the first arrival of the police, and had seen nothing remotely compromising. Of course, he had not had time to examine the files themselves, as he would have liked. But it was all now too late. And after all, there was no cause for alarm.
Chapter Four
S ERGEANT HARRY SMAILES had been no ordinary policeman. His family had been grocers in Newnham village for generations, but he himself had joined the force in his teens after the Depression had put his father out of business. He had served on the beat for twenty years before winning his sergeantâs stripes, and by the time Derek was a teenager he was a desk officer with all manner of important administrative duties.
The tales of his bravery were legion and he was an almost legendary figure in the town. He seemed to know everyone. On Saturday mornings, when Derek was a boy, if they went to town to Woolworthâs or Marks and Spencer, his father would continually stop to swap news with someone from his vast acquaintance. Occasionally, Derek would be examined by some strong-breathed stranger or chucked under the chin by a lady in a hat. He hated these encounters but would endure them in silence.
Harry Smailes was a huge man, with the large hands and feet he had passed on to his son, a bulbous pitted nose and black hair that flowed back from his forehead in brilliantined waves like a washboard. He took great pride in his appearance and his uniform was always immaculate. Derekâs first memories of his father were that he was like a fairy-tale giant. He was afraid of him.
His father was never off duty. He translated the sacrifice of police service into an unyielding sternness, and ran his household with a calm tyranny which kept Derekâs mother in a continuous state of anxiety. His elder sister Denise adopted sullen defiance, and he himself alternated between conciliation and resentment. He had always been desperate to please his father, who had an heroic and terrifying stature for him, but he had never found how.
Derek Smailes was big for his age and good at sports, and his physical recklessness made him a first-rate goal-keeper. His father rarely missed the home games of the football teams he played on, but no matter how well he played, his father always seemed unimpressed. Derek could never understand why he continued to attend, unless it was to silently remonstrate with him, to remind him that his performance was lacking. He began to prefer the away games, the absence of the accusatory presence on the edge of his vision.
Report time was always a time of particular terror. He usually scored well in English, but the other subjects were always in the Inadequate or Must Try Harder category. His father would sit opposite him at the dining table, the report card between them like a felonâs statement. Then he would wag the stem of his pipe at it and tell him he was letting himself down. Derekâs cheeks would burn with anger and shame. School bored him. He passed most subjectsâwhy couldnât his father acknowledge that? And anyway, his father behaved as if he didnât want him to go to University. His mother, who doted on him, let him know privately that if her Derek didnât do so well at school, it was all right with her. He would ask her to reason with his father, but she would only look at him helplessly. Harry Smailesâ household authority was an absolute she dared not challenge.
Derek Smailes shifted uneasily in his chair and stared at the small pile of Simon Bowlesâ belongings that he had removed from the plastic personal bag on his blotter. The canteen lunch felt like a bowling ball in his stomach.
He poked at Bowlesâ key ring with a pencil. There were keys to his room and file cabinet, and two others that looked like house keys. He took out a handkerchief to examine the wallet, but changed his mind. There was no crime here, no need for precautions over fingerprints. The typed note still bothered him slightly, but given
Chapter Four
S ERGEANT HARRY SMAILES had been no ordinary policeman. His family had been grocers in Newnham village for generations, but he himself had joined the force in his teens after the Depression had put his father out of business. He had served on the beat for twenty years before winning his sergeantâs stripes, and by the time Derek was a teenager he was a desk officer with all manner of important administrative duties.
The tales of his bravery were legion and he was an almost legendary figure in the town. He seemed to know everyone. On Saturday mornings, when Derek was a boy, if they went to town to Woolworthâs or Marks and Spencer, his father would continually stop to swap news with someone from his vast acquaintance. Occasionally, Derek would be examined by some strong-breathed stranger or chucked under the chin by a lady in a hat. He hated these encounters but would endure them in silence.
Harry Smailes was a huge man, with the large hands and feet he had passed on to his son, a bulbous pitted nose and black hair that flowed back from his forehead in brilliantined waves like a washboard. He took great pride in his appearance and his uniform was always immaculate. Derekâs first memories of his father were that he was like a fairy-tale giant. He was afraid of him.
His father was never off duty. He translated the sacrifice of police service into an unyielding sternness, and ran his household with a calm tyranny which kept Derekâs mother in a continuous state of anxiety. His elder sister Denise adopted sullen defiance, and he himself alternated between conciliation and resentment. He had always been desperate to please his father, who had an heroic and terrifying stature for him, but he had never found how.
Derek Smailes was big for his age and good at sports, and his physical recklessness made him a first-rate goal-keeper. His father rarely missed the home games of the football teams he played on, but no matter how well he played, his father always seemed unimpressed. Derek could never understand why he continued to attend, unless it was to silently remonstrate with him, to remind him that his performance was lacking. He began to prefer the away games, the absence of the accusatory presence on the edge of his vision.
Report time was always a time of particular terror. He usually scored well in English, but the other subjects were always in the Inadequate or Must Try Harder category. His father would sit opposite him at the dining table, the report card between them like a felonâs statement. Then he would wag the stem of his pipe at it and tell him he was letting himself down. Derekâs cheeks would burn with anger and shame. School bored him. He passed most subjectsâwhy couldnât his father acknowledge that? And anyway, his father behaved as if he didnât want him to go to University. His mother, who doted on him, let him know privately that if her Derek didnât do so well at school, it was all right with her. He would ask her to reason with his father, but she would only look at him helplessly. Harry Smailesâ household authority was an absolute she dared not challenge.
Derek Smailes shifted uneasily in his chair and stared at the small pile of Simon Bowlesâ belongings that he had removed from the plastic personal bag on his blotter. The canteen lunch felt like a bowling ball in his stomach.
He poked at Bowlesâ key ring with a pencil. There were keys to his room and file cabinet, and two others that looked like house keys. He took out a handkerchief to examine the wallet, but changed his mind. There was no crime here, no need for precautions over fingerprints. The typed note still bothered him slightly, but given
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