The Cambridge Theorem (41 page)

He walked casually out to the car and pulled out slowly towards Mill Road. In the rearview, he saw the Rover pull out and edge slowly up the street. At the main road, Smailes fished inside the glove compartment for his magnetic police light and flicked it on. When he saw a gap in the traffic he reached out and slapped it on the roof, then let out the clutch and roared off towards town. He kept his foot down through the gears and hit the Mill Road roundabout doing about forty. He had a split second to assess the traffic and screeched round the two cars slowing for the turn and threw the wheel left. He felt the offside tires thud against the curb of the roundabout as he straightened the car out down Gonville Place. Forty, fifty. He saw the Rover in the rear view make the same turn. The lights at Regent Street were changing, the traffic slowing down. He leant on the horn and pulled out into the oncoming lane and said a prayer. He screamed through the red light at more than fifty, just in front of a double decker bus that had started up and narrowly missing a middle-aged woman who was waiting astride her bicycle in the outside of the oncoming lane. He looked back quickly and knew the Rover would never get through that crossing until the lights changed again. He made the light at Trumpington Street on green and was well on his way to the motorway before he allowed his speed to slacken at all. He was clear, he thought, provided the white Rover didn't know where he was heading, in which case it would overhaul him easily.

He left the police light on the roof the entire way to Ricksmanworth, keeping his speed between seventy and eighty. He reached the outskirts of the town in about an hour and a quarter and found Alice Wentworth's street without difficulty. He had not been followed. The Wentworth house was large and detached and stood behind an enormous beech tree next to the parish church. A police car was parked outside.

A uniformed constable answered the door. Smailes introduced himself and showed his identification. “What happened?” he asked, trying to sound calm.

“Came in through the French windows. Simple lock to force. Might have been a one man job, because what was taken could have been carried by one man, one trip.”

“Come in from the front?”

“No, there's an alley runs up the back. Neighbors said they saw a Post Office van up there this afternoon. Probably nicked. Bloke comes through the garden, then out through the alley. Nobody sees him.”

Smailes didn't hear the end of the statement. He was suddenly remembering the Post Office van that had been parked outside his flat for days, doing repairs. “Post Office van?”

“Yeah, neighbors thought nothing of it. You got the telephone wires back there, they think he's workin' on them.”

“Thanks, Constable…”

“Bristow.”

“Constable Bristow.”

“You don't have to stay. Is Mrs. Wentworth here?”

“Yes, in the back, I think. All right, I'll be off then. Can I say what all this is about then, when I write it up?”

“It might be nothing. I'll have to let you know, okay? Can I call you at the station tomorrow?”

“Yes, I suppose. Something about the theft of a used typewriter ribbon, you say?”

“I may be wrong, okay? I'll let you know.”

Bristow looked skeptical but said nothing further. He turned and left noisily enough to express his irritation at taking orders from out-of-town CID.

Smailes found Alice Wentworth in the back of the house, seated at a table in a large kitchen, eating dinner with her family. The upheaval did not seem to have affected Peter Wentworth's appetite. He was digging into a huge slab of quiche and got up clumsily from his chair when the detective entered, his mouth full. The two children were eating fish fingers with sullen expressions. When she saw Smailes, the girl pushed her brother and then smirked into her food. Alice Wentworth looked a little pale, but otherwise back in control.

“Hello officer,” she said, getting up. “Do you want me to show you what's missing? It's so good of you to come. I'm sure it's just an ordinary burglary.”

“Please, no. I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm interested in the ribbon, if you have it. I think you said it had only been changed once since you brought your brother's typewriter from Cambridge.”

“Yes, that's right. The parish magazine was really the first lengthy thing I'd used it for. Much better than our old portable. Yes, I'll show you. In the study.”

She led Smailes back down the hallway to the front downstairs room, which was a large, airy study and music room. There was a piano, desk, bookshelves, and a file cabinet, which Smailes recognized immediately. “Did they go into the files?” he asked.

“Simon's files? Good Lord, no. They took the record player from over there, the typewriter from off the desk, and the television from next door. Why would they want files?”

“Yes, I'm sorry, that's silly,” said Smailes. “Is the ribbon here?”

Alice Wentworth walked over to the desk and switched on an anglepoise lamp. “Yes, right here, although I can't think why…”

“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.

T
HE 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.”