The Cambridge Theorem (30 page)

He got up and walked to her sink and used her tooth-brush and towel. Then he wrapped the towel around himself and went back and sat on the bed. The door opened and Lauren came in wearing a cotton kimono. Her hair was wet. He suddenly felt embarrassed, an intruder, but her smile reassured him. She looked vulnerable without her glasses.

She came and rested her hands on his shoulders and asked if he had slept well. He asked her if she would get into trouble with her landlady, and she told him no, but they should wait until after nine for him to leave, the time she went to the shops. He asked her what they should do and she laughed and he pulled her down on the bed and they made love again.

When Smailes stepped out of his car outside his flat he had a giddy, unreal feeling and had to steady himself with his hand on the roof of the Austin. He could not suppress a huge grin.

“Shall I see you again?” he had asked.

“I hadn't thought that we wouldn't, Derek,” she said. “I'll call you. We have to find out why Simon died.”

That was when Smailes realized that he had forgotten all about him.

Lauren Greenwald listened to the voice of the lecturer droning on and on about elementary organic chemistry that she already knew, and cupped her hand over her nose to hide a smile. She sat with her feet up on the bench in front, and in her folder she doodled the distinct shape of a British policeman's helmet. It really did look like the head of an erect penis, she had to agree.

She felt sore in a way she hadn't for years, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. She was very pleased with herself, and wondered what her mother would think if she could see her now. A British policeman! Talk about cutting your teeth.

D
ONALD WEST HAD BEEN
on the job with the Immigration Service at Prestwick Airport for barely three months when on the Tuesday after Easter the unlikely happened—two of his passengers turned up on the White List. He had undergone his training in London, naturally, and what he was told was that for every hundred names he found on the Black List, he might find one on the White List. But here he was, barely out of his probationary period, and the two Danes were definitely there, names and passport numbers listed on the White List.

The instructor for that particular training seminar had put it like this: the Black List was for people who were just that—blacklisted. They were to be denied entry into Britain and held in Immigration and told the reasons why, how they could appeal if they wanted to. Nine times out of ten they were undocumented aliens making a phony immediate relative claim. Mostly Pakistani and Indian passports, trying for a second or third time. Then there were others, expelled for various crimes, barred from returning to Britain for life. Whatever the reason, that was not your concern. You found their name, nationality and passport number (if known) on the printout, and you asked them to take a seat and you called the duty supervisor to explain it to them. You didn't trouble yourself with the arrangements after that.

The White List was something different. It was a much shorter printout than the Black List, of course. It was for people who were to be allowed into Britain without query, but who were to be followed after leaving the airport. These were not simply wanted criminals, it was explained. They were suspects in various crimes (often terrorist-related) or couriers for different conspiracies (usually narcotics), who might lead the authorities to bigger fish they were involved with. Again, it wasn't your decision. You were to let them through to the baggage area, then close your window and go immediately to the Special Branch station and report that you had let through a whitelisted person and point that person out as discreetly as possible. More often than not, if you moved quickly enough, the person was still waiting for his bags at the carousel, or if he just had carry-on, was in the queue for the customs. That was all that had been explained to them, although after the session one of the other recruits told him that he'd been told the White List was put together mostly by M15 and a lot of the names were suspected legends, cover identities for agents of foreign powers. Donald West didn't pay too much attention to that. He just wanted to be sure that he had the procedure right.

The problem was that at the smaller airports like Prestwick there was no Special Branch station, there was just an office for the regular police, which they shared with the airport security people. In that case your instructions were to explain the details to the officer in charge. There would usually be someone in plainclothes attached to the unit who could take it from there.

He thought he did a pretty good job of disguising any reaction when he handed the two Danes back their passports. Their names were there all right, among the dozen or so listed under Denmark. One was tall and dark, in his thirties and balding at the temples. The other man was older, a squat, overweight figure with short fair hair and a red complexion. They were both listed as “businessman” in their passports, and spoke the good, unaccented English that all the Scandinavians seemed to speak. When he asked them how long they were planning to spend in Britain, the tall one had said one week and gave as their address the name of one of the big hotels in Glasgow. He thought he had handled himself well as he smiled and wished them a profitable stay. He turned immediately to the next passenger and saw them leave the Immigration Hall out of the corner of his eye. Then he quickly pushed his Closed sign in front of his window and let himself out of the back of the booth. The other passengers in his line shrugged in annoyance and went to join other lines. He thought of running over to the supervisor's office first, but decided to stick to the procedure he had been taught.

He didn't know the police sergeant who was sitting at the desk, and he tried to contain his excitement as he told him about the two businessmen on the noon flight from Copenhagen who were on his White List.

“And what's that then?” asked the sergeant, suspiciously.

West was appalled that the sergeant did not know, but tried to explain patiently about the two lists and what he had been instructed to do about listed people. The sergeant rubbed his chin and thought for a moment.

“We've only got McCann in plainclothes and he's in the freight hangar this week. They should be followed, you say…”

“That's what I understood. I'm just supposed to report it to you, and you're supposed to know what to do,” West said testily.

“It's a new one on me,” said the sergeant flatly. West began to feel agitated. The pair would be through customs and off if they did not do something quickly. West did not doubt that their “business” was drug smuggling.

“I can hardly go out there, can I, in uniform, and have them pointed out? Here, you'd better let me have their names and a description and where they said they're staying, and I'll tell McCann about it when he comes in. He usually does, around two. Or I could call through to Special Branch in Glasgow…”

Donald West said, “Forget it,” and ran to the door. He should have trusted his judgment and gone to the duty supervisor first, someone who would at least have known what the White List was. They needed to act right away if the pair were not going to disappear entirely. Maybe he should follow them himself, he thought in panic.

He ran down the stairs, down the corridor and into the customs area. He could not see them. He ran out onto the concourse of the airport, which was crowded with people checking onto flights to New York and Toronto. He pushed through the first ranks of passengers to where he could see out onto the pavement, where the two Danes were already getting into a taxi. By the time he reached the doors they were gone, he couldn't even make out the name of the taxi firm, let alone the number plate.

“Damn it,” he said to himself, angrily. “This is no way to run a bloody country.”

Smailes found Fenwick at his flat on the third attempt, the lunchtime after his encounter with Lauren Greenwald. The young man did not seem surprised to see him, and told him gloomily that he had been suspended pending review of his case by the college. He became defensive when Smailes said he did not seem to be spending much time at home. He had been round at his mother's the previous evening, all evening, he maintained.

“Drive over, did you Alan?”

“Yes, of course,” said Fenwick suspiciously. “What's it to you?”

Smailes had decided not to beat about the bush. “Bowles bought it for you, didn't he? Clean cash. Just like he gave you the grand to set you up in this place back in February. What was it for—deposit, furniture, that kind of thing? What did you have on him, Alan, that you could shake four grand out of him in two months?”

Fenwick made no attempt to deny the payments. “Nothing. Nothing. Weren't like that, see.”

“Oh, it weren't. How was it? Why don't you tell me, Alan? And it'd better be good, or you'll be telling it to the Chief Super.”

Again Fenwick's story had a plausible ring, if an unpleasant smell to it. After their friendship began, the two men became frustrated at the secrecy with which they had to conduct themselves. Fenwick was living with his mother so there was no chance to meet outside the college. It had been Bowles' idea to set up Fenwick in the flat. Fenwick could afford the rent, he just hadn't been able to come up with the start-up costs. He hadn't wanted to take the money, but Simon had insisted. Like hell, thought Smailes.

The car had also been Bowles' idea, so they could take trips together on the weekends. Simon didn't drive, so they had put the car in Fenwick's name. He went into a dresser drawer and showed Smailes the deed.

“Not logical, Alan. He could've retained ownership, even if you were the driver. Why didn't he do that?”

“Wanted to make it a gift. He insisted.”

“You lied, Alan, first time I came here. Said you could afford the payments. There are no payments, right? It's yours, outright. Why d'you lie?”

“Didn't want no questions like these, did I? It's my business.”

“It is bloody hell your business, mate. This is a suspicious death we got here, and your behavior's one of the most suspicious things about it. You know what it looks like?”

“What?”

“Blackmail, that's what. That you had the screws on him and he was coughing up to keep you quiet. What you do, threaten to expose him as a fairy?”

Here Fenwick produced the waterworks and Smailes had to do his glass of water routine again.

“No, no, it weren't, I swear. Simon wasn't ashamed of what he was. We loved each other,” he said defiantly when he'd recovered himself. “He was very kind, and very generous, that's all. That's all.”

Smailes broke off the questioning and eventually told Fenwick that he was going to put his side of the affair to the Chief Super and to Bowles' family. The whole issue of his involvement, and his appearing at the inquest, would be brought up again. In the meantime, he might think of selling the car and giving the money back to Bowles' family, where it belonged. It might make things look better.

“I've thought of that,” said Fenwick, moodily.

“Sure you have, Alan,” said Smailes.