The Cambridge Theorem (28 page)

The initial response had shocked him a little at first, but then he was able to see Kim's old devilry in its unorthodoxy. It must mean his old friend was still a force to be reckoned with at the Lubianka. He wondered if Kim shared his knowledge of the fate of those few who had learned his identity over the years, and doubted that he did not. It made the move even more curious.

Bowles had had to die. When he had started nosing around at Oxford G-L had known it was only a matter of time before the tiresome young man unearthed something telling in the bowels of the Bodleian. The odds were still heavily against the worthy detective Smailes being able to duplicate this feat, but caution should prevail. “Unimaginative but thorough” was the description he had used in his message, but the chairman would know that the very mention meant that consideration should be given. He, G-L, might never know what that consideration was.

Carefully Gorham-Leach moved back to the fireplace with the torn code sheet between his fingers. He knelt to place the paper in the open hearth, then removed the wooden matches from his pocket and set it on fire. He let the match burn almost down, then grabbed the cooling tip with moistened fingers and allowed the flame to consume the stem entirely. With delicate movements he gathered up the wafer of ash from the hearth until he held all the burnt fragments in his cupped palm. He walked methodically out into the hall and into the downstairs bathroom, where he flushed the ashes away in the toilet. Bowles' file had required several trips, he remembered.

He returned to his desk and slowly repeated the familiar process in reverse, stowing the equipment and the pad in their rubber pouch, folding the pouch back into the cloth wrapping and reaching the package back into the flue. The fire swung shut on its catch with a soft click, and Gorham-Leach got to his feet with a slight grunt. He was getting old for this business, he thought ruefully. He walked to the door of the study and called Winston's name and the old black labrador came shuffling down the hall from the kitchen, eager for their evening ritual. He reached the leash and his overcoat from the coat stand that stood outside the downstairs bathroom, and extracted his walking stick. He heard Winston's tail beating its steady whump whump on the hall carpet as he stepped briefly back into the study to make his call. The number, which he always consigned to memory, was changed every three months or so. From the prefix G-L guessed this one was in the Coventry area. He called, let the number ring three times, and hung up. He called again, and let it ring twice. He wondered how many operatives had served this tour over the years. He had never met a single one of them.

Martin Gorham-Leach and his dog stepped briskly into the evening air and across Park Parade to Jesus Green. Winston knew that he did not get unleashed until Midsummer Common, and padded obediently along the path after marking his territory at the entrance post. It was a mild, dark night and there was already a scent of Spring in the April air.

Across Victoria Avenue Winston strained until G-L uncoupled him and he lumbered off heavily into the darkness. Habit made the old don follow his pattern of taking a wide skirting walk past the noisy pub at the edge of the common and onto the tow path near the footbridge over the Cam. Then he walked slowly back towards the avenue, sure that he was not followed, calling to Winston occasionally as the old dog checked up to examine a particular scent or tree. A group of students walked past him towards the pub, and then the tow path was clear in both directions. About fifty yards from the avenue, near the base of the third elm from the road bridge, a small concrete post marked the existence of a hydrant eight feet away. Behind the post a large flat stone covered a small crevice. G-L eased the stone to the side with his foot and then stooped to drop the film canister silently into the blackness. He positioned the stone again with his foot, and then stretched casually and looked about him. The one-time pad and the dead letter drop, still the staples of fieldcraft after all this time, he thought to himself.

“Come on, Winston. Time to go home,” he called.

Derek Smailes was examining carefully the contents of Bowles' wallet. His request to the coroner's office to reinspect the personal bag had reminded the DC at Addenbrooke's that he had neglected to tell the family to pick up the belongings at the inquest. Derek Smailes had volunteered to make the call—he owed it to Alice Wentworth anyway.

In addition to the small amount of banknotes, there were several different types of library card in the wallet. There were cards for the City of Cambridge Public Library, the University Library and a card that showed Bowles had reader's privileges at the Bodleian Library at Oxford. There was also a small green card marked “Public Record Office—Reader's Ticket,” that Smailes did not recognize. The card was signed with Bowles' scrawny signature and dated March 1982, the previous month.

The dog-eared notecard was now understandable to him, since he now knew who Alan, Lauren, Alice and Hugh were. As he examined the scribble on the reverse it was clear that the doodled question could as easily read “files” as “fliers.” He felt embarassed that he had jumped to the wrong conclusion, that since his primary association with Bletchley was horseracing, he had assumed it meant the same to Bowles.

Smailes walked to the photocopy machine again and copied all the contents of the wallet, then replaced the wallet, keys and the spectacles in their case in the plastic evidence bag. Then he called information, found Alice Wentworth's home number and waited until he heard the crisp and efficient voice answer at the other end.

“Mr. Smailes. What a coincidence. I was just about to lift the receiver and call you.”

“Well yes, if it's about your brother's files, I've just finished and wanted to send…”

“No, no. Something, well, more disturbing, I'm afraid. About Simon.”

“What?” asked Smailes, his heart quickening

“Well, it may be nothing, nothing you know, but we just heard from Mr. Bird, our solicitor, and well, I thought I should call…”

“What has happened?”

“Well, Mr. Bird called with a preliminary figure for Simon's estate. He was intestate, of course, and the whole thing has to go through probate, but the family decided, that is, Peter and I decided, that whatever was left should go to my mother.”

“Yes.”

“Well, there wasn't quite as much as we would have thought. A little less than forty four thousand. I think I told you about our inheritance from my father's policy.”

“Yes. Fifty thousand, I thought.”

“Quite. Well, it seemed odd that Simon would have spent so much so I went to his recent bank statements and checkbook, and there are a couple of payments I really don't understand.”

“I see."

“Yes, there's one transfer from his savings account in January for a thousand pounds, and a check written for that amount to Alan Fenwick. That's the man you told us about, isn't it? Simon's friend?”

“Yes. And the other?”

“Well, it's even bigger. Just three weeks ago, a transfer of three thousand pounds and a check written to the bank itself for £2952.50. What could that mean? Could he have been buying traveller's checks, or something?”

Smailes did some quick calculations. “Possibly. Or he could have been buying a cashier's check for twenty nine fifty, with a two pound fifty fee.”

“Cashier's check, whatever for?”

“For the purchase of a high ticket item, like a car.”

“Car? Simon didn't drive.”

“No, but his boyfriend…I'm sorry, Alan Fenwick did.”

“Good grief, do you think this could be, well, blackmail or something?”

“I think that's a very good question. Let me talk with Fenwick again, all right, and I'll get back to you. Of course, it could be the payments were completely voluntary, no law against that, but we should check, definitely. Look, thanks for the call.”

“Oh, that's all right. But Officer Smailes, why were you calling me?”

Smailes had forgotten. “Oh, right. I just wanted to thank you again for letting me see your brother's research, and to take your address so I can post the files back to you.”

She dictated the address and inquired whether Smailes had found the contents of any use, and he answered truthfully that they had not shed any light on her brother's death, and he had chosen not refer to them in his report. He did not indicate to her that he had any unresolved feelings about the case, or that he had photocopied the entire manuscript earlier that day.

“There's something else. Did you receive notification of the inquest date yet?” he asked.

“Yes, it's in two weeks, I hear,” she said. “I'll see you there, I suppose.”

“Yes, you will,” said Smailes. “Did the coroner's office also tell you to stop by the hospital to pick up your brother's personal effects, the contents of his pockets on the day he was found?”

“No, they did not,” she said irritably. “What on earth is there?”

“His wallet, a little money, his spectacles and keys. Nothing of any great value. I was just looking at the contents again myself, as it happens.”

“This really is a nuisance. Can't you just send the things by post, along with the files?”

“I'm afraid not, Mrs. Wentworth. They have to be signed for, you see.”

“I'd rather not have to make a trip out there. Can I get someone in Cambridge, one of his friends, to pick them up from you?”

Smailes thought for a second. “Yes, that would be all right, if you tell me in advance who it is.”

“Does it have to wait until after the inquest?”

“No, not at all. It's just a formality.”

“Fine. I'll have Giles do it. You remember Giles Allerton?”

“I do indeed,” said Smailes. “I'll make a note with the paperwork on the bag. Just have Allerton tell the desk officer what he's here for, and sign off the personal property form. I'll let the DC know.”

“Fine,” said Alice Wentworth, in her business-like way. “I'm sorry if I sound suspicious about this money business. It's not the money, of course. Simon can do whatever he pleased. It's just, in the circumstances…”

“You did the right thing,” said Smailes. He wondered what she would say to the doubts he entertained, and what Mr. Fenwick would have to say about this latest development.

When his phone rang later that evening, after his second unsuccessful attempt to find Fenwick at his flat, he thought at first it was probably Yvonne, calling to remind him that Tracy was with him on the coming Saturday. Not that he had ever or would ever forget, but Yvonne liked to maintain that it was a possibility. Still, Smailes could not criticize her too much, because at least she and her new husband didn't run him down to the little girl, and Tracy seemed to enjoy their time together. The divorce and custody arrangements could have been a lot worse, he realized.

But instead of Yvonne's usual distrustful tones, the female voice was unfamiliar, and her first words were, “So you're not unlisted.”

“Who's this?” asked Smailes.

“This is Detective Smailes, okay?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Lauren Greenwald. You know, I saw you in the bookstore last week? Well, you told me to call you if ever I got any information about Simon's death that was more than a hunch, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I have.” There was a moment of silence.

“Yes?” asked Smailes.

“I don't want to talk about it on the phone, okay? It's too creepy. Will you come over?”

“That's a little irregular, miss. Can you stop by the station in the morning.”

“No, I can't. If you're serious about looking into Simon's death, you'll come over. It won't wait till tomorrow.”

“I see, miss. And where is it you live?”

Smailes pulled up outside the semi-detached house on Harvey Goodwin Avenue and rang the bell three times, as she had instructed. Lauren Greenwald answered the door to him with lowered eyes and turned and led him up the stairs. She turned sharply on the landing and led him into the room at the front of the house. She said nothing until she had closed the door behind him.