The Cambridge Theorem

by Tony Cape

  Smailes had sat on the corner of Beecroft’s desk during this revelation. He was having trouble adding it all up.

  “Mr. Beecroft, do you know something about Simon Bowles’ death that you haven’t told me?” he asked carefully.

  “No, I swear. The first I knew about it was when Bunty Allen ran in here that day. Of course, I knew what young Mr. Bowles was lookin’ into. Hawken had told me himself, after he’d tried to interview him. Asked me to keep my eyes and ears open about him. I did, as much as I could, but I didn’t know anything about him, well, knowing Fenwick until one of the other porters told me about it, like I told you.”

  “But you think Fenwick’s kept his job because he can blackmail Hawken, right?”

  “Well, you said that, officer, not me. But it’s a very peculiar decision, that’s all I can say. There’s been some raised eyebrows in the lodge about it, and the men are all talking about it, I know. No one’s come out and asked me about it plain, but if they do, I don’t know what I’ll say. I’m in a very sticky position, you see. I don’t want people in this college to know I’ve been informing on students for nearly twenty years, and I don’t want to do anything to upset my pension. I’ve earned that, you know. That’s why I want you to go cautious with what I’ve told you. You understand?”

  “Yes, I understand. But let me ask you straight. Do you think Hawken or Fenwick had some involvement with how Simon Bowles met his death?”

  “That I can’t say, Mr. Smailes. I don’t know what he had found out, you see, about the two of them, so I’m just guessing. But I don’t know if the inquest got the full story, you know. That I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Beecroft, who had a pass key to Simon Bowles’ room?”

  “Why?”

  Derek Smailes recounted to him his suspicion that someone had removed a file from Bowles’ cabinet in the twenty-four hours after his first examination of it, during the time the room was locked and Bowles’ keys were at the police station. Beecroft’s expression clouded.

  “All members of the college council. One stays in the lodge, authorized sign-out only. The duty porter, which is unofficial-like. One on my ring. That’s it.”

  “How about the duty tutor?”

  “No, he has to use the one in the lodge.”

  “No one else?”

  “No one else. Key can’t be duplicated without college say-so, either. Stamped right on there.”

  Beecroft turned again to look out into the lodge, pondering this new information. Fenwick was no longer around, and the other porter was talking to two students who were writing their names in a fat ledger. “So what are you going to do?” he asked nervously.

  “I don’t know,” said Smailes. “I’m going to think about what you’ve told me. But if I go anywhere with this, I’ll do so in a way that protects you as the source of information, okay? Because I believe what you’ve told me. But whatever I do, I can’t guarantee I’ll tell you in advance, do you understand that? I can’t operate that way.” The truth was, he was not sure Beecroft was telling him the whole truth. He was not sure at all.

  “Please, officer. I’ve got more than thirty-five years’ service with this place.”

  “I know that, Mr. Beecroft. You’ve been able to trust me so far, haven’t you?” Beecroft looked uneasy, but could see he was not going to get further guarantees from Smailes.

  “I’m not asking you to understand what I’ve done. I don’t know if anyone can understand, unless they had put their faith and their life on the line for the Party, like I did. It’s got to do with betrayal. It makes you angry somewhere, very deep down, and you need some kind of revenge, even if it goes against your grain. I never enjoyed being an informer, but I’ve never taken a penny or gotten any considerations for it. I just feel that putting my trust in the Party was the biggest mistake of my life, and even if it’s the likes of Hawken that is working to stop it doing any more damage, then that’s no matter. The Communist Party is about consolidating its own power, pure and simple, and it has no respect for anything or anyone that gets in its way. I would do the same thing all over again, believe me.

  “So in a way I wasn’t put out of joint by what Bowles was up to, like Hawken was. More power to him, I thought, because he was a very bright bloke and maybe he would turn something over that’d been missed all these years. And if he’d found out about my past, well, I think I would have told him everything I knew, frankly, because he was a careful and trustworthy individual, I felt.”

  “But he never did?” asked Smailes.

  “Not to my knowledge, and I wasn’t about to volunteer.”

  “What do you mean when you say the inquest didn’t get the full story? You mean about Fenwick finding the body?”

  “No, I mean about why he did it, why he killed himself.”

  “You have a theory?”

  “Yes, I think maybe he found out that Fenwick was Hawken’s lackey, and that had something to do with it. I’m only guessing, mind, but that’s what I’ve been thinking. As for someone from here, going into his files after your fellas had been round, well, I’d be very surprised about that. Very surprised indeed.” He paused, then frowned at Smailes and said, “Well, I’m going to be off then, unless there’s anything else.”

  “No, what you’ve told me is plenty,” said Smailes. He reflected that Beecroft was an astute man, and considered talking to Fenwick yet again, probing his version of that night’s events, and the circumstances of his reinstatement. Then he thought again of the precariousness of his own position, what would happen if Beecroft or Hawken were to call Dearnley. He decided to do nothing at present, and not tempt his fate.

  Smailes called Lauren as soon as he got home and they agreed to meet for a drink. She sounded pleased to hear from him, but he felt uneasy about how much he should let her know of the day’s developments. Either she did not know who Fenwick was, or she did not know that he had been reinstated, otherwise she would have let him know already, and would have been down on him like a ton of bricks. He guessed that since Fenwick worked the late shift and since Lauren lived out of college and checked her post in the morning, she had not yet run across him. When she did he knew it would be difficult to contain her. She would jump to the same conclusion he had, that Fenwick’s reinstatement was somehow linked to Bowles’ death, and she would want to make a stink. That could get him in further trouble at the station. Smailes started to feel that his situation there was looking hopeless.

  He checked suspension procedures in his CID hand-book. In a paid disciplinary suspension, which was what he assumed he was on, he was entitled to a hearing within thirty days before a disciplinary panel. He was also entitled to free legal representation through the union, if he wanted it. He didn’t know if he did. He could not invent much of a mitigating case for his deception in getting into the archive, and if George Dearnley was not going to stand up for him, he doubted anyone else would. If it came out that he was sexually involved with someone connected with the Bowles’ case, and had divulged confidential information about it to her, then forget it. He was history. He was surprised he did not feel more anxious at the prospect of getting fired from the force. He made himself think of what he would do. His brother-in-law Neil had been at him for years to join his real estate agency, where he said there was good money to be made. Smailes couldn’t quite see himself as a salesman, trying to sound enthusiastic about the new semi-detached estates in Histon. Then, of course, there was always the living death of the corporate security world, playing rent-a-cop. He didn’t like the thought of that either. Maybe he should call the union, see about a solicitor.

  What troubled him more was where to take the information that Beecroft had given him that afternoon. Assuming it was true, then there was definitely some kind of complicity between Hawken and Fenwick that was unethical, if not illegal. But what if Beecroft was simply aiming a knife at Hawken, and wanting Smailes to throw it? He could understand the level of resentment Beecroft might feel if it was true that he had
been one of Hawken’s informants for twenty years. What if the issue had been presented at the college council, and the dons had genuinely decided to let Fenwick off with a reprimand? Smailes would look a complete fool if he tried to cry foul over a decision that was completely legitimate, if peculiar. And who would he tell? George? Tell George that right after he had slapped him on suspension he had gone back to St. Margaret’s to pursue the very same case for which he had been suspended? Or should he pick up the phone and dial MI5, and try and tell the Director-General that one of his senior men was being blackmailed by a homosexual college porter? What exactly was the relationship between Hawken and Alan Fenwick, and had Simon Bowles known anything about it? This was what troubled Smailes the most, his ever-growing suspicion that there was some kind of foul play involved in the death of Simon Bowles, and that somehow Hawken and Fenwick were tied into it.

  He was still chewing over these issues when Lauren arrived at the pub and came over to join him. He got up and brought her a whisky, and she leaned over and kissed him behind the ear.

  “You seem in a good mood tonight,” he told her.

  “Why, aren’t you?” she asked him.

  “Surprisingly good, considering I just got suspended.”

  Lauren expressed her horror in her predictably dramatic way and pressed him so hard for his story that Smailes had trouble getting out even his edited version. He told her he had followed up on a long-standing curiosity to inspect his father’s personnel records in the government archive, but had had to forge the authorization to get in. He told her all about what the file had revealed, and how in his anger he had been unable to sit on the information, but had gone back to the station to confront the examining officer, who was now his direct boss. And that had earned him his suspension.

  “So what’s gonna happen, Derek? Are you gonna get thrown out?” she demanded to know. Smailes conceded it was a strong possibility if he could not think of a better defense than he had so far, and if George Dearnley stayed as angry with him as he was. This news seemed to make Lauren pensive, and they got into a discussion about Smailes’ feelings in the light of the new information about his father. He said he could not decide whether to tell his mother or sister what he had learned, but that he would probably talk to his mother some day. He wanted to know if she had guessed, but had stayed silent to protect him, or to protect the reputation of his father. But if she had not guessed, then the information would be painful for her. He described his curious feelings of anger and elation, about how he now felt released from his lifelong need to meet his father’s expectations, which were now revealed as a complete sham. He told her he felt the whole basis of his commitment to police service had been undermined.

  “Aw, come on, Plod. You’re a cop through to your bones, what the hell else are you gonna do? Eat shit, tell them you really regret what you did, all that crap. Don’t lose your job over something as stupid as this. I sort of felt the same when my Dad died, that my motivation had dried up, because he wasn’t around to pat me on the head any more. That’s bullshit. You do what you have to, inside.”

  Smailes wanted to tell her the real reason he had put his job in jeopardy, but couldn’t. Instead he asked her if she had any photographs of Simon Bowles.

  “Simon? No, I don’t think so. Why on earth do you want a picture of Simon?”

  “Well, it seems that I’m going to have some time on my hands, and I’ve often thought it would be interesting to try and find out what he did in London, the day before he died. You know, take his picture around Somerset House, see if anyone remembers him.”

  “So you are still looking into the whole thing, huh? You never told me. What else haven’t you told me? What else have you found out?”

  “Nothing, Lauren, I swear,” he said, and he knew then that when she found out about Alan Fenwick she was going to be very, very angry. He would deal with that when it came, because he had a strong intuition that if he was going to save his job, he needed to present some kind of new evidence in the Bowles case to justify his actions. And if he was to find new evidence he needed secrecy, which meant he had to keep Lauren out of the picture. But he felt awkward at the baldness of his deception, and thought she sensed it.

  “Giles might,” she said. “You know, have a picture of Simon. I don’t even have a camera. And I still don’t understand why you’re doing what you’re doing. You’re not levelling with me,” she accused.

  Smailes met her gaze and then said quietly, “Let’s just say it’s something I have to do, inside.”

  There was a palpable coldness between them, and he could sense Lauren’s anger with him.

  “Look, Lauren, I’ve had quite a day, and I’ve got a lot on my mind. Maybe tonight we shouldn’t…”

  “Yes, let’s forget it,” she interrupted. “I was going to suggest the same myself.” She drained her glass and began to gather her coat. Smailes looked down at his glass and felt uncomfortable. But as she was leaving she stopped and held him by the arm.

  “Derek, it’s okay. I’m real sorry about what you found out, and I’m real sorry that you’re in trouble at work.” She leant towards him and kissed him firmly on the mouth. “Call me soon, okay? I want to know what develops.”

  “You bet,” said Smailes.

  “Okay, cowboy,” she said, and was gone.

  It was before ten when Smailes got home and he had one more call to make that night. He realized that unless he discovered what the college council had decided in the Fenwick matter, he could not take his suspicions any further. He looked up a number in the Cambridge directory and called Sir Martin Gorham-Leach.

  G-L was his normal, affable self and did not even seem surprised that Smailes wanted to speak with him again, or curious about why. He said he would be at his lab all the next day but was planning to take dinner in college and would be in his rooms around six thirty.

  “You know where they are, Axton Court, B staircase?” he asked mildly.

  “I can find it.

  “Fine, I’ll expect you,” said Gorham-Leach. “We can have a glass of sherry.”

  Smailes hung up and reflected that he was stepping further into uncharted, unauthorized territory. But if his commitment to his career felt shaky, his commitment to following through with the Bowles investigation was not. He thought of calling Iain Mack, telling him about his extraordinary day, but decided against it. This was his last hand, and there would be plenty of time to recount his story after he had played his cards.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE AFTERNOON POST the next day brought a registered letter from George Dearnley, informing Smailes officially of his paid suspension, and the reasons for it. Smailes was reminded of the procedures and his right to representation at a disciplinary hearing. The letter was copied to the Commander at headquarters who was in charge of internal affairs. The tone was cold and precise and Smailes felt sharply crestfallen when he read it. He knew how wounded and angry George must feel, and could not really blame him. Any defense sounded conceited and contemptuous, just as George had accused him of being. He dialled the union representative at the station, but hung up when then the line was answered. He could not decide whether to just call it quits, or to accept Lauren’s strategy and throw himself on the mercy of his senior officers. It was the first time he had been in trouble, after all. Officially, anyway.

  He spent the afternoon puttering about the flat in an agitated and uncharacteristic way. He cleaned his oven for the first time ever, and it made him shudder at the prospect of unemployment. He could just hear Yvonne, her outrage if he told her he was going to miss any child support payments. His mother would be crushed too, when she found out. He was glad when the light began to fail and it was time to meet with Gorham-Leach.

  He walked briskly past St. Margaret’s lodge with only a quick glance inside, and saw neither Beecroft nor Fenwick. Christ, if he met Lauren, he thought, what would he tell her? That he was going to see Allerton, to track down a photograph of Bowles, he decided qui
ckly. He lived in Axton Court like G-L, after all. He stopped at the foot of B staircase in the small dark courtyard and examined the elegant copperplate nameboard, the names white against the black background. He saw that in fact Allerton and Gorham-Leach shared the same staircase, and that G. Allerton was in B1, whereas M.P. Gorham-Leach was in B8, presumably the top floor. He found the lack of distinction in their listings quaint, an academic pretense of equality. He remembered again the story of Davies and the disputed nameboard, the origin of the bad blood between Hawken and the Welsh archaeologist. What had been the original name again, Forse-Davies? The name rang a bell with him, but the memory darted away like a minnow behind a rock, and stayed hidden. He mounted two flights of stairs, made a right turn and knocked on the door of B8. Gorham-Leach opened it to him, beaming, and ushered him in.