The Passenger

by Francis Durbridge

  He slammed the receiver down and wiped his brow.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Eastwood,” Sue said, and then turned with some embarrassment towards David. “My hus . . . There’s an Inspector Denson to see you.”

  David was standing beside Arthur’s desk. He had been going through the pile of letters awaiting attention.

  “Oh?” he said, raising an enquiring eyebrow at Arthur. “Well, you’d better show him in, Sue.”

  As the door closed David came round to the front of the desk. “Denson? Is this the chap she’s married to?”

  “I imagine so. He’s in the Force.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Once. We played in a golf tournament about a year ago, shortly after she walked out on him. He never spoke a word — just knocked hell out of me.”

  Arthur was laughing at the memory when Sue opened the door to admit the two officers. Arthur went to meet the Inspector with outstretched hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Denson! Come in!”

  “Good morning, Mr. Eastwood.” Martin shook hands in his characteristically non-committal way.

  “Nice to see you again,” Arthur said warmly, and could not resist adding: “How’s the golf?”

  Martin permitted himself a faint smile. “It’s non-existent at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  Arthur nodded at Martin and looked at David with a wry twinkle in his eye. “This chap’s the longest hitter I’ve ever seen. You remember the old fourteenth at St. George’s? I’ve seen him on the green in one . . .”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Walker.” Martin’s brisk tone curtly interrupted Arthur’s reminiscence. “But I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?”

  “Yes, of course,” David said, surprised at the seriousness of the Inspector’s tone.

  Martin gestured towards his companion. “This is a colleague of mine, Sergeant Kennedy.”

  “Good morning, sir.” Kennedy nodded, his eye meeting David’s appraisingly.

  “Good morning.”

  “If this is a private matter . . .” Arthur Eastwood said, his expression suggesting that his presence might be embarrassing for David.

  “This is your office, Arthur!” David told him firmly. “Sit down.”

  Arthur obediently went behind his desk and resumed his seat. David motioned the two detectives towards chairs and sat down himself.

  “What is it you want to see me about?”

  The Sergeant had placed his briefcase on his knees and was undoing the zip.

  Martin came directly to the point. “Do you know a girl called Judy Clayton, sir?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” David said without hesitation.

  “She lives in Guildfleet; she has a bed-sitter in Reigate Street.”

  “I’ve never heard of her.”

  Martin’s answer was to nod at Kennedy. Kennedy withdrew a photograph from the brief-case and handed it to David. David tried in vain to read Martin’s expression before he took the photograph. He studied it for a moment and Arthur saw a curious shadow pass across his face.

  David looked up into Martin’s searching eyes. “Is this Judy Clayton?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then I’m sorry,” David said quietly. “I do know the girl. I gave her a lift in my car.”

  “When was that, sir?”

  “Last Tuesday. I was driving up North to see an uncle of mine and I .. Look, what is this? Has something happened to this girl?”

  Martin ignored David’s question, and persisted with his own interrogation. “Where did you pick up Miss Clayton, sir?”

  “About — ten miles the other side of Guildfleet. She was standing on a corner trying to thumb a lift.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  David’s face showed the irritation he was feeling at Martin’s dogged questions. “What do you mean? Nothing happened. She said she was going to Doncaster and I simply offered her a lift.”

  “Did you take her as far as Doncaster, sir?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I . . .” David glanced across at Arthur, bewildered by the hint of menace underlying this string of questions. Arthur’s face was grave as if he had already guessed where all this was leading. He gave David a slight nod as if prompting him to co-operate and answer the Inspector’s questions. “She’d been in the car about half an hour when I ran out of petrol. Fortunately, we’d just passed a garage — well, about two miles back. I walked to that garage and one of the mechanics drove me back to the car.”

  “And what about the girl? Did she go to the garage with you?”

  “No, of course not!” David told him angrily. “She sat in the car and read a magazine.”

  “Go on, Mr. Walker,” Martin prompted, completely unmoved by David’s unfriendly response.

  “Well — that’s it. When I got back she’d gone.”

  “Gone where, sir?”

  “How do I know?” David said belligerently. “I imagine she got tired of waiting and finally persuaded someone else to pick her up. There was a note on the driving wheel thanking me for the lift.”

  “Look, what the devil’s this all about, Inspector?” Arthur cut in, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Is this girl missing or something?”

  “She’s not missing, sir. She’s dead. She was strangled. We found her body about three hundred yards from where Mr. Walker’s car stopped. Or perhaps I should say — three hundred yards from where we found this.”

  Martin reached into his breast pocket and brought out a plain white envelope from which he carefully extracted a sheet of printed paper. Even as he unfolded the crumpled sheet, David recognised it as the page of ‘Drive’ on which Judy had scrawled her lipstick message.

  “I rather imagine this is the note you were referring to, sir?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” David gave a nervous laugh and immediately wished he hadn’t. “I was just beginning to curse myself for having thrown it away.”

  “One would hardly have expected you to have kept it, Mr. Walker.” Martin carefully refolded the page, replaced it in the envelope and returned it to his pocket.

  “Inspector,” Arthur said, “how did you know it was David’s car that picked up this girl? His name isn’t on the note.”

  “We made enquiries in the district and the garage-hand remembered both the Bentley and Mr. Walker. He gave us a very good description of you, sir. We also found this in the girl’s handbag.”

  This time it was a key-ring which Martin extracted from his pocket. He held it up between his index finger and thumb. The key-ring was one of the clasp variety. On it were three small keys and a metal emblem.

  “That’s one of our key-rings!” Arthur was leaning forward, staring at the reproduction of his company’s most successful product — the Walking Cavalier. “The firm’s I mean . . .”

  “Yes, sir. I imagine you give them away to customers.” Martin switched his gaze meaningly from Arthur to David. “And friends.”

  “Well, that’s the idea. It’s an advertisement.”

  “Did you give this to Miss Clayton, sir?” Martin asked, still looking at David.

  “Of course I didn’t! Why on earth should I give a complete stranger . . .” David broke off, struck by a sudden thought.

  “Go on, sir.”

  “I didn’t give it to her, but now I come to think about it, I’ve a pretty shrewd idea where she got it from. It’s my bet she took it out of the glove pocket of my car.”

  “Was there a key-ring like this in the glove pocket?”

  “There’s at least half a dozen of them.”

  “We always carry them around with us, Inspector,” Arthur explained. “I’ve got a stack of ’em at home.”

  “Well, if what you say is true,” Martin pointed out, “she certainly didn’t waste any time putting her keys on it. It’s curious we didn’t find her old one.”

  “Her old one?”

  “Her old key-ring.”

/>   “Look, Inspector.” David’s voice rose as his anger returned. “What are you inferring? That I knew the girl? That she was a friend of mine? That I gave her the key-ring long before . . .”

  “I wasn’t aware that I was inferring anything, sir,” Martin said, his eyes innocent. “But since you raise the point — was she a friend of yours?”

  “No! I’ve told you, I’d never seen her before!”

  “She was standing on the corner and you just offered her a lift?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she tell you why she was standing on that particular corner, sir?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  Martin paused before playing his trump card.

  “She had an appointment to meet someone there,” he said, watching David carefully. “At ten-thirty.”

  “Ten-thirty?” David echoed, his forehead puckering. “Yes.”

  “But — it must have been about ten-thirty when I picked her up.”

  “Yes, I suppose it must have been, sir,” Martin said, his voice almost soothing.

  David ran his tongue over his lips and exchanged a worried glance with Arthur.

  “How do you know she had this appointment, Inspector?” Arthur asked, after a few moments silence.

  “We found a diary in her handbag. It mentioned the appointment but unfortunately it didn’t mention who it was with.” Martin stood up. Kennedy zipped up his briefcase and followed suit. The Inspector offered David his hand. His manner was as friendly as if he was completely satisfied with David’s answers. “Well, thank you, sir. You’ve given me the information I wanted. We won’t take up any more of your time.”

  “I take it you’re in the book, sir,” Kennedy said casually, “if we want to get in touch with you?”

  “What? Oh, yes . . . No, I’m sorry — just at the moment I’m staying at The Crown.”

  Kennedy, who had been moving towards the door, checked in obvious surprise. “In Mortimer Street?”

  “Yes.” David met his enquiring gaze defiantly, as if daring him to start up a whole new line of interrogation. But Kennedy simply exchanged a look with his superior and nodded.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Arthur had hurried round from behind his desk. He was on the Inspector’s heels as he went out through the door. “I’ll come with you, Inspector,” he said, throwing David a look which told him as plainly as words to stay where he was.

  Arthur had seen that David’s reaction to the police enquiries had made a very unfavourable impression on the Inspector. It had really been most unfortunate that the officers had turned up at a moment when David was off balance. Although Arthur knew exactly why his partner had been so edgy and resentful there was, of course, no reason for the detectives to be aware of the true cause of his brusque and unhelpful manner. As they went along the corridor and descended the stairs to the entrance foyer, he gave Martin a low-voiced account of the shock David had received when he had gone back to Gameswood House that afternoon nearly a week ago.

  Martin listened carefully, merely nodding from time to time. Arthur was silent as they crossed the carpeted foyer. The girl at the reception desk was watching them curiously and he did not want her to overhear what he was saying.

  Outside the doors Martin put on his hat and offered Arthur his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eastwood, I’m grateful to you for putting me in the picture.”

  “I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression. My partner’s not usually bad-tempered, I assure you. But this business with his wife, well — it’s knocked the poor devil sideways.”

  “I rather imagine it has, sir.” He searched his memory for a moment. “Roy Norton? Doesn’t he run a driving school?”

  “Yes, that’s the chap.”

  Martin nodded. “I know the man. Thank you again, sir. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Arthur slipped in through the swing-doors and the two CID men went down the steps. As they moved towards the car park Martin cast an almost envious look at David’s Bentley, parked with its dignified bonnet facing a reserved space marked ‘Mr. David Walker’.

  “Do you think he was telling the truth, Harry?”

  “Walker? Yes, I believe him, but whether I would have done if the girl hadn’t left that note . . . I don’t know.”

  “You attach importance to the note?”

  “Don’t you?” Kennedy asked, surprised.

  Martin paused with one hand on the door of the police car, staring back at the Bentley.

  “A great deal of importance. Especially since she may not have written it.”

  “May not have written it? What do you mean?”

  “The note was written in lipstick; in block capitals,” Martin reminded him. “According to the lab the lipstick’s known as Pink Flamingo. That’s the name the makers give it.”

  “Well?”

  “The lipstick we found in her handbag was called Mountain Rose.”

  “Mountain Rose? You mean it was a different shade?” “That’s right.”

  “Well — which one was she wearing?”

  “That’s the interesting point,” Martin said, opening the door and stooping to enter the car. “She wasn’t wearing any lipstick.”

  Martin Denson had found it unbearable to continue living in the cottage after he and Sue had broken up. It was a charming place just outside Guildfleet, but every detail of the house and garden reminded him of Sue and the happy years they had spent together before suddenly and inexplicably things had gone wrong. Luckily a small bachelor flat just off the High Street had come up for sale and the bank had granted him a bridging loan to tide him over until the estate agents found a buyer for the cottage. He had moved in as much furniture as he needed, but there just was not room in the flat for the contents of the cottage. He hoped to make some deal with the new purchaser to take over what was left there.

  The flat still had the look of being temporarily occupied. Most of the furniture was more or less where the removal men had put it. Frankly, Martin did not care about the aesthetic effect of his quarters. It was just a place to eat and sleep in. He could never look upon it as a home. In fact, he knew that he could never look on anywhere as home unless Sue was there too. The place had the advantage that it was only a few minutes’ walk from the police station and, since Martin had sought consolation and forgetfulness by immersing himself totally in his work, he did not object to being so readily on call.

  He had long ago given up keeping the place tidy. Books and long-playing records were scattered over the chairs and tables. Martin had brought with him the two features in his personal life which he could still enjoy in solitude — his Dynatron Hi-Fi system and his personal library of books.

  The morning after the visit to the Cavalier Toys factory he was just coming out of the small kitchen with a heaped plate of cereals in his hand when the front door bell sounded. He put the plate down and went through to open the door. Harry Kennedy was standing on the mat outside. He had a briefcase in his hand and there was an expression of excitement on his youthful, suntanned face.

  “Hello, Harry!” Martin greeted him, in some surprise.

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Yes,” Martin replied, with that straight-faced expression which made it so hard to tell when he was serious and when he was pulling your leg.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but it’s important.”

  Martin had to smile at Kennedy’s suddenly worried expression. He held the door open wide. “Come in!”

  “I tried to get hold of you last night,” Kennedy said, as he walked through the hall into the sitting-room, “but there was no reply.”

  “It was my mother’s birthday; I went over to Hampstead.” Martin gestured towards the table where books and magazines had been pushed back to make room for his breakfast tray. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Martin shrugged and sat down at the table. He picked up the spoon and pulled the plate of cereals towards him. “Well — what’s
happened? You’re steamed up about something . . .”

  Kennedy sat down on the edge of one of the easy-chairs and began to unzip his bulging briefcase. “I went back to Reigate Street last night — Judy Clayton’s place.”

  “Yes?” Martin prompted, munching Rice Crispies.

  “Mrs. Bodley — the landlady — finally produced the key.”

  “Don’t tell me Mrs. Bodley’s beginning to co-operate!”

  “No, she still won’t talk; she shuts up like a clam when the murder’s mentioned.” Kennedy withdrew an envelope and a bulky object from the briefcase. He was looking decidedly pleased with himself. “However, I discovered this interesting little item in the cupboard, amongst the various odds and ends.”

  Martin put his spoon down and watched with interest as Kennedy unfastened the leather case and took out a square folded camera. He handed it to Martin, who accepted it with an enquiring lift of the eyebrows.

  “It’s one of those new Polaroids — what do you call ’em? They take instant pictures, you don’t have to . . .” He stared unseeing at the litter of books on the sofa, then snapped his fingers as he remembered. “SX-70!” He examined the camera for a moment, and pressed a red knob. The camera clicked open. “Yes — and it’s a very good one, too.”

  Kennedy shook half a dozen prints out of the envelope and stood up to lay them on the table in front of the Inspector. “These are some of the pictures she took. I found them with the camera.”

  Martin pushed his plate aside and leaned his elbows on the table to study the little collection. They had all obviously been taken at some holiday resort, probably on the Mediterranean.

  One showed the subject sunbathing on the beach. In another he was sitting in a rowing-boat, wearing a sombrero. The four others were similar, showing him playing a guitar, buying souvenirs, preparing to dive into a swimming pool, laughing in close-up at the photographer. They conveyed the impression of a gay and happy holiday-maker and in every case the subject was the same person.

  “David Walker . . .” Martin said softly, and looked up at his self-satisfied junior with a nod of approval. “Well done, Harry.”