Later that afternoon Hanlon sat at the back of the small lecture hall, watching Dame Elizabeth give a talk on Kant, the German philosopher.
Hanlon rarely read books. She occasionally bought Triathlon magazine or The Economist if she had to make Tube journeys, but fiction she found pointless. Sometimes she studied history, or books on art, and philosophy had always interested her. It was why she’d read some of Dame Elizabeth’s books. She had that rare skill of being able to make a subject intelligible to the layperson. It was also, Hanlon guessed, the mental equivalent of a healthy snack. You felt a glow of virtue afterwards, for doing something not too arduous, but which was generally agreed to be good for you. At least that was how Hanlon, who subjected her body to endless workouts, felt. She should at least attempt something similar mentally, exercise for the brain.
She was annoyed that she was finding philosophy in class so difficult and simultaneously annoyed with herself at being annoyed.
Like anything, it had its own special vocabulary, terminology and shorthand, so she knew it was ridiculous to think that she could just come in cold and pick it up. Nevertheless, that’s how it was. She was used to being the expert, she guessed, to having people, even those who couldn’t stand her, defer to her. To be the weakest in the class was an unpleasant shock. Hanlon was big enough to recognize this. Maybe I need taking down a peg or two, she thought. Maybe I’ve grown too big-headed. Dame Elizabeth was proving everything Hanlon hoped she’d be. She stood in front of the desk, speaking without notes to the students in the raked seating of the auditorium. Although not tall, her personality dominated the large room, making it hard to look elsewhere. She was eye-catching, controlling, authoritative.
Hanlon guessed she must be in her mid-sixties now. Her snow-white hair was cut expertly and expensively short and contrasted with her tanned skin and piercing blue eyes, visible even at this distance. She was wearing a beautifully cut skirt and jacket. She looked immaculate, like an ex-Vogue cover girl, and she had a larger-than-life aura that commanded attention. True beauty is timeless and Dame Elizabeth was still beautiful, but Hanlon could imagine that when she was young she would have been effortlessly desirable. She was a world away from the hackneyed image of the smelly old lecturer, looking unwashed, in twinset tweeds and Oxfam jewellery.
She easily held the students’ attention as she talked about the Categorical Imperative and Synthetic and Analytic propositions. Hanlon hadn’t got a clue what she was on about, but it somehow didn’t matter. You don’t have to read music, or play an instrument yourself, to enjoy the sound it makes.
At the end of the lecture, there was a Q&A session and one part of this Hanlon did understand. The question of whether or not it was ever permissible to lie. In many ways, Hanlon’s whole life was taken up with lies, half-truths and evasions. Endless memories of interviews came instantly to mind.
‘Did you do it?’
‘No, I swear . . .’
‘Did you do it?’
‘No. Maybe. It depends what you mean by . . .’
‘I didn’t actually . . . I wouldn’t have unless . . . He/She/It made me . . .’
And all possible permutations of that theme. And her own job at the moment. She wasn’t Gallagher, working for the Home Office. That was a lie too. She lived her life surrounded by falsehood.
Was Fuller a killer, or was he innocent?
Was it truth, or lie?
It was a philosophical question and a very real one.
Dame Elizabeth said that, according to Kant, lying was never justified. Indeed could never be justified.
A student put her hand up and asked, what about if you were in Holland in 1942, sheltering a Jew in your attic and the Gestapo came to your house? Should you tell the truth about your guest, knowing they’d be taken to a death camp?
Yes, said Dame Elizabeth, you should, you must, tell the truth. She had been anticipating this question; it invariably came up. According to Kant, she explained, there can be no exceptions. There are no ifs and buts. It’s not up to you to decide which bit of a moral law you decide to obey. If you start tinkering around with the main premise, you’re left with nothing.
‘I hope that answers your question,’ she said. The student, who was Jewish, looked far from convinced. Dame Elizabeth continued. ‘For example, killing. If you kill, you have a very shaky right to condemn others.’
Hanlon frowned her disagreement.
Killing, for Hanlon, was not an abstract notion.
‘And I’ll leave you with this thought,’ said Dame Elizabeth. ‘All actions, all decisions have consequences whether seen or unforeseen. In choosing to do what you regard as the right thing, rather than obey a moral, universal law, you might be doing something terribly wrong.’ She paused. ‘Think about it! See you all next week.’
The audience, with the exception of Hanlon, got to their feet with the usual rustling of papers, conversations initiated or restarted, bags being moved, zipped up, tablets and laptops closing, goodbyes being said. Soon there was just Hanlon left, her elbows on the shelf in front of her, chin resting on the bridge formed by her interlaced fingers.
Her grey eyes studied Dame Elizabeth dispassionately. Hanlon was almost certainly the only person in the room to have killed other people. One purely in self-defence, one for vengeance and one for justice. Is my conscience clear? she thought. Yes. To you, Professor, and to you, Herr Kant, these are just theories.
Not for me.
I know what it’s like to have a life in the balance. Iris Campion’s words returned to her memory. Who are you to judge? Answer me that, Professor.
The professor looked up at Hanlon, the only person left in the room. She had requested the meeting and guessed this was the policewoman sent by Corrigan. Gallagher, she remembered, was the name that the assistant commissioner had given her. She thought with affection of the huge figure of the AC. Corrigan was one of those people who seemed to enjoy hiding their light under a bushel. Most academics in her experience pretended to be much brighter than they were. Corrigan pretended to be slow on the uptake and then, just as you relaxed, unleashed a salvo of expertly chosen fact and tight, analytical reasoning. She knew him well from her civil service committee work and advisory positions she had held. When the murder had happened, she turned to him immediately. Now he had sent her this unlikely-looking figure. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this woman.
Dame Elizabeth was not a superstitious woman, but the motionless figure sitting near the back of the auditorium looked very much as she would have imagined the Angel of Death to appear – dark, brooding, implacable.
She mentally shook herself in irritation at this atypical flight of fancy.
‘Do come down,’ she called, with an authority she didn’t really feel. ‘Come and join me in my office.’
She watched as, with an easy grace, Hanlon descended the stairs towards her. Dame Elizabeth shivered. Something about the policewoman was very disturbing indeed.