The Cambridge Theorem

by Tony Cape

  “And a copy of the parish magazine that you typed?”

  “Why, of course, on the piano seat. I’m afraid the style is a little laborious, but I get very little help with it, you see…”

  “You typed it in order, front to back?” asked Smailes, flipping through the four pages.

  “Yes, of course,” said Alice Wentworth, a little annoyed. “Is there anything else?”

  “No. I’d like to stay a while, if I can, and study this. Is that all right? Can I use this pad here?”

  “Why, of course. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Love one,” he said with a smile.

  When Alice Wentworth came back with the tea, she said, “You can read the last things Simon wrote on there, can’t you? Is there something I should know about? Is that why we were burgled?”

  “I don’t know,” said Smailes. “I need to look.”

  Rewinding the ribbon cassette slowly, Smailes was able to reconstruct the last words that Alice Wentworth had typed, and then find them in the magazine. The letters flowed across three tiers on the ribbon, in waves, and he had to allow for overstrikes where the self-correcting key had been used for errors. It was awkward at first, but he got the hang of it. He rewound it about a foot and found it was much easier to read forwards. Then he took a breath and rewound the ribbon slowly to the beginning. He began to transcribe and found notes he thought he recognized from Bowles’ research into the Oxford archives. It was laborious work, and Smailes’ stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, he realized. The light was failing and he looked out into the street. There were no white cars in sight. He kept transcribing, slowly, hour after hour.

  Then the text suddenly became more recent. Smailes read an account from the Oxford archives of an unusual skiing accident. A very unusual accident indeed, considering with whom Smailes had been speaking just the previous day. Then he read an account of a visit to the Public Records Office in London, and felt his throat go dry. Then there was a gap, and Bowles’ typewriter had pecked out the letters THE CAMBIDGE THEOREM. At that moment Alice Wentworth came back into the room and Smailes felt as if he leapt about a foot in the air. He was thankful she did not try to read over his shoulder.

  “Mr. Smailes, it’s half past ten and we’re going to bed. Are you going to be much longer? It’s all right, of course, but I could stay up if you think you’re going to have something to tell me.”

  “No, I’m afraid I was wrong,” he said. “Everything here I think I recognize from Simon’s files. At least so far. I’m nearly finished. Probably another hour or so.”

  “Oh well, that’s what the police said. They said these big houses are vulnerable because of the French windows in the back. I suppose we should get a stronger lock, or something. I think the insurance will cover it. You know, I ought to tell you since it was sort of your suggestion that made me think of it. I showed Simon’s Kennedy manuscript to an old University friend of mine, who’s a literary agent in London. She was impressed. She thinks she may be able to get it published.”

  “Really?”

  “She said something about the last half needing heavy editing, but that overall, the piece had merit. Peter and I are very pleased. It will be sort of Simon’s testament. Well, you can let yourself out, I suppose. Will you tell me if you find anything unexpected?”

  “Yes, I’ll call,” said Smailes.

  When she left, he resumed the slow transcription of Bowles’ final piece of detective work, the summary of all the research he had made in Oxford and Cambridge, the devastating conclusions he had been able to reach from his unique combination of doggedness and recklessness. The implications were extraordinary, and Bowles had spent the last night of his life carefully cataloguing the corrosive impact of the treachery. When he had finished, Smailes could feel the sweat standing on his face, could feel it sticking between his fingers. He was under no illusion about the nature of the document that lay in front of him. It could wreck careers, fracture alliances, even bring down a Government. Smailes was haunted by his sense of the dead student’s brilliance, the lucid intellect speaking to him in this quiet suburban night from beyond death. A death which now could be seen as an obvious murder. And Bowles’ killers had so nearly got away with it; a flawed destruction job, a botched burglary, elementary mistakes. When he reached for the telephone on the desk and told the operator to reverse the charges to George Dearnley’s number, he felt quite calm. He looked at his watch and saw it was almost midnight.

  He heard George hesitantly accept the charges and then growl angrily at him, “Derek, what the hell is this?” After Smailes had explained his activities since their last meeting, and taken the fifteen minutes or so to read him the transcript, George said, “Jesus Holy Christ,” and said then nothing for a long time.

  “You at the sister’s, you said?” asked George eventually.

  “Yes.”

  “They know what you found out?”

  “No, I bluffed. Said there was nothing new.”

  “Come back. Come straight over here. Bring me the papers. I’ll wait up.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Call the Commander of Special Branch in London. I’ve got a twenty-four hour number somewhere. Take it from there.”

  “George, I’ve been tailed the last few days. Tried to follow me over here, but I threw him. A custom Rover registered to Mick Fowler. Said he hired it out to a bloke from the Ministry of Defense.”

  “Mick Fowler? Ministry of Defense? Jesus Derek, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “George, I had nothing until half an hour ago, did I?”

  Dearnley swore softly and there was another pause. “This Rover over there now? You want to get a squad car from the Rickmansworth station? I can call.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure I threw him. They’ll know they’ve blown it by now. I doubt they’re still around.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “You tell me George. You tell me. I’ll be there in an hour. So long.”

  He thought he heard George tell him to be careful as he hung up the receiver.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE DRIVE TO GEORGE’S HOUSE took even less time than the drive in daylight. He was in a numb, dreamlike state the whole way. He was by no means convinced that their man was trapped. He knew the whole thing now would be taken out of his hands and felt frustrated. Would whoever George had shaken out of bed in London be able to catch the ball? Maybe the whole operation was on its way to an airfield or a port somewhere, in the white Rover. He kept pressing against the typewriter ribbon with his elbow to reassure himself. His seven page transcript lay on the passenger seat beside him.

  George came to the door in a long tartan dressing gown. The carriage lights at the side of the door were on, and the flesh of George’s face looked gray, like overcooked meat. He handed him the transcript without comment. He didn’t want to be invited in.

  “What’s going to happen?” he asked quietly.

  “They’re coming up from London. First thing. Be in my office, nine fifteen.”

  “Our man flown the coop?”

  “They don’t think so. Got someone in place already, I think. We’ll go in first thing in the morning.”

  “We, George? What about my suspension?”

  “It’s revoked,” said George expressionlessly. Smailes said nothing. “Don’t go home, Derek. Go to your mother’s. Go to a hotel. Stay away from your flat tonight, okay? Whoever’s been on you, they think it’s first division stuff.”

  “KGB?”

  “It’s a good guess.” Smailes could hardly believe he and George were having this conversation. George did not ask him for the ribbon, and Smailes would not have wanted to give it to him. “Nine fifteen?” he said. “Okay.”

  At the end of George’s street he stopped at the phone kiosk and dialled Lauren’s number. He could hear the coin box phone ringing on the upper landing, waking the whole house. He was thankful that Lauren got there first.

  �
��Derek, my God, where are you? I’ve been trying to get you all night. Giles is missing for Christ’s sake, then I couldn’t get you. Derek, I’ve been so scared. What’s going on?”

  “Lauren, go to your front window, okay. Look out into the street and tell me if there’s a white Rover, W registration, parked in the street. Have you got that?”

  “Derek, what the fuck is a Rover? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a mid-size car, okay? White, four-door. W is the last letter on the registration plate. Just do it, Lauren. Go and look.”

  There was a silence, and then Lauren came back on the line. “Derek, it’s there. There are two men parked in it. What’s going on? I’m so scared.”

  “Just listen to me, okay. Get dressed. Get a toothbrush. Come downstairs and wait inside the front door. When I shine my flashlight through the window in the door, come out quickly, and don’t say anything. Get straight into my car.”

  “Derek, will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Did you understand the directions?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Get ready.”

  After he hung up the phone on Lauren he dialled his sister Denise’s house. It was almost one thirty, but when her husband Neil picked up the phone, he sounded as if it was the middle of the afternoon. Neil always sounded like that; Smailes guessed that salesmen had to.

  “Derek, long time. How’ve you been?”

  “Pretty good, Neil. Is Denise there?”

  “I think she’s asleep. Just a minute. Denise. It’s your brother.”

  Denise had come on the line with all her predictable resentment and ill will. “Derek, for bleedin’ hell, what do you mean calling at this time of night?”

  “Can I come out and stay in the box room tonight, Denise? It’s important, otherwise, I wouldn’t have called.”

  “Are you all right? Are you in trouble? Derek, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain tomorrow, okay? There’ll be two of us. Just throw a couple of blankets and sheets on the bed. We’ll make it up.”

  “Aw, Derek. I’m layin’ out a frock. You know I use it as a sewing room.”

  “Can’t you move your stuff? It’s just for one night.”

  “I suppose so, but you’ve got a nerve. It’s not that American piece you’re bringing over, is it? I still talk with Yvonne, you know.”

  “You’ll meet Lauren tomorrow. She’s not a piece. She’s an engineer. Leave the front door on the latch, will you?” He rang off.

  He kept trying alternatives for the two jokers in the Rover but still had no plan when he pulled into Lauren’s street. He could see the Rover parked across the road, about twenty yards from Mrs. Bilton’s gate. He pulled up outside with no attempt to disguise his arrival. This is where I wish the British police were armed, he said to himself. Still, he doubted the characters in the Rover knew, one way or the other. He reached inside the glove compartment and pulled out his heavy, police flashlight. He shoved it into his raincoat pocket and got out of the car. He crossed the street with his hand on the torch, the butt raised and protruding through the fabric of his coat. Just like a gun, he hoped. He walked slowly towards the Rover, which was facing away from him. He saw the driver’s neck jerk as he followed him in the rearview mirror. He was tall, balding. He seemed to say something to the figure next to him, who was shorter, older. Smailes was almost parallel with the rear bumper when the engine started and the car pulled away, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Smailes kept the butt of the flashlight pointed at them through his pocket until they were gone. Then he exhaled slowly. He walked quickly back to the house and flashed the light through the window. Lauren ran out and into his arms.

  “Derek, I saw you drive up. Who was in that car? Did you speak to them?”

  “No, they didn’t seem to want to socialize.”

  “What were you pointing at them? A gun?”

  “I wish.” He grinned and held up the flashlight. “Let’s go.”

  On the trip to his sister’s house in Histon Lauren had told him falteringly about Giles Allerton’s disappearance the previous night. He had not shown up to meet Maggie, his new girlfriend, his bed had not been slept in, and he hadn’t been seen all day. Lauren had told the head porter at the end of the day when he still hadn’t turned up, and then had tried to call Derek. She wanted to know where Derek had been.

  “I’ll be able to tell you soon, okay, Lauren. By tomorrow night, I hope.”

  “Is it about Simon? Was he murdered?”

  “Looks like it.”

  She had buried her face in her hands and sobbed a little. Then she looked at him. “Derek, this is so creepy. Who was in that car?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. Someone from the Ministry of Defense, he felt like saying. “Where are we going?”

  “To my sister’s.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re invited.”

  “Derek, this isn’t fucking funny.”

  “I know. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise.” They let themselves into his sister’s house quietly and climbed the stairs without switching on lights. They turned right on the landing and Smailes led her down the hall to the end room. He walked to the bed and turned on the lamp. There was a pile of sheets and blankets on the bed. On a folding table Denise had her sewing machine and a number of pieces of fabric with paper patterns pinned to them. There was a chair, but nothing else in the room.

  “She has two boys,” whispered Smailes. “They share a room.”

  They made up the bed wordlessly and then Smailes snapped out the light and they undressed quickly. The room had no curtains.

  Smailes climbed into the small bed next to Lauren and she clung to him silently for several minutes. Then they made love fitfully, Smailes anxious that the bed would creak, distracted by the surroundings, but excited despite himself by Lauren’s quick sexuality. She fell asleep immediately and he felt the soft rhythm of her breath against his shoulder. He lay on his back and dozed but knew he would not sleep. The hours passed slowly. As it grew light he stiffened with fear as the outline of a goat’s head came slowly into perspective just a few feet from his face. He grinned ruefully when the gathering light revealed the shape as his sister’s sewing machine.

  He shook Lauren lightly. “Let’s go,” he said. “You can meet the family another time.” They dressed, used the bathroom, and left before seven, before Denise or her boys were up. Smailes knew he would catch hell from his sister for his rudeness, the sheets, the unmade bed. He had driven Lauren to the college in silence, and given her her instructions for the day, promised he would find her that night. Then he had made the decision to go home.

  It had been a mistake. The front door had been jimmied, and the inside door to the flat had been simply kicked off its hinges. The place had been destroyed. The furniture in the sitting room was slashed and broken, the books thrown over the floor. The bedroom was worse. The mattress had been disembowelled like a butchered animal, drawers upturned, the mirrors on the wardrobe doors and the dresser smashed. He walked back down to the hallway to the bathroom and found the ultimate insult. Someone had taken his Tony Lama’s, thrown them in the toilet pan, and pissed in them. They certainly had not been concerned about noise, but then their surveillance had told them the landlord was never there. There had been no danger. But at least they didn’t have the ribbon, Smailes told himself. He could still feel that in the inside pocket of his jacket. The Bowles file was gone, of course, but that was no matter. That was not what they had been looking for.

  He managed to change his clothes and shave, despite the wreckage. He wondered abstractly as he left for the station how he would explain the damage to Les, his landlord.

  He had been lounging at his desk for forty-five minutes before the call from Dearnley came through. He was trying to read Ted’s report on the Sikh lorry theft, but could not concentrate on it. It had a gloating tone that was irritating. S
wedenbank had come in around nine and had obviously been surprised to find Smailes sitting at his desk, reading the paperwork in his in-tray. He had said something about the weather and Smailes had responded with a grunt. He let the phone ring three times before he picked it up, to show Swedenbank there was nothing unusual in his behavior.

  “Smailes,” he said.

  “Could you come up, Sergeant Smailes?” said George’s voice. It was obvious there was a stranger in his office. Smailes was never Sergeant Smailes except in front of strangers. He understood the gesture towards professionalism, however, and straightened his tie as he left the office. His palms felt sweaty on the rail as he mounted the two short flights to George’s office. His eyes felt scratchy from lack of sleep. He wondered how much sleep George had had the night before. It had been something after one when he had handed him the transcript, the most extraordinary document George had ever handled in his long career, that was for sure. Two people had been murdered to suppress its contents, Smailes was fairly convinced.

  Gloria kept her eyes down on her desk as Smailes walked past her into Dearnley’s office. He wondered how much she knew. Enough to keep her head down, clearly.

  He stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. George was seated behind his desk, and to his right sat a man of slender build, with fair hair brushed back from a high forehead. He had pale blue eyes and a pointed face like a whippet, and gave the impression of complete relaxation. His long legs were crossed and his hands rested in his lap like birds. In front of him on the corner of Dearnley’s desk were two file folders, one orange and one manila.

  “Have a seat, Sergeant,” said Dearnley. He swung his massive shoulders to his right. “This is Commander Standiforth of the Special Branch.”

  And I’m Broderick Crawford of the Highway Patrol, Smailes said to himself. Even if he had not already known Standiforth’s agency and rank, he would not have mistaken him for a Special. The Specials were cops, after all, and this guy had the dark pinstriped suit and manicured nails of the civil service. He bristled at the patronage. Who did they think he was? Standiforth made no movement to offer his hand so Smailes took the vacant chair in front of Dearnley’s desk.