A Philosophical Investigation: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

ceiling, reminiscent of some early-Christian basilica, except that the scene depicted was a modern one reflecting Frankfurt’s history: Charlemagne, Goethe, the Rothschilds, and Marcuse all meeting up in one uneasy group against a sky-blue background, as if they had been waiting for God to put in an appearance and offer judgment.
    Jake regarded Woodford’s aquiline, inbred-looking and horizontal profile. Was there not some resemblance there to the King? she asked herself.
    ‘It’s always nice to show the French, the Italians, and the Spaniards lagging behind us in something or other,’ he murmured. ‘ “Patriarchal, not to say macho.” Yes, I liked that.’ His head dropped forward again as he caught sight of his Minister out of the bottom of his eye.
    ‘Ah now it’s the Minister’s turn. This should be good, don’t you think?’ He pointed to the title of the lecture as it appeared in the program resting on his thigh. ‘ “Retribution: the theme for a new century.” That should get ’em going.’
    Jake nodded but stayed silent. She didn’t much care for the Minister’s Old Testament view of crime and punishment. No more than she cared for the Minister’s private secretary.
    Woodford glanced at the empty seat beside him as the Minister, a tall handsome black woman wearing a well-tailored lilac suit, joined the German at the microphone. In their expensive, pastel-coloured outfits they looked like two exotic cagebirds.
    ‘Gilmour’s going to miss this,’ remarked Woodford. ‘If he’s not careful.’
    Jake leaned forwards on her chair to look across Woodford’s negligible stomach. Until now she had not noticed that Gilmour was absent from his seat.
    ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
    ‘File a message on his portable computer and see if you can find out what’s keeping him.’
    Jake retrieved her shoulder bag from the floor and took out her own PC. She unfolded the envelope-sized screen and tapped out Gilmour’s name and number on the miniature keyboard. After only a few seconds the word ‘responding’ appeared on the grey-green glass.
    ‘Woodford wants to know what’s keeping you,’ Jake typed. ‘Minister’s about to start speech. Sure you wouldn’t want to miss it.’
    ‘Indeed not,’ came the silent and, Jake suspected, sarcastic reply. ‘But looks as if another man from the Lombroso Program been murdered. Need to make some calls.’
    Mark Woodford, reading over Jake’s shoulder, sighed and shook his head. ‘She’s not going to like this,’ he said quietly as the Minister cleared her throat and took hold of the lectern. ‘Better tell your APC to set up a pictophone conference with the UK. I want the officer in charge of the case on the satellite as soon as possible.’
    Jake typed out what the Minister’s secretary had said and, motivated exclusively by a desire to escape what was coming, added her own offer of help. She sent the message and watched the blinking cursor expectantly.
    ‘No thanks,’ came Gilmour’s reply. ‘You stay and enjoy Mrs Miles’s lecture.’
    Out of the corner of her eye Jake checked to see that Woodford was not looking over her shoulder. But all his thoughts were for his Minister now, with a face that was as proud and attentive as a parent at a school nativity play. Jake wrote, ‘Lucky old me’, sent the message and then returned the PC to her bag.
     
     
    Jake had the impression that Grace Miles MP didn’t much care for her. The Junior Home Office Minister seemed to be one of those women who preferred only male colleagues and, since there were eight male bureaucrats in the Police Department responsible for scrutinising the activities of 45,000 employees at the Yard, on matters of law enforcement at least, any such preference would have been easily accommodated.
    Gilmour’s decision to choose Jake to accompany him to the conference had, she suspected, been as much inspired by a desire to irritate Mrs Miles as by the wish to demonstrate the equal