The Cambridge Theorem (3 page)

The phone rang. It was Paula in the Operations Room, and her voice still wore the injured edge it had had since he had stopped seeing her around Christmas time.

“Smailes.”

“Derek, we've got a sudden death at St. Margaret's College in Trinity Street. Apparent suicide. Whisky Michael Three has responded.”

“On my way,” said Smailes as Swedenbank came back into the room, still wearing his subordinate's scowl.

“Let's go, Ted,” said Smailes, reaching for his raincoat from the back of the door. “Topper at St. Meg's. Get the PRs from the desk. I'll bring the car round front.”

“Own goal, is it?” said Swedenbank, brightening. Smailes snorted at the notion that a student terrorist might have blown himself up with a bomb.

Outside the gothic portal of St. Margaret's College, one of Cambridge University's oldest, a small crowd had gathered to gawk at the police car and ambulance parked on the apron of cobblestones. The panda car had left its light flashing, an unnecessary ostentation that irritated Smailes. He drew his car alongside as Swedenbank handed him his personal radio. Both men clipped them to their lapels and drew their coats against the cold as they stepped through the massive gate of the college.

He felt the instinctive resentment of a townsperson as he walked into the large courtyard, a sudden island of calm privilege just yards from one of Cambridge's busiest streets. A distinguished-looking man in a black suit, white shirt and grey tie approached them from the porters' lodge on their right.

“Gentlemen, are you with the police?” he asked, in a softened East Anglian accent.

“Detective Sergeant Smailes and Detective Constable Swedenbank,” said Smailes, figuring that Ted would be gratified he left “Acting” out of the introduction.

“I'm Paul Beecroft, the head porter,” he said gravely. “Please follow me.”

Beecroft was obviously advanced in years, but he set off around the court at a stiff pace. Smailes jogged two steps to bring himself alongside.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“Young fellow, research student. Name of Simon Bowles. Strung himself up, seems like. The bedder found him this morning. Called you right away, when I got the okay.”

Smailes knew what he meant. Cambridge police were never summoned to a University college without the approval of the senior dons, and they needed a warrant to enter of their own accord. They could probably clean up half the drugs in town if they could ever get approval for a raid, which, of course, they never could. That was another thing about the University that Smailes resented.

Swedenbank had drawn up against Beecroft's other shoulder. He was keeping quiet and the scowl was gone. Smailes realized that if he had to nurse an ADC around, he could do a lot worse than Ted.

Beecroft led them past the ornate fountain in the middle of the court and through a passageway into a second, smaller court. Smailes guessed it was probably eighteenth century, the first court obviously older. Here were simple, three-story buildings, mullioned windows, plenty of ivy. They made their way around the lawn to a staircase where he recognized Bert Ainsworth of the uniform branch through a crowd of students. He was stationed directly in front of the stairs.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” said Beecroft, with exaggerated courtesy. “Please go on with your business. The police have work to do.”

The students backed away slightly, but showed no signs of leaving. There were maybe a dozen, men and women.

“Who is it, Mr. Beecroft? Is it Simon? What's happened?” asked a young man in a bus driver's overcoat.

Beecroft ignored the inquiry and marched up the stairs to the first landing. Smailes was directly behind him.

“Tell Bert to let no one up. No one,” he said over his shoulder, and Swedenbank retreated back down the stairs.

On the landing he could see two men in the familiar black uniform of the ambulance service. Over their shoulders he could see another uniformed policeman whose face he knew, but whose name escaped him.

The passageway, lit by a single naked bulb, was crowded. Beecroft indicated a door at one end.

“He's in there.”

“Smailes, CID,” he said, advancing past the ambulancemen to the constable. He could feel his pulse quicken, and he was short of breath from matching Beecroft's pace from the lodge and up the stairs. “What we got?”

“He's been dead for a while, sir. Hung himself. I'm Dickley, sir. Just transferred from Huntingdon,” said the constable. He seemed embarassed and at a loss.

“Have you called the coroner's officer?” asked Smailes. The ambulancemen were obviously impatient to leave, but someone had to pronounce the subject dead first. No ambulanceman would touch an obviously dead body. His unit would have to be decontaminated and he would probably lose overtime while it was out of service.

“No sir. We just checked him and closed up. Just been here five minutes.”

Dickley was apparently hesitant on his first week with division. It would have been fine for him to get the coroner's wagon over if the man was obviously dead.

“Who found him?” asked Smailes. He knew he was putting off having to go into the room. Beecroft stepped forward. “The bedder, Mrs. Allen, sir. She's in the kitchen.” He indicated with a nod a second room down the passageway as a short, bespectacled figure emerged from it.

“Officer? How do you do?” The man edged sideways past the ambulancemen and held out his right hand. Smailes saw that his left arm hung uselessly at his side, its fingers buckled into a claw.

“I'm Nigel Hawken, senior tutor of this college. I've been trying to comfort Mrs. Allen. She's quite shaken up, I'm afraid.”

Hawken was a man in his middle or late sixties with steel gray hair, a stubby gray mustache and gold-rimmed spectacles. He was wearing blue pinstripes and a red tie with dogs on it.

Smailes shook his hand. “Detective Sergeant Derek Smailes, CID,” he said again.

Hawken looked agitated. He had a florid complexion and an erect, military bearing. Smailes decided he probably smoked a pipe.

“When was he found?”

“About half an hour ago. We called right away,” said Hawken. His voice sounded like ripe fruit.

Smailes took the handle of the door and went in, with Hawken on his shoulder.

The room was a small, dark study-bedroom, lined on two sides with books. Immediately inside the door to his left was a desk with a modern typewriter sitting in a pool of light from a desk lamp. Beyond was a single bed, made, although it looked as if someone, or some people, had been sitting on it. It had a plain blue counterpane and was overhung with the first of many shelves of books. Against the opposite wall were two armchairs flanking an electric fire set into an old fireplace. To the right was a black four drawer filing cabinet and a standing bookcase of the same height. In the center of the room was a stained rug, possibly Oriental.

One reason the room was so dark was that the leaded windows were small and shrouded by a number of hanging plants. Another reason was that they were partly obscured by the body of a young man that hung from a belt from one of the heavy plant hooks screwed into the oak window frame. A small wooden chair was tipped over underneath the body and another potted plant in its hanging basket was sitting on the floor beside it. It looked like an aspidistra.

There was a poster, an enlarged photograph of some white-haired man, pinned to the wall to the left of the windows, near what Smailes assumed was a clothes closet. The scene made him feel terrible.

He advanced to the limp figure of the young man, whose feet swung grotesquely in the air, the head twisted in an unnatural angle against the neck. Despite his bravado, Smailes didn't like stiffs. He didn't like them at all.

Swedenbank came up beside him, breathing heavily. Smailes felt the young man's hand. It was cold. He turned to Hawken, distracted momentarily by the ADC's face, which was turned up towards the dead boy as if in supplication.

“Anything been moved?”

“No. Everything is as Mrs. Allen found it.”

“Who has been in the room?”

“Well, Mrs. Allen, myself, the ambulancemen and the policemen. No one has touched anything, I think. We were waiting for you,” said Hawken.

Smailes could tell from the edge in his voice that Hawken didn't like answering questions. He was the type who liked to ask them. He noted the tone of accusation that they had arrived late, and ignored it. Smailes hated having civilians watch his work.

“Will you excuse us for a few minutes, Mr…?” Smailes fished for his name.

“Dr. Hawken. Dr. Nigel Hawken. Certainly,” he said icily, and left the room.

“Poor bugger,” said Swedenbank, as Hawken closed the door. He had not stopped looking at the grimace on the dead boy's face. Smailes realized it was his first hanging.

“Yeah, well at least he didn't make a mess of it,” said Smailes. “See what you can find. Maybe a note.”

Swedenbank retreated towards the door as Smailes knelt under the body. The chair had tipped away after the boy had kicked it. Looked as if he had set the plant down first. Careful type.

He looked up at the body, growing more used to its presence. Longish fair hair over the collar of a rugby shirt. Acne scars. Skinny build, corduroy jeans, tennis shoes. The watch on the boy's wrist was still running. It showed a quarter to eleven.

He reached inside the jeans back pocket and removed a wallet, something that Dickley should have done. In the left front pocket he found some change and a pair of spectacles in a case. The wallet contained seven pounds, a credit card, various library cards and some folded papers.

“Sarge, look at this.” Swedenbank was standing over the desk with his back to him.

What he was indicating was a typed sheet in the platen of the typewriter. Smailes took out a handkerchief and rolled it upwards. It was fairly brief.

“They came back. I couldn't take it. Simon.” It was the first typed note Smailes had seen.

He opened the desk drawer with the handkerchief. Pens, pencils, a roll of tape. A key ring and a checkbook. Further in, a partly used ream of typing paper.

He removed the keys and went over to the fireplace. Six shelves of books in the standing case. The file cabinet was locked. The small key from the young man's ring fitted and in the first drawer Smailes found neatly arranged hanging files. The first read
Abominable Snowman
.

Swedenbank was examining the bookcase above the bed. Smailes left the file cabinet unlocked and walked over to inspect the poster of the white-haired gent, who looked familiar to him. It was Bertrand Russell, or one of the Alberts, Schweitzer or Einstein, Smailes wasn't sure which.

“Seen enough, Sarge?” asked Ted. Smailes had to hand it to him. He wasn't doing badly for a first suicide.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“Maybe eight, ten hours. Joints in the fingers already stiff. Light still on the desk, bed not slept in. Funny thing about rigor mortis. It'll go away again in a few hours.”

“What do you make of the note?”

“Dunno. Little bit fishy. First typed note I've seen. I'd like to know who ‘they' are.”

“Prints, pictures?”

“Well, the scenes of crimes boys have to come in for the snaps, but forget the prints. It's pretty routine. Get the coroner's officer on the radio and tell them to get their wagon down here. The ambulance boys can scarper—Bert and I can help with the stocking stuffing.

“Tell the SOCO boys we need pictures, then get the full ID, next of kin from your man Beecroft. Hop a ride back with Dickley and help him with the SD report. He didn't have the sense to empty the pockets or secure the note. Take these things, will you Ted?”

There was reassurance in the mechanics of police procedure after the untidy violence of Bowles' terrible deed. Smailes handed over the personal effects and pulled the note from the typewriter. He didn't need to tell Ted what to do at the station, and was relieved. Swedenbank was gratified at the deference being shown him. His hands looked as if they were wearing fingerless woollen mittens as he took the belongings from Smailes. There was an odd intimacy in the gesture. The two detectives avoided each other's eyes.

“Thanks, Sarge.”

“Sure, Ted.”

Smailes could hear Swedenbank issuing orders to the ambulancemen—yes, the detective sergeant would verify death; yes, he would send for the coroner; no, they didn't need to stay. Then he heard him in slightly brusquer terms telling Dickley to accompany him to the porters' lodge so they could be sure to get the details right. Ted seemed to have the tone of injured authority just right.

He folded up Bowles' note and put it in his jacket pocket with the dead boy's keys before leaving the room. The typed note was unusual, but from the neatness of the room and the filing cabinet, it didn't seem entirely out of character. He found Hawken in the cramped kitchen off the other side of the landing, standing solicitously over Mrs. Allen, who was drinking tea. Her face was flushed beneath a wreath of gray curls, her considerable weight crumpled onto a small stool. She started to get up as Smailes entered the small room.

“No, please. Rest your legs,” he said gently.

She seemed gratified and blinked into the chipped mug, which she held with both hands.

“Would you like to question Mrs. Allen here, or in my rooms, officer?” Hawken asked. He obviously felt he should be in charge. Smailes had not planned to question anyone yet, but Hawken had forced a response.

“I don't want to keep you, Mrs. Allen. I'm with Cambridge CID. Just tell me what happened here this morning.” He avoided words like “body” and “dead man.”

“Well,” she said, gathering herself with a sniff and setting her mug down on the edge of the steel sink.

“I comes up 'ere to the first floor about ten o'clock. I usually does 'is room first, because 'e's usually not there. I knocked, as I always do, because sometimes the young gentlemen are sleepin' or something and they calls out if they don't want you to come in.