The Cambridge Theorem (38 page)

“There is, of course, the other matter, sir.”

“What's that?”

“Whether this involvement had anything to do with how Simon Bowles died.”

“Good Lord, I hadn't thought of that. Do you think perhaps he had discovered…?”

“Sir, what does ‘Who flagged the files from Bletchley?' mean?”

“I really don't know. What are you referring to?”

Smailes explained the note he had found in Bowles' wallet, his belief that it was directly related to his research, and his suspicions of a missing file on the same subject. He explained how he had learned of G-L's and Hawken's wartime service from Bowles' work, and had researched the Bletchley institute from other sources. He considered his words carefully.

“You see sir, I can't help wondering that the question has some ulterior mathematical significance. Young Bowles had done something similar with an investigation into the Kennedy assassination. That is, he decided the accepted version was mathematically impossible. Perhaps…”

“Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” said G-L pensively. “Well, I'm really not sure, except it may refer to the belief that some have had that our work was compromised. ‘Who flagged the files?' it said? Personally, I have always discounted those theories. Although…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Well, as I think I've explained, Hawken has always struck me as a security risk himself. He was military liaison to the War Office for the latter part of the Bletchley operation. And I've always distrusted zealots, you know. I suppose there's a possibility…”

“…that Simon Bowles discovered Nigel Hawken was a traitor, sir?”

Gorham-Leach tugged at his lip in agitation. “No, I really can't believe that. But I know what you should do, Officer Smailes.”

“Yes sir?”

“You must report him to his superiors in London. It's the only thing you can do. Any further investigation should be undertaken by them.”

Gorham-Leach went to his desk and scribbled a name on a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to Smailes. Smailes stood up to receive it. He saw the name Roger Standiforth, and a London telephone number. “Standiforth is director ‘D' at MI5, one of Hawken's superiors. He's head of ‘D' Branch, the counterespionage branch. You must call him and tell him all you know.”

Smailes stood looking at the paper for a moment, then folded it carefully and put it inside his wallet. He reached for his raincoat. Gorham-Leach said, “Please tell me what happens. I will say and do nothing until I hear from you.”

Smailes was about to leave, but realized he had a further question for Gorham-Leach.

“Do you still hunt, sir?”

“What an extraordinary question. No, not since my undergraduate days. How on earth did you know I used to hunt?”

“Bowles' research, sir. Said you were a member of the Blenheim Hunt at Oxford.”

“Quite right. Quite right. That young man really did have unusual abilities. And you too, officer. I commend you on your thoroughness.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Smailes, and thought of saying something about calling him as a character witness at his upcoming hearing. “I'll be in touch.”

Smailes hesitated outside Giles Allerton's door before knocking. Loud rock music was pulsating inside, and he realized how awkward this potential interview was. He just hoped he was not going to find Lauren in there. That would be extremely awkward.

“Come in,” yelled Allerton's voice. Smailes stepped into the room and saw Allerton through a thick haze of smoke sitting on a chair facing a young woman who was lying slouched, on the bed. She was not Lauren Greenwald. She was a skinny blonde woman wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans. The music was deafening, and Smailes smelt the distinct sweet odor of marijuana. “Oh Christ,” said Allerton, getting up and switching off the record player. “Shit, what do you want?” He looked at Smailes with frightened, red-rimmed eyes.

“Just a word, Giles, if that's okay.”

“Look, I don't sell the stuff, I only use it now and again, and Maggie here's got nothing to do with it, okay. Let her go, will you?”

“Sure,” said Smailes. “Run along, miss.”

The woman had realized quickly that Smailes was a policeman and had sat up nervously. She threw a questioning look at Allerton, who shook his head. She retreated unsteadily out of the room.

“Sit down, Giles. I'm off duty, and what you do with your private time is of no interest to me, all right? I just want to ask you a couple of favors.”

Allerton sat down and looked at Smailes mistrustfully. Two fat roaches sat in the ashtray on the floor, and Smailes could see Allerton's drug kit on the desk top, the razor blade and silver paper partially wrapping a small black cake of cannabis. “I'm serious. I'm not here to arrest anyone for drugs, okay?”

“Are you telling the truth? If you tell Hawken, I'll get sent down. What do you want?”

“I want to visit your brother. How do I get in touch with him?”

“Hugh? Whatever for? You can call him at Merton College. He's studying to be a holy man.”

“I just want to ask him some questions about Simon Bowles, that's all.”

“Simon? Are you still looking into that? I was at the inquest, you know. I heard you all do your whitewash job.”

“There's just a couple of things I want to clear up. You still believe it wasn't suicide?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Allerton petulantly. “I suppose not. But I don't think you or the coroner found out why he died. I don't think you cared to.”

“What's your theory?”

“We…I don't really have one, I suppose. But I thought it was weird that he wasn't wearing his glasses when you found him. I hear you didn't. I was going to come talk to you about it.”

“No, I didn't, not particularly,” said Smailes. “There's something else. Do you have a photograph of him?”

“Who? Simon?”

“Yes.”

“I might. What do you want a photograph for?”

“To make some more inquiries.”

“Just a minute.”

Allerton turned round to his desk and thrust the drug kit clumsily into his jacket pocket. He opened the desk drawer and began pawing through its contents. Smailes moved over to stand beside him. Allerton produced a fat envelope of photographs and looked through them. He found one and handed it to Smailes.

“Here.”

Smailes was unnerved to see Simon Bowles smiling weakly at the camera, seated on a bed next to a girl who had her arm draped affectionately round his neck. The girl was Lauren Greenwald. “Couldn't you have asked Lauren?” asked Allerton.

“She said she didn't have one,” said Smailes. “When was this taken?”

“Last year, before Christmas, in Simon's room. I took it.”

“Can I keep it for a few days?”

“All right,” said Allerton, uncertainly. Smailes looked down on the desk and saw scrawled notes in a script he did not recognize.

“What's that?” he asked.

“Russian translation. I've got Finals in less than a month. I've been trying to catch up.”

“Yes, I noticed,” said Smailes. “I'll send this back to you when I've finished with it.”

On the drive home Smailes thought carefully about the advice Gorham-Leach had given him. He was glad to have an actual name to contact, but was not ready to put himself on the line yet with any accusations. He wanted to complete the trips to Oxford and London, to see if he could glean anything further about Bowles' activities during the last days of his life. He realized also that he could hardly call a senior official at MI5 without involving George, and he doubted George would look kindly on his unauthorized attempts to ensnare Nigel Hawken in a sex scandal. There was a further misgiving, he realized. Even if he could somehow call Standiforth privately and evade the subject of his suspension, he had read enough about the British security services by now to know of their dismal record with regard to traitors in their midst. He knew of nothing to suggest that their attitude of denial had really been supplanted. The information might get stuck, filed away somewhere, Hawken never even challenged about events. He might need G-L's help further, he reflected. This particular whistle might need to be blown by someone of his stature.

He was irritated to find on his return that the Post Office repair van was still parked over the manhole near his door, and he had to hunt around to park. He might even support the Government's idea to sell off the outfit to private investors. It might make it run better.

Derek Smailes first noticed the odd-looking white Rover on the drive to Oxford. He had stopped for cigarettes and passed the car parked in a lay-by about quarter of a mile further up the A45. It caught his eye because the bonnet had been restyled as if to accommodate a custom engine job. Otherwise, it was a plain, late model car. Only when he was driving away from Oxford on the motorway to London did he notice it again in his rear view mirror. So I'm being followed, he thought to himself, with more a sense of intrigue than alarm.

The meeting with Allerton Senior had been interesting, finally. The young man could hardly have been more different in appearance and behavior from his younger brother. He received Smailes in a small sitting room that he shared with another graduate student at the college. The other student, a mousy chap with a prominent Adam's apple, was sitting there studying when the detective had arrived, but beat a tactful retreat as soon as Smailes entered. Hugh Allerton was soberly dressed in a sports jacket, white shirt and tie, and was reading a book titled
Concepts of Grace
which he put down to shake Smailes' hand. If he recognized Smailes from the Cambridge crematorium, he did not show it. He expressed surprise once more at the message to call the CID detective in Cambridge, and could not imagine why anyone would have questions about Simon at this stage. Smailes explained again that they were informal inquiries that he was conducting for CID. Much more informal than you would ever guess, Smailes thought to himself.

Allerton spoke candidly of his long friendship with Simon Bowles and the terrible impact his suicide had had upon him. He had felt himself sharply depressed since the event and still could not reconcile himself to it. He had no idea Simon was in a difficult state of mind. No idea at all.

Smailes allowed Allerton to describe Bowles' occasional visits to Merton College since he had begun his latest research project. Bowles had talked to Allerton about it at some length, but Allerton felt it was a wild goose chase and was not a particularly sympathetic listener. He knew that Bowles' technique was to delve into contemporary records from the thirties at the Bodleian Library. Allerton had helped him get reader's privileges. At some point they had ceased to discuss the details any longer. They had many other subjects to talk about.

Simon Bowles' habit was to arrive in Oxford on the evening bus from Cambridge, spend the night in Allerton's study on the sofa, then spend a full day at the library, catching the evening bus back to Cambridge, usually without seeing Allerton again. On the Thursday before his death, Bowles had arrived as usual around nine thirty and the two men had stayed up late talking, as was their habit. Bowles had told him he might stay two days, which was unusual, and had arranged to telephone him at the porters' lodge in the late afternoon to tell him of his plans. The last time Allerton had seen Simon Bowles was on the Friday morning, when he left for a lecture. Simon was just waking up and had told him sleepily that he would talk to him later. As arranged, Allerton had gone down to the lodge to take a call from Bowles at around five thirty, and was told by Bowles that he had decided to head back to Cambridge after all. They made vague plans to see each other in a month or so.

“And during the visit, there was nothing in his conduct that suggested he might have been undergoing, well, a personal crisis of some sort?” Smailes had asked.

“Absolutely not. He was his old self, as far as I could see. Argumentative, a little mischievous. That's the way he always was with me.”

“And you didn't know of any developments in his personal life that might have been troubling him?”

Allerton had wanted to know what Smailes meant, and the detective tried to ask delicately whether the two men ever discussed personal or romantic affairs. Allerton said that generally they had not, they were more intellectual partners. He had long suspected that Simon might be homosexual, but it was not a subject that naturally came up between them.

“And why did you think that?” Smailes had asked.

“Oh, some things when we were at school, things he would let slip unknowingly. I think it was a difficult subject for him, and I for one would never have brought it up,” Allerton had explained. Smailes considered asking him his opinion of his younger brother's activities, but thought better of it. It would be difficult to defend the relevance of the subject.