jake smiled. ‘You know what they say about the man who’s tired of London...?’

A lecture in memory of John Williams, before the Society of Connoisseurs in Murder, is traditionally an occasion to celebrate the fine art of murder, and I am honoured to have been asked to deliver it.

John Williams, one of the earliest British members of the modern aesthetic movement in murder, was a distinguished representative of those cultural values which are closest to my own heart. Like paintings or sculpture it is certain that murders too have their own peculiar differences and shades of merit, and when one examines the facts surrounding the two murders which John committed in December 1811, it should be clear to us all that he was indeed a great artist.

He was not trained as such; nor was he particularly aware of his gift. But I think he would have been the first to recognise that Art is never standing still: that what might be dismissed as foul murder today might be Art tomorrow. This principle is also mine. That one murder is better or worse than another in point of aesthetics is something I have based my whole philosophy of life upon.

As Thomas De Quincey, the previous occupant of this illustrious chair, said, in the first of his two Williams lectures: ‘Murder... may be laid hold of by its moral handle (as it generally is in the pulpit and at the Old Bailey); and that, I confess, is its weak side; or it may also be treated aesthetically, as the Germans call it — that is, in relation to good taste.’

The moral issue is neatly disposed of by De Quincey. He argues that when a murder has not yet been done, when there exists merely an intent to commit murder, then it behoves us to treat it morally. But once a murder is over and done with, then, he says, what’s the use of any more virtue? What indeed? But enough has been said about morality. Now comes the turn of taste and the fine arts.

I do not propose to spend too long referring back to De Quincey. But it would be wrong if I did not acknowledge my own personal debt to the thoughts which he expressed to this society as long ago as 1827, on the need to murder philosophers.

Would that Descartes had been killed, says Thomas. Hobbes was a fine subject for murder. Certainly one might have counted on Leibniz being murdered. Kant narrowly escaped being murdered. And, despite what is commonly held, De Quincey reveals not only that Spinoza met a violent and well-deserved end, but also that Bishop Berkeley murdered Père Malebranche by means of an argument which deranged his liver.

Today it is even more obvious just how much good can result from the murder of one dusty, arid, old philosopher. Both Marx and Freud were murdered by Jaspers. Bertrand Russell and G. E. Moore should have been murdered by Wittgenstein, as Ramsey certainly was. Heidegger died very properly at the hands of A. J. Ayer. It can be argued that Quine may indeed have murdered Strawson, however if he did, it could only have been with the assistance of Skinner. And Chomsky, well Chomsky may turn out to have killed nearly everyone he came into contact with.

That is another matter, however, and I shall say no more of it on this occasion. But before I come to the main subject of my lecture, which is ‘The Perfect Murder’, it is worth reminding my audience that such views as are expressed here are not likely to find favour with certain sections of the community. The gap which exists between the aesthetic ideals of this society and the dead letter of the law is dramatised, as I hope I may be excused for pointing out, by my absence. I must apologise for this. I did ask myself if I should take a risk and deliver my lecture in person. The answer was, more or less, ‘What would be the chances of my being arrested and prevented from finishing my lecture?’ With regret and out of respect to the memory of John Williams, I took the point.

It is for this reason that I am obliged to deliver this lecture via the Injupitersatellite now orbiting the earth. Perhaps then this event could be thought of as a form of extra-terrestrial communication: you, the inhabitants of the earth, receiving a message by mysterious processes from the stars. What could be more metaphysical?

Two hundred years ago, De Quincey described the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as the Augustan Age of Murder — an age in which the fine art of murder flourished. A golden age of murder, so to speak. But what of our own age? Certainly the last hundred odd years have seen a greater quantity of murder than ever before. Has there also been an appreciable increase in the quality? Can we argue indeed that our times might have witnessed a renaissance in the art of murder?

Possibly. Let me begin by pointing out the huge influence that murder has had on all the other fine arts.

Cinema, now acknowledged as the dominant twentieth-century art form, has become a showcase for ingenious and wellchoreographed murder, albeit fictional. Few of us bat an eyelid when we see a murder on the screen, no matter how realistic.

The crime novel and murder mystery have never been more popular than they are today. Art and photographic exhibitions routinely include depictions of murders and their victims. In the performing arts also, shows like West Side Story, Sweeney Todd, The Phantom of the Opera, Jack! Ian and Myra, and The Yorkshire Ripper have all made music out of murderous subjects.

But it is not just Art that finds its single most important inspirational motif in Murder. The imitation or simulation of murder has become modern society’s driving recreational force. An increasingly large number of Reality Approximation video games actually provide the player with the impression that he is killing people, sometimes in their hundreds.

Elsewhere, television news-gathering services are regularly deployed to report on murders as they are detected and solved, following which their perpetrators become the stars of their own televised trials and punishment. Frequently it happens that their stories are turned into books which are then made into films. And thus real life fuels Art and the whole thing comes full circle again.

In this way we may see how fundamental murder actually is in our society. It is quite unthinkable that there should not be murder as that there should not be lying. And here lies its artistic importance. If murder has been an important source of artistic inspiration to the twentieth century, we can surely find instances where murder itself may be judged artistically.

That murder can exist within the concept of an artistic ideal is more generally accepted than might at first be realised. People discuss a concept of the perfect murder with much greater frequency than they ever do the perfect painting, or the perfect poem, or the perfect symphony. It might even be argued on this evidence alone that it is only the fine art of murder in which artistic perfection can be achieved at all.

Yet what is the substance of that perfection? Not merely that the murderer should get away with it, although that is undoubtedly important. Simply pushing a man off a cliff on a dark stormy night might well be hard to prove, but it hardly seems to fulfil the ideal that exists within the concept of the perfect murder. The perfect murder has, at its heart, a degree of difficulty in the problem of how to kill someone and get away with it; and also an ingenuity as to how this problem is solved and carried out.

Of course, it is these rare perfect murders which are the paradigm of artistry in homicide and it is ironic that while they continue to remain in a state of perfection — that is, they are unsolved — the artistry must go unsung. It is only when they fall some way short of perfection that they may be celebrated at all.

Here is another argument for why murder must be considered as belonging to the finer arts. For almost every case of premeditated murder aims for that ideal of perfection. Murder allows for no compromise.

As I said earlier, the twentieth century has witnessed acts of murder on an unprecedented scale. Two world wars have served to devalue human life in general. Therefore it might seem unlikely that this last century should host a renaissance in the art of murder. Equally, there has been such a glut of assassinations in recent years that one might mistake quantity for quality. But there is little to be admired in the great majority of these murders, and most readers of the News of the World are satisfied with anything, provided it is bloody enough. Good taste, however, requires something more.

In searching for examples of murders which might distinguish this century from previous times, one must look around for some kind of yardstick as to how they may be judged. Here I think that one can do no better than to adopt De Quincey’s own rough rule of thumb. Nerve is crucial, he tells us; and the degree of the murderer’s audacity may be judged from the time and place of the murder. Thus, there is an art in killing a man on a busy street during broad daylight and remaining undetected. But most important of all, he argues, is the victim himself: he ought to be a good man, since only thus can the final artistic purpose of murder be demonstrated. This purpose is the same as that of tragedy which exists, in Aristotle’s phrase, ‘to cleanse the heart by means of pity and terror’. As De Quincey explains, how can there be any pity for one tiger who is destroyed by another tiger?

De Quincey shrinks from providing examples himself, as might be expected of a man whose familiarity with killing extended only as far as an attempt on the life of a tom cat.

On the other hand, I have no such scruples. It is true that I cannot claim to have killed any good men, whose deaths would arouse pity. The men I have killed would undoubtedly have killed many others. But still, you find your own murderous vocation where you can and my own personal tally of murders surpasses an attempt on a mere cat. I will, of course, be murdering in this fashion once again, at the conclusion of my lecture.

I think I may with some justification then, claim myself equal to the task of judging the artistic merit of other murders; But before I turn to an examination of various victims and their murderers, I must say just a few words about the means whereby murder is done.

The finest work of the nineteenth century, occurring so late in the century that it is tempting to regard them as belonging properly to the twentieth century are, without doubt the White-chapel murders of 1888.

Nevertheless I am of the opinion that the nineteenth century’s greatest artist was not equal to the best in that which followed. Jack the Ripper may have achieved the status of a legend, however I cannot consent to place him on the same level as Ramon Mercader — even his name sounds like murder — the man who assassinated Trotsky in 1940.

Trotsky, you will remember, had been expelled from the Soviet Communist Party following his defeat at the hands of Stalin for the Party leadership. Trotsky fled Russia and settled in Mexico City where he continued to oppose Stalin. None of these facts, however, would serve to make Trotsky’s murder the work of art we judge it now. Our appreciation of this particular killing rests on one thing and one thing alone: Mercader’s unique choice of murder weapon. For what Paganini was to the violin, so Mercader was to the ice-pick. An inspired selection and one with which Mercader carried our art to a point of colossal sublimity. Consider for a moment the sharp symbolism of his choice: a crude, proletarian tool so very much like the hammer and sickle that graphically represents the Bolshevik Revolution. Ice so common in Russia, and yet the privilege only of the wealthy in Mexico. It was almost as if Mercader was trying to remind Trotsky, living comfortably in Mexico City, of his own socialist origins. Then, reflect upon the physical area that was the subject of Mercader’s assault, Trotsky’s brain, the last repository of powerful opposition to Stalin. Acting through the person of Mercader, Stalin seems almost literally to be making the point to Trotsky that he will destroy all such counter-revolutionary thinking. The hard and unyielding tyrant’s beak breaking upon the shell that contains the egg of opposition. Brilliant. Stalin rightly honoured this homicidal masterpiece by making Mercader a Hero of the Soviet Union. Can we do less than name Mercader as this century’s greatest exponent of the fine art of murder?

But I feel there is one more murder of artistic merit which is worthy of mention, and that is the murder, in 1955, of David Blakely. He was the lover of Ruth Ellis who, having murdered him, was the last woman to be hanged for murder in England.

Blakely and Ellis had been lovers for two years. It was a turbulent, jealous relationship, with many infidelities on both sides. One night, Blakely left the Magnolia public house in Hampstead and found Ellis waiting for him with a revolver. She did not hesitate and shot Blakely several times at point-blank range. The artistic merit of this murder stems from a number of factors: the unfeminine choice of weapon, the unusual determination of the murderer herself and, of course (and most important of all), the singularity of the female artist. Just as it is difficult to find a female composer to rank alongside the likes of Mozart and Beethoven, or a female painter who stands as tall as Titian or Goya, so with the art of murder, there is a dearth of talent among the gentler sex.

Of course recent neurological research has revealed the true reason for this absence of murderous instinct among women; and only time will tell if other aspects of creativity find similar explanation. But let us recognise a real contribution from a woman when one does occur and praise it accordingly.

You will recall that earlier on, I posed the question: Has the twentieth century witnessed a renaissance in the art of murder? Let me now answer this question.

There has been such a renaissance, but it is only one such as Walter Pater might have recognised in that I am describing a temperament, an inwardness of response that is in itself a new form of perception. This temperament declares the weightlessness of modern men and the precariousness of their prejudices. It recognises that all knowledge is merely provisional and that there is no essential truth save death itself. Anything is permissible which might reveal the soul of the artist, including murder.

This renaissance, this outbreak of the art of murder, identifies not the fruit of experience but, given its awful brevity, experience itself as an end. It breathes an atmosphere of absolute uncertainty, of continuous change, of new opinions, of a refusal to acquiesce in some facile orthodoxy. As Victor Hugo says, we are all under sentence of death, but with an indefinite reprieve. Therefore, with this particular renaissance, what we are seeing is an appetite for a quickened sense of life, a multiplied consciousness.

Writing in 1891, Oscar Wilde attributed the commonplace character of literature to the decay of lying as an art. More than a century later I feel I can celebrate a century’s worth of literary and artistic excellence and attribute it to the renaissance of the murder as an art, a science, and a social pleasure.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, in conclusion, let me pass over the usual toasts to the Old Man of the Mountains, Charles the Hammer, the Jewish Sicarri, Burke and Hare, the Thugdom in all its branches, and give you my next victim, for I see that he is now abroad and so I must be about my business.

When Ocean Wharf, and other developments like it, was built, it seemed to herald a new lease of life for Docklands, an area which, at that time, had been in steep decline for over twenty years. It was but a temporary respite, but one bubble in the South Sea foam of bubbles that was the London property market of the late 1980s. Even before the last London brick had been laid, the final lick of paint applied to the mural of Churchill here, in the lobby of Winston Mansions, companies like the one which had built Ocean Wharf started to go bankrupt. And, as the years progressed and many of the other developments remained uncompleted, and the local council started to move more and more homeless families into flats which had once been on the market for hundreds of thousands of pounds, then dollars, buildings started to go unrepaired and prices tumbled even further.

The century came round a very sharp corner to find, once again, that Docklands was in steep decline. Indeed the decline seemed all the more dramatic because of all the money which had been spent trying to reclaim it for posterity, to no avail. As the first decade of the new millennium gave way to the second, there remained only a few isolated pockets of comparative affluence, like Ocean Wharf, in what was quickly becoming an urban nightmare of Orwellian proportions.

You might ask why, despite my wealth, I chose to come and live here, in what are virtually siege-like conditions: the architects who designed this development could never have foreseen that one day, Ocean Wharf would be surrounded by an electrified fence. Nor could they have ever envisaged that this would have been necessitated by a local crime rate equivalent to that of New York’s infamous South Bronx.

Staring out of my seventh-floor window here in Winston Mansions, insulated from most sound and unfiltered air, it was hard to know what it was they had envisaged when first they constructed their models. Did they ever imagine shops and stores closed down for lack of business, looted of all their fittings, becoming the first outposts of whole shanty towns of anarchic youth? Could they ever have thought that their neat little parklands with their brightly painted benches and streetlamps would one day be wastelands of abandoned cars and fly tips? And those pieces of plastic, those human replicas which had seemed to happily people the balsa wood scale models — what would the architects have said if they had been told of the statistical probability that each one of them was engaged in the commission of a crime? It was well-named, this Isle of Dogs. ‘Weialala leia Wallala leialala’ went the police car’s siren as it chased some lawless thugs across the unreal cityscape.

And yet it was for all these local attractions that I chose to come and live here. I had a vast amount of comfortable living space at my disposal, and at a very reasonable price too. Most important of all, I could indulge my taste for an outsider’s existence, of living on the very edge of things, in the clean margin of a very dirty notebook. And yet still very handy for central London.

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song. Standing here, looking out across the river I found it easy to imagine myself singled out, alone. I have a temperamental hunger for solipsism. With me this is no intellectual posture, but a moral and mystical attitude, so strong that if I were to injure my leg it would lame my thoughts. For after all, knowing pain means being advised by some feature of our pain as to its whereabouts and being able to describe it. In the same way my kinesthetic sensations advise me of the movement and position of my limbs.

I let my index finger make an easy gathering movement of small amplitude. I either hardly feel it, or don’t feel it at all: but perhaps just a little, in the end of the finger, as a slight tension. Does this sensation advise me of the movement? For even without seeing I can describe the movement exactly. I must feel it, to know it — that seems certain. But knowing it only means being able to describe it.

Now if that same finger makes the same movement, but this time against the trigger of my gun, a slight pressure and metallic coldness against the flesh of my finger can advise me that it and the trigger are indeed moving. And watching the collapse of a man’s body in front of me, his head machine-gunning the air with blood, enables me, even without watching my finger, to know that it has moved at least once.

But to know that it has moved six times is not a matter of keeping count: the gun is almost silent, as I have described earlier. The ears are nevertheless affected more strongly than by silence. I don’t feel this in my ears, yet it has this effect. I know the number of the sounds because, after six, I move quickly in another direction.