Free The Cambridge Theorem by Tony Cape Page A

Exam pressure, thwarted in love, any idea?”
    â€œNot really George. Except he tried it before. Two years ago. Cracked up after his father died, and ended up at Myrtlefields.”
    â€œPills?”
    â€œNo, jumped out the window. Didn’t mess it up this time.”
    â€œAny negligence? Doctors, college authorities? We’re not going to see any family suits, are we?”
    â€œUnlikely. Apparently he’d been doing fine for the last couple of years. No wind of this at all, according to his tutor. I’m going to interview a couple of his friends who were with him last night. Might give us more to go on.”
    Smailes could tell from George’s manner that he was already losing interest in the case. As long as there was no foul play and the police were not going to get in the middle of any messy litigation, the dead student was just another statistic to George. Smailes told him about the note anyway.
    George merely shrugged and glared at the SD report again, shaking his jowls at it slightly.
    â€œSounds like a relapse. See what the coroner’s office wants. They may want us to talk to the people out at Myrtlefields. Usually do with these ‘balance of mind’ verdicts. Just cover our arse for the inquest. You know, Derek.” He tossed the SD report into a file tray and wiped his nose and mouth methodically with a large blue handkerchief.
    George Dearnley was a big man who had obviously been handsome in his youth and had managed to retain a certain swagger into his middle years. It was a matter of pride in the department that the man at the helm was married to his third wife, who was nearly twenty years younger than himself. However, George Dearnley was an aloof figure and his staff rarely discussed personal matters with him. Not even Derek Smailes, who had known him all his life.
    Dearnley’s girth had spread considerably in recent years, particularly since his latest marriage, so that he could no longer sit close to his desk. But he had the nimble step of an athlete and was reputedly still a formidable tennis player. He had introduced Derek Smailes to the game, although the two of them no longer played. Dearnley’s office, a mishmash of the institutional and the personal, was full of mementos of his love of the game. His desk stood at the end of his large office, facing into it, and behind his head were calendars from equipment compavies and a large framed picture of the Cambridge police team that Dearnley had led to the county championship ten years earlier. Someone had given him a large brass tennis ball that he used as a paperweight. The coffee table at the far end of the room, next to the orange vinyl settee, held copies of Tennis magazine, along with The Economist and Police Review .
    The crown of Dearnley’s bald head gave off a pale glow in the fluorescent light. He kept what was left of his hair clipped very short. He stretched back in his chair and rested his eyes on the ceiling. The polyester sheen of his blue Marks and Spencer suit made him look like a huge shark.
    Smailes got up and walked to the door, holding a folder, then paused. He drummed lightly on it with his finger-tips.
    â€œGeorge, did you see the statements on the fraud job out at The Crowe? Swedenbank’s first go?”
    â€œOh yeah. I’m going to NFA that, if the bus company agrees,” said Dearnley absently.
    â€œYeah, seems reasonable. First offenders,” said Smailes, and to his surprise, meaning it. He suddenly realized that his earlier irritation had been misplaced, that he had been annoyed at himself in advance for arranging an embarrassment for the Chief Super. Who the hell was he to try and make George squirm? Objectively, a minor fraud involving teenage forgers and dud bus passes was not worth hauling through the courts, no matter who was involved. Any kids with clean sheets would have been given an NFA by Dearnley, he realized. But he could tell by the feigned