The Cambridge Theorem (40 page)

He drove out to Ely along clear roads and with an empty rear view mirror. He pulled into the lot beside the new prefabricated building that housed Fowler's showroom and garage. Behind a corrugated iron fence at the back of the site you could still see the remnants of the scrap business from which Fowler had graduated. As far as Smailes was concerned, it was where Fowler belonged, back among the refuse.

He pushed open the glass door of the showroom and saw Fowler in his office down at the end, talking on the phone. He walked slowly past a restored Jaguar sports car, and a couple of big old luxury cars that might have been Bentleys or Daimlers. Fowler had seen him and was wrapping up his conversation. He came out, of his office with a big false smile and held out his hand.

“Derek! Long time no see. How've you been?”

Smailes took the hand reluctantly and caught the noxious smell of the cologne that enveloped Fowler. It was if he had never erased the odor of the scrapyard, and overcompensated with too much Chanel or Dior or whatever he bought. He was a fat little man in an ugly yellow polyester suit, his hair bunched at the sides and combed horizontally to hide his baldness. He wore a blue shirt with ruffles down the front and on the cuffs.

“Okay, Mick, okay. You got time to answer a few questions?”

“For Derek Smailes, any time. You looking for a new motor, maybe?”

“Not yet, Mick. Let's sit down.” With the door to the office closed, the smell of Fowler's cologne was even more overpowering. “You rented out a white Rover recently, right? Some kind of custom engine job?”

“No, I don't think so, Derek. Don't rent cars out, as a rule. My business is rebuildin' 'em and sellin' 'em, you know that.”

Smailes pulled out his notebook. “Yeah, well there's a W-plate Rover registered to you that's been seen in some odd places lately, and I need to know who's driving it.”

“No, there's got to be a mistake. I don't know nothing about white Rovers. I sold one a while back, mind you. Maybe the record's not up to date.”

“Crap,” said Smailes. “Tell me who rented it.”

Fowler said nothing for a moment, then reached into his trouser pocket and produced a fat roll of ten pound notes. He licked a thumb and began counting them.

“No, it's a mistake, I'm telling you, Derek. How's yer little girl? She must be in junior school now, right? Now your father, I could always do business with. He knew when Mick said something was a mistake, it was a mistake. You see…”

Smailes' rage exploded and he lunged across the metal desk and grabbed Fowler by the lapels of his ugly suit. He yanked him to his feet and pushed him heavily against the wall of the office. The banknotes span out of his hand and cascaded to the floor. Smailes pushed his fists, still full of Fowler's jacket, into his neck and then bounced him against the wall again.

“Listen here, you greasy little hood, how about I make a mistake and rearrange your face a little, then pull you in right now. Resisting arrest, we'll call it. Then I'll get a warrant and toss this place, and trace every serial number on every engine block and you'd better have paperwork on every single one or you're going down, Mick. Probation violation, a suspended sentence is automatically instated, you know that.” He was shaking with rage.

“Steady, Derek. I didn't mean nothing.” Fowler was scared. “You can't arrest me or get no warrant. You got no grounds.”

“Oh yeah? That fucking Rover is tailing me, that's what, you don't call that grounds? A magistrate will give me a warrant, like that. What's up, Mick? Scared to have the place searched?”

“Let me go,” he whimpered. “I'll tell you.”

Smailes released his grip and pushed Fowler back into the wall. He sat down awkwardly, rubbing his neck.

“No need to get nasty,” he said.

“Who was it?”

“Dunno. Bloke from the Government. Said he needed something plain-looking, with a bit of poke. I hired him this Rover we done, with a Pontiac engine. Thing'll do a hundred a forty. He paid cash.”

“What do you mean, Government?”

“Said he was Ministry of Defense. You know, ask no questions. Put a grand down on the car, said he wanted it for a few weeks, and if it worked out, well, could be the start of an account. We agreed three hundred a week. Would always be cash, he said. What am I s'ppose to say? It's a straight piece a business. I done nothin' wrong.”

“Did he show you identification?”

“He flashed me something with a portrait of the Queen on it. Looked official enough to me.”

“You do paperwork?”

“You think I'm stupid? Of course I done paperwork. That motor's worth four, five grand.”

“Show me.”

Fowler opened the file drawer in his desk and produced a standard car hire form. The form was filled out in the name of Stanley Hicks, Ministry of Defence, Whitehall, London. There was a flashy signature. The rental rate was three hundred a week. It was dated ten days ago.

“You check this against his ID?”

“I seen his card all right. Looked official to me.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall, skinny, balding. Maybe thirty-five.”

“He come alone?”

“There was another, older geezer hanging out by the showroom door the whole time. Didn't do no talkin', just the skinny bloke. I showed him the Rover, then we done the money and the paperwork and he drives it off. Somebody must've drove 'em out here, because five minutes later I seen their mate drive off from round back. Listen, I thinks it's got to be something hush hush, you know, cash and all that and wanting a special motor. I know what's going on at Molesworth and them Yank bases. Who'm I to say no to a piece of business like that? I'm a patriotic bloke, you know.”

“Fuck off, Mick. How'd he talk?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“What kind of accent, I mean.”

“He talked like a gent, that's what. He's with the Government, what do you expect?”

Smailes thought for a moment. “You got a xerox machine?”

“Yeah, next door.”

Smailes handed him the hire contract. “Copy that for me.” Fowler disappeared obediently. Smailes' anger at the reference to his father had cooled. He saw the money lying on the floor, and kicked it away from him. Someone from the Government was tailing him? Did that mean the security service? Why would they be hiring cars from a scum bag like Mick Fowler? It didn't add up.

Fowler came back and handed the photocopy to Smailes. “Sorry, Derek, gettin' you worked up like that. I was only tryin' to protect somethin' I thought was confidential, like.”

“Fuck off, Mick,” said Smailes again.

On the drive back to town Smailes wondered whether to go straight to Dearnley with what he knew, but the pieces weren't in place. Who was having him followed? Hawken? George? And why? All he'd done was repeat a couple of trips Bowles had made in the last week of his life. The hire contract was ten days old. Had he been under surveillance since then? He thought of Lauren, and realized that whoever was tailing him must know about his relationship with her. Should he tell her? He kept glancing in the rear view, seeing nothing. One thing he had to do, he knew, was make a decision about his hearing. He should go to the station, see the union guy, get a referral. It was also a Friday, the day the bi-weekly expense claims had to be in, and Smailes had no reason to pass up the reimbursements he was legitimately owed. He'd postpone the trips to Oxford and London. He doubted George would appreciate the joke.

There were two or three detectives in the CID room when he breezed in and he exchanged awkward greetings with them. Ted Swedenbank came over and eagerly told Smailes about a breakthrough they'd had tying the lorry theft to a group of Sikh businessmen in Felixstowe. They were expecting arrests any day. Smailes congratulated him wanly and Swedenbank lowered his voice to express his hope that Smailes would beat the discipline charge against him. They'd all been talking about it and agreed George had been too hard on him. They should consider his record, what he'd done in his time on the force. But when Ted asked him why he'd done it, he could only shrug and say it was a long story. He felt uncomfortable in the detectives' room. He'd only been out a few days, but already he felt he hardly belonged there. Maybe he shouldn't fight it after all, just accept reality.

The number of working typewriters was down to two and Smailes had to wait in line to type up his expenses. The machine he used was on its last legs and jammed a couple of times. He had to free the key bars and got ink all over his fingers. He swore softly and tore the sheet angrily out of the machine. He stalked out of the room saying nothing to the other men and headed upstairs.

Gloria looked terrible when he handed in his form, as if she held herself responsible for his problems. He was touched, but tried not to show it.

“Come on, Gloria. It's not the end of the world. What kind of mood has he been in?”

“Lousy, Derek, ever since that day. I don't know if he's still angry with you or angry with himself. I wouldn't go in, if I were you.”

“I wasn't planning on it, believe me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Haven't decided. Got to talk to the union, I suppose. Take it from there.”

But he didn't. He left Gloria's office and kept right on going down the stairs and out the back entrance to his car in the multi-level car park behind the station. He drove home and parked. Now the white Rover was back, parked also, about fifty yards down the street. He could see the outline of a man sitting behind the wheel. He thought about walking straight down the street and confronting him, and then thought again. He went into the flat, feeling scared.

His thoughts were racing as he fumbled with the wrapping of a loaf. He was hungry, needed a sandwich or something. He took out two slices of white bread and then cursed loudly as he saw ink stains from his fingers spread all over them. Cheap fucking administration, couldn't even provide CID with modern electric typewriters whereas every secretary in the place had one. He threw the bread in the rubbish angrily and ran the tap. Then a realization hit him so hard that he actually gasped. He wrenched off the tap and grabbed a towel. Holy Christ, he thought. Bowles had had an IBM Selectric, right? The type with the carbon ribbon, right? That meant no messy fingers, right? Because the ribbon cut a neat carbon stencil of every character, and was only used once, right? Which meant that whatever bad been written on that machine was recorded on the ribbon! All he had to do to find out what Bowles had written the night be died was rewind the ribbon and read it! Right!

He rushed to the telephone, found Alice Wentworth's number and dialled. A stranger's voice answered. He asked for Mrs. Wentworth, and it took several minutes before she came on the line.

“Hello?” she said, the cool voice sounding uncharacteristically anxious.

Smailes introduced himself hurriedly.

“Oh, Mr. Smailes, I'm sorry, but I'm with the police. We've had a burglary, I'm afraid. That was one of them that answered the phone. I'm sorry, I'm in a bit of a state.”

Smailes felt his bowels turn to ice. “What was taken?” he asked slowly.

“Oh, you know, the television, the record player, the typewriter, what you'd expect.”

“What about your jewelry?”

“No, they don't seem to have been upstairs.” That clinched it. Even a second rate house thief went for the jewelry first. The other stuff had been taken to cover for the theft of the typewriter, make it look like a routine burglary. He felt dizzy.

“When?” he asked.

“It must have been sometime this afternoon. I found it when I came home from work. I called the police right away. They've just arrived. The house is such a mess. Oh, Sergeant Smailes, I can't tell you, this feels like such a violation. The children are very upset.”

“Mrs. Wentworth, I know this may sound odd, but have you changed the ribbon in the typewriter lately?”

“Why, yes, I was typing the parish magazine with it on the weekend and the ribbon ran out. Peter went out and bought new ribbons and put a new one in for me. It's quite simple, and works so much better than...”

“What did you do with it? The old ribbon? Did you throw it out?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it's still in the waste paper basket in the study. Really, what on earth does this have to do…”

“Will you go and check, please?”

“Check the ribbon?” she asked in disbelief.

“Check and see whether the old one is in the waste paper basket.”

It seemed like an age before Alice Wentworth came back to the phone. Smailes could hear the blood crashing in his ears.

“Yes, here it is, I've got it,” she said brightly.

“Hold on to that, will you. I'll be there in an hour.”

“Really? Well, Rickmansworth is a little bit longer drive than that, officer.”

“Just don't let it out of your possession. And let me speak to the policeman who answered the phone.”

When the cop came back on the line Smailes told him under no circumstance to leave before he got there. He explained that he thought the burglary might have been aimed at the typewriter ribbon specifically, and that the thieves might be back when they realized they hadn't got what they wanted. The man sounded puzzled, but compliant. Smailes rang off.

His heart was pumping as he went back to the front window and looked down the street at the white Rover. The car could do a hundred and forty, Fowler had said. His Allegro had a top speed of eighty-five, if he was lucky. He should call the station, get a squad car, but then he remembered he was suspended. Maybe he should call George, explain the whole thing, get an escort. He discounted that idea. Maybe he should act tough, walk down the street, try and arrest the guy. For what? he asked himself. Then he decided to make a run for it. He'd lay odds that he knew Cambridge better than the wise guy parked down the street.