The Cambridge Theorem Read Online Free Page A

Immediately inside the door to his left was a desk with a modern typewriter sitting in a pool of light from a desk lamp. Beyond was a single bed, made, although it looked as if someone, or some people, had been sitting on it. It had a plain blue counterpane and was overhung with the first of many shelves of books. Against the opposite wall were two armchairs flanking an electric fire set into an old fireplace. To the right was a black four drawer filing cabinet and a standing bookcase of the same height. In the center of the room was a stained rug, possibly Oriental.
    One reason the room was so dark was that the leaded windows were small and shrouded by a number of hanging plants. Another reason was that they were partly obscured by the body of a young man that hung from a belt from one of the heavy plant hooks screwed into the oak window frame. A small wooden chair was tipped over underneath the body and another potted plant in its hanging basket was sitting on the floor beside it. It looked like an aspidistra.
    There was a poster, an enlarged photograph of some white-haired man, pinned to the wall to the left of the windows, near what Smailes assumed was a clothes closet. The scene made him feel terrible.
    He advanced to the limp figure of the young man, whose feet swung grotesquely in the air, the head twisted in an unnatural angle against the neck. Despite his bravado, Smailes didn’t like stiffs. He didn’t like them at all.
    Swedenbank came up beside him, breathing heavily. Smailes felt the young man’s hand. It was cold. He turned to Hawken, distracted momentarily by the ADC’s face, which was turned up towards the dead boy as if in supplication.
    â€œAnything been moved?”
    â€œNo. Everything is as Mrs. Allen found it.”
    â€œWho has been in the room?”
    â€œWell, Mrs. Allen, myself, the ambulancemen and the policemen. No one has touched anything, I think. We were waiting for you,” said Hawken.
    Smailes could tell from the edge in his voice that Hawken didn’t like answering questions. He was the type who liked to ask them. He noted the tone of accusation that they had arrived late, and ignored it. Smailes hated having civilians watch his work.
    â€œWill you excuse us for a few minutes, Mr…?” Smailes fished for his name.
    â€œDr. Hawken. Dr. Nigel Hawken. Certainly,” he said icily, and left the room.
    â€œPoor bugger,” said Swedenbank, as Hawken closed the door. He had not stopped looking at the grimace on the dead boy’s face. Smailes realized it was his first hanging.
    â€œYeah, well at least he didn’t make a mess of it,” said Smailes. “See what you can find. Maybe a note.”
    Swedenbank retreated towards the door as Smailes knelt under the body. The chair had tipped away after the boy had kicked it. Looked as if he had set the plant down first. Careful type.
    He looked up at the body, growing more used to its presence. Longish fair hair over the collar of a rugby shirt. Acne scars. Skinny build, corduroy jeans, tennis shoes. The watch on the boy’s wrist was still running. It showed a quarter to eleven.
    He reached inside the jeans back pocket and removed a wallet, something that Dickley should have done. In the left front pocket he found some change and a pair of spectacles in a case. The wallet contained seven pounds, a credit card, various library cards and some folded papers.
    â€œSarge, look at this.” Swedenbank was standing over the desk with his back to him.
    What he was indicating was a typed sheet in the platen of the typewriter. Smailes took out a handkerchief and rolled it upwards. It was fairly brief.
    â€œThey came back. I couldn’t take it. Simon.” It was the first typed note Smailes had seen.
    He opened the desk drawer with the handkerchief. Pens, pencils, a roll of tape. A key ring and a checkbook. Further in, a partly used ream of typing paper.
    He removed the keys and went over to