the fireplace. Six shelves of books in the standing case. The file cabinet was locked. The small key from the young manâs ring fitted and in the first drawer Smailes found neatly arranged hanging files. The first read Abominable Snowman .
Swedenbank was examining the bookcase above the bed. Smailes left the file cabinet unlocked and walked over to inspect the poster of the white-haired gent, who looked familiar to him. It was Bertrand Russell, or one of the Alberts, Schweitzer or Einstein, Smailes wasnât sure which.
âSeen enough, Sarge?â asked Ted. Smailes had to hand it to him. He wasnât doing badly for a first suicide.
âYeah, I think so.â
âHow long has he been dead?â
âMaybe eight, ten hours. Joints in the fingers already stiff. Light still on the desk, bed not slept in. Funny thing about rigor mortis. Itâll go away again in a few hours.â
âWhat do you make of the note?â
âDunno. Little bit fishy. First typed note Iâve seen. Iâd like to know who âtheyâ are.â
âPrints, pictures?â
âWell, the scenes of crimes boys have to come in for the snaps, but forget the prints. Itâs pretty routine. Get the coronerâs officer on the radio and tell them to get their wagon down here. The ambulance boys can scarperâBert and I can help with the stocking stuffing.
âTell the SOCO boys we need pictures, then get the full ID, next of kin from your man Beecroft. Hop a ride back with Dickley and help him with the SD report. He didnât have the sense to empty the pockets or secure the note. Take these things, will you Ted?â
There was reassurance in the mechanics of police procedure after the untidy violence of Bowlesâ terrible deed. Smailes handed over the personal effects and pulled the note from the typewriter. He didnât need to tell Ted what to do at the station, and was relieved. Swedenbank was gratified at the deference being shown him. His hands looked as if they were wearing fingerless woollen mittens as he took the belongings from Smailes. There was an odd intimacy in the gesture. The two detectives avoided each otherâs eyes.
âThanks, Sarge.â
âSure, Ted.â
Smailes could hear Swedenbank issuing orders to the ambulancemenâyes, the detective sergeant would verify death; yes, he would send for the coroner; no, they didnât need to stay. Then he heard him in slightly brusquer terms telling Dickley to accompany him to the portersâ lodge so they could be sure to get the details right. Ted seemed to have the tone of injured authority just right.
He folded up Bowlesâ note and put it in his jacket pocket with the dead boyâs keys before leaving the room. The typed note was unusual, but from the neatness of the room and the filing cabinet, it didnât seem entirely out of character. He found Hawken in the cramped kitchen off the other side of the landing, standing solicitously over Mrs. Allen, who was drinking tea. Her face was flushed beneath a wreath of gray curls, her considerable weight crumpled onto a small stool. She started to get up as Smailes entered the small room.
âNo, please. Rest your legs,â he said gently.
She seemed gratified and blinked into the chipped mug, which she held with both hands.
âWould you like to question Mrs. Allen here, or in my rooms, officer?â Hawken asked. He obviously felt he should be in charge. Smailes had not planned to question anyone yet, but Hawken had forced a response.
âI donât want to keep you, Mrs. Allen. Iâm with Cambridge CID. Just tell me what happened here this morning.â He avoided words like âbodyâ and âdead man.â
âWell,â she said, gathering herself with a sniff and setting her mug down on the edge of the steel sink.
âI comes up âere to the first floor about ten oâclock. I usually does âis room first,