The Cambridge Theorem (14 page)

He sat up and listened to the pounding of his heart and the faint sound of rain on the roof of his neighbor's shed. After a minute his eyes adjusted to the light and the faded roses of the bedroom wallpaper solidified into their familiar pattern. He reached for the packet of Marlboros and lighter on the nightstand, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He got up to fetch the ashtray from the top of the dresser, and felt a damp patch of sweat at the base of his spine. He sat up again in bed and saw that his hands shook slightly as he raised the cigarette to his mouth.

The dream was a variation of one which he had had for nearly ten years now, but less frequently of late. It always involved the dogs and the feeling of being pulled out of control by them, and then the discovery of something unspeakable at the end of their leash. The part with his father on the stretcher had been a new embellishment.

His heartbeat began to still but he guessed it would be hours before he felt like sleep again. He took his ancient tartan dressing gown down from the back of the door, stepped into a pair of rubber sandals and padded out into the hallway and into the tiny kitchen. He coupled the kettle into its lead and wandered into the living room, snapping on lights as he went. He went back to the bedroom for his cigarettes, put a Willie Nelson album on the turntable and sat down in the lounger. A feeling of dread still gripped at the muscles of his chest, and he felt an oceanic loneliness.

Derek Smailes looked around himself at the living room. He liked the featureless bachelor conformity of his small, one-bedroom flat. He had moved there five years ago, the second place he had had since the divorce, choosing it because it was closer to the station and far away from the neighborhood in which he had grown up and lived after his marriage. The houses of the gray terraced streets off Mill Road were so different from the development where his parents had lived in their police house, or where he and Yvonne had begun their marriage in their small police flat. The houses made no pretense at middle class expansiveness, had no gardens front or back, and were relieved in their uniformity only by the occasional brightly-painted door or defiant window-box. The place had come furnished, and Smailes had accepted wholeheartedly the jumble of cheap furniture, the tasteless faded wallpapers and fitted nylon carpets that went along with the lease. The landlord was Les Howarth, a fish shop owner in Histon Smailes knew vaguely, who left him completely alone. Les himself had the lease on the upstairs flat, which Smailes knew he kept to cavort in the afternoons and the occasional evening with a shapely blonde whom Smailes had met a couple of times in the hallway. Smailes would know they were up there when he heard strains of Englebert Humperdink or Frankie Vaughn drifting through the ceiling.

He remembered with distaste the arduous succession of meaningless choices which his marriage had seemed to require. Should they choose the folding Habitat dining chairs, or the conventional oak set from Eaden Lilly? What about the bedspread and the sheets, or should they choose a duvet, more expensive but more efficient? Yvonne had wanted blue in their bedroom and yellow in Tracy's room, what did he think? In truth he did not care a damn about any of these issues, but could not say so or Yvonne would get upset, so he stroked his chin in feigned reflection and gave considered, thoughtful replies. What a relief to escape such pretense! Now his furniture was naugahyde, his color schemes unmatched, his environment untended. He adjusted himself in the vinyl recliner that he had inherited with the place, and looked over at the wooden clock on the tiled mantel shelf above the fireplace that held the gas fire. It was twelve forty-five. Willie's low wail felt apt, companionable. He bent down and turned the dial on the side of the gas fire, the single pillar of flame appearing with a low hiss. He thought again of Simon Bowles, the luminous intellect extinguished, the sadness and the waste. Almost without thinking he reached for the manuscript which he had left on the green plastic footstool when he retired for the night, and began reading again.

Smailes had finished
The Geometry of a Murder
chapter and had started on
The Hall of Mirrors
before he had gone to bed. This second chapter detailed Oswald's potential intelligence links and was as meticulously researched as the earlier work. The detective had been impressed by Bowles' analysis, the combination of biting scientific insight and common-sense fairness that made his interpretations particularly persuasive. It was plain that Bowles discounted the theory that Oswald acted alone, but he also dismissed the claim that Oswald might have been an active intelligence agent of any government. He was intrigued by Oswald's links to volatile Cuban exile groups on both sides of the empassioned Cuba debate, and speculated that the theatrical Oswald might have been manipulated by agents from one of the opposed camps. Separate accounts placed Oswald in the company of a stocky Latino man at different sites before the assassination, and Bowles was obviously frustrated by his inability to identify the presumed Cuban. The young mathematician clearly had an encyclopedic grasp of the issues surrounding the murder and of the research and theories that had been advanced to date. Smailes found himself steadily more engrossed as Bowles' reconstruction of the extraordinary events surrounding the assassination unfolded. He drank several mugs of tea that night to keep himself awake as he made his way to final, frustrating chapter, titled
Conundrum
. At times he wondered whether Bowles had prepared the manuscript for publication, the material was so scrupulously organized and presented. But as the first wash of light began to seep into the room he realized that this was impossible, since Bowles' work had failed in the same way he criticized all previous analyses. While proving to Smailes' complete satisfaction that Oswald could not have performed the feat required of him that day, the manuscript was frayed with countless loose ends and could not answer the simple question that if Oswald had not shot Kennedy, who had, why, and how? In fact, the final
Conundrum
chapter was simply a succession of tantalizing questions that remained unanswered after twenty years, that Bowles had simply succeeded in restating with telling force. If Bowles had claimed to Davies that he had solved the Kennedy murder, then it was not apparent in the work Smailes had just spent most of the night reading.

He heard the ghostly whir of the milk wagon in the street and the chink of bottles as he tossed the manuscript down on the footstool in disgust before heading back up the hallway for a few, insufficient hours sleep. He was angry at himself for staying up so late, and, despite a grudging admiration, angry at Simon Bowles for disappointing him. Bowles had set himself a question that he had been unable to answer, despite the brilliant analytic and investigative technique. Smailes reflected that if a mind like Bowles' could not crack the Kennedy mystery, maybe no one's could, but it was a thought from which he drew no comfort.

A
CTING DETECTIVE
Constable Edward Swedenbank was pleased. He now had official instructions from Chief Superintendent Dearnley to leave the Bowles inquest preparation to Derek Smailes, and to work with Detective Sergeant Godfrey Howell on the cigarette lorry theft. Howell had his hands full with at least two other cases, and was likely to leave a lot of the investigation to him. And he wasn't such a peculiar bastard as Smailes. Not that the sergeant bothered him as much as he bothered others in CID, but you never quite knew where you stood with him. Howell was a type he understood better, a cop who had served with the army abroad before joining the force. Stickler for the rules, not much sense of humor, but that didn't matter much.

Now they had a report that the lorry had been found abandoned in Walthamstow, in East London, empty of course. The owner of a gas station had called in with a claim that his attendant had noticed three men waiting in a parked car around the side of the cafe in the hour or so before the theft was reported. The men were all wearing turbans, which made them Sikhs, he guessed. The implications were significant. These new circumstances meant that not only would he have to deal with the Metropolitan Police about the discovery of the lorry, but maybe even the Yard or Special Branch. If Sikhs had pulled off a big lorry theft, it might well be connected to all that political trouble happening over in India. The Sikhs were usually a law-abiding lot, let's face it. They were probably after money for weapons for the lads back home. At least, it was a possibility. However the case turned out, it looked like he was going to rub shoulders with the brass from town and if he pulled off his end of things all right, well, he could chalk off this probationary period and get the bloody “acting” out of his rank.

Swedenbank was studying the report from the Walthamstow station when Derek Smailes came noisily into the small room the CID detectives shared, carrying a mug of coffee. He looked bleary and bad-tempered, and Swedenbank wondered how he would take the news that he was on the St. Margaret's suicide alone, whereas Swedenbank, a lowly ADC, had been assigned to Howell and the lorry theft. To his surprise, Smailes already knew about it, and made some decent remarks about the opportunity it offered. It was one thing you had to say about Derek Smailes—he had bloody good contacts when it came to knowing what George Dearnley was up to.

In truth, Smailes didn't mind, and actually preferred to wrap up the rest of the Bowles suicide inquiry himself. He had shown no surprise when Gloria, George's secretary, had stood behind him in the breakfast line in the canteen, silently raising her eyebrows and a file flap showing the memo she had just typed on the reassignment. Swedenbank was a little earnest for his taste, and he didn't fancy tugging him around today on two hours sleep. Besides, he had to somehow get Bowles' Kennedy notes back into his files, preferably unnoticed. The thought made him irritated. Hawken had said the sister would be by around one, and he had the other don to try and interview. And then there were the Myrtlefields people, the doctors who had treated Bowles when he was out there. He picked up his telephone and began calling.

It was a raw Thursday morning when he arrived again at the stone portal of St. Margaret's, but the heat of the porters' lodge was stifling. He recognized the duty porter from the day before, but the man failed to acknowledge him as he strode up to the counter. He seemed engrossed in his newspaper, whose headline told of ominous events in the South Atlantic, where Argentina was making threatening noises about the Falkland Islands. No bloody wonder, thought Smailes. How would we like it if Korea occupied the Scilly Isles? The porter slowly looked up, then returned to his reading.

“Sorry, officer. Someone's already come for the pass key for Mr. Bowles' room. I can't give you my key—it's not allowed unless I come with it and I'm here by myself until one. I suggest you just go over there, if that's what you want. Otherwise I can call Dr. Hawken…”

The porter, a small bald man with thick glasses, was obviously uninterested in calling Dr. Hawken or having his routines, or his reading, disrupted.

“Who came for the key, if I might ask?” he asked, trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice.

“Allerton. Friend of Bowles, I think.” At this point, the porter deigned to look up again. “He said he had Dr. Hawken's permission.”

“No doubt,” said Smailes. He was carrying Bowles' notes in a small, zippered portfolio under his arm, which suddenly felt conspicuous. “How long ago?”

“Oh, ten minutes,” said the porter, and gave an incongruous, expansive smile. Smailes looked at his watch. It was barely twelve thirty; either Allerton was on some mission of his own, or the family had shown up early.

There was a small crowd in Simon Bowles' room. Allerton sat with his back to the desk, smoking a cigarette. A woman sat on the rug in the middle of the floor, with the contents of Bowles' briefcase spread before her. A shabby-looking man with his back to the room was inspecting the books in the bookshelves above the bed. No one was talking.

Smailes studied the woman. She seemed in her late thirties, but the long, light brown hair that fell across the side of her face made her look younger. It was a strong, intelligent face. She was intent on reading the letters that Smailes had found in the briefcase, and did not at first look up. Smailes could make out nothing of the man inspecting the bookshelves. Allerton was the first to notice him.

“Uh, hullo,” he said, awkwardly. “Alice, it's the CID man I was telling you about.”

The woman looked at him impassively for a moment, then got to her feet and held out her hand.

“Mr. Smailes? I'm Alice Wentworth, Simon's sister. Pleased to meet you.”

Smailes was uneasy about shaking hands with women, unsure how hard to grasp their limp parcel of fingers, but Alice Wentworth's grip was firm and confident. She looked at him directly but without hostility. He wondered what Allerton had told her of their confrontation the previous day. He could see the family resemblance in the strong nose and small mouth, and the hair coloring was the same. She was wearing a fawn polo neck sweater with a belt at the waist, and brown slacks. She wore a little discreet make-up. Her manner was formal, and her voice was firm, with the featureless Home Counties accent of the upper middle class.

“Perhaps we should sit down.” She gestured to the armchairs flanking the fireplace. “I'm early. The business at the hospital took no time at all. Giles and I were just trying to straighten things out. The senior tutor said that was all right. It is all right, isn't it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Smailes, and paused. “I'm very sorry about your brother.”

The remark seemed to provoke her. “Yes, thank you, but I'm more cross with Simon than anything at the moment. He had promised to speak to people if he was feeling depressed, you know. Someone here at the college, or me, you know. He could have called me. Of course, he refused to see anyone on a regular basis. Said it was unnecessary.”