The Passenger

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by Francis Durbridge


  The drawing-room at Gameswood House opened out onto the garden at the back. The grass on the lawn was beginning to look untidy. It was David’s practice to mow it every Sunday and nearly two weeks had passed since it had received his attention. Roy Norton had helped himself to a gin and tonic from the drinks cupboard in the corner of the room and was standing facing Evelyn across the big sofa. He was good-looking in a superficial kind of way, with the regular but somehow impersonal features of the male fashion model. He wore a suede jacket over a roll-necked pullover and trousers with a faint check pattern. Usually the embodiment of self-assurance, his veneer tended to wilt when he was under pressure, as now.

  “I’m sorry, Evelyn, but if you choose to misunderstand what I’ve been trying to say . . .”

  “Oh, come off it, Roy!” Evelyn cut in, her eyes snapping dangerously. “If you don’t want to come here any more, say so and have done with it.”

  “It’s not a question of not wanting to come here! Good heavens, I’ve been practically living here during the past two months. I merely said that under the present circumstances we should try and be a little more . . .well discreet.”

  Evelyn paced angrily towards the drinks cupboard to refill her glass. “Discreet? Isn’t it a little late for that!”

  “All I’m saying is that instead of meeting here, at your house, we should . . .” Roy’s voice trailed off. He finished lamely: “ . . .meet somewhere else occasionally.”

  “Where, for instance?” she said over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know where!” Roy finished his drink and put the glass down on the coffee table. “Look, Evelyn, I’ve got a rotten day ahead of me. Don’t let’s quarrel — not now, honey.” He went up behind her, rurned her round and gave her a light kiss. “I’ll pick you up this evening. Be outside my office at about half-past six.”

  “Let’s make it earlier, about a quarter to. David’s calling and I’d rather not be here when he . . .”

  “David?” Surprised, Roy dropped his hands from her shoulders.

  “He telephoned,” Evelyn said casually. “He wants to collect some of his things. I imagine it’ll be this evening some time.”

  “Where is he? Where’s he staying?” Roy ran a hand unconsciously down the back of his head, a sure sign that he was nervous.

  “He’s at The Crown in Mortimer Street.”

  Roy started as a sharp knock sounded on the front door. His eyes darted round as if he was looking for some way to make a quick exit. “I suppose this couldn’t be . . .”

  “No, duckie!” Evelyn was laughing openly at his embarrassment. “I hardly think he’d knock on his own front door.”

  Roy groped for his cigarettes and rapidly lit up as Evelyn, quite unruffled, went out to the hall to open the door. He followed as far as the door, listening until he was certain that the voice of the visitor was not David’s. He had retreated swiftly and was standing in the window embrasure when Evelyn ushered Martin Denson into the room. The Inspector was carrying a slim black attaché case.

  “I apologise if I’ve come at an awkward moment, Mrs. Walker, but I was . . .” He broke off, feigning surprise, as he saw Roy smiling and nodding at him. “Oh! Good morning, sir.”

  “Mr. Norton’s been giving me a driving lesson,” Evelyn explained easily. She knew that the Inspector must have seen Roy’s car parked outside. “He’s just leaving.” She turned to Roy, admonishing him with her eyes to take the hint. “This is Inspector Denson.”

  “Good morning.” Roy gratefully moved towards the door. “I’ll ‘phone you about Thursday’s appointment later, Mrs. Walker. I’m not quite sure how I’m placed.”

  “Yes; please do that,” Evelyn said with formal politeness. “I’m free all day Thursday.”

  Martin watched impassively as Roy picked up his hat and gloves, then turned to Evelyn.

  “I’m investigating a murder case, Mrs. Walker. A girl called Judy Clayton was murdered and we’ve reason to believe that . . .”

  “Excuse me.” Roy had stopped in the doorway. “Did you say — Judy Clayton?”

  “Yes,” said Martin, swinging round with an expression of polite enquiry.

  “Is that the Judy Clayton that lives — lived — in Reigate Street?”

  “Yes, that’s right, sir. Did you know the young lady?”

  “No. Well — yes, I knew her, but . . .” Roy came back a few steps into the room, his face worried. “When was she killed? What happened exactly?”

  “We don’t know what happened, except that she was murdered.” Martin’s voice was unemotional but his eyes never left Roy’s face. “Strangled. We found her body in a ditch.”

  “Good God!” Roy exclaimed, genuinely shocked.

  “It’s been in the papers, sir,” Martin said quietly. “How well did you know this girl, Mr. Norton?”

  “I — hardly knew her at all. She came to my office a couple of months ago and said she was thinking of buying a car and that . . .she might possibly want some driving lessons.”

  “Did she have any lessons, sir?”

  “No. I — I never saw her again.” Roy’s face was red. He looked at his watch, and feigned astonishment when he saw the time. “If you’ll excuse me I — I have another appointment at ten o’clock.” Evelyn moved as if to show him out, but Roy put up a hand. “It’s all right, Mrs. Walker, I can let myself out.”

  Martin was already moving towards the settee. He placed his case on the arm and turned to face Evelyn.

  “I expect you’re wondering why I should want to talk to you about this affair, Mrs. Walker?”

  “Yes, I am.” Evelyn crossed in front of the fireplace, sat down gracefully in one of the arm-chairs and crossed her well-shaped legs. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of this girl, Inspector. Judy —?”

  “Clayton. Then I take it your husband never mentioned her?” “My husband?” Evelyn’s astonishment was genuine. “No. Why should he?”

  “We’ve reason to believe he was a friend of Miss Clayton’s.” “David?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s certainly news to me, Inspector.”

  Martin looked down at her for a moment. She met his gaze steadily, her wide-set eyes not even blinking. She was, he reflected, just about the sexiest married woman in Guildfleet.

  “Mrs. Walker, I’d like you to look at this camera and these photographs.”

  Martin opened the attaché case. He took out the Polaroid camera and the set of six snapshots, and handed them to her. She glanced briefly at the camera before putting it on the arm of her chair, then leafed through the photographs. Her expression had not changed when she looked up at Martin with an air of polite enquiry.

  “Well?”

  “Have you any idea where the photographs were taken?” “Yes, they were taken in Italy.”

  “When?”

  “Last year.”

  “What part of Italy?”

  “At a place called Forte dei Marmi. It’s near Viareggio.” “Have you any idea who took them?”

  “I rather imagine Andy did . . .”

  “Andy?”

  “Andy Mason — my brother. He and David went on holiday together. We were all going but at the last moment my mother was taken ill — actually she fell downstairs and broke her leg the morning we were leaving — and I had to cry off.”

  “I see. And the camera?”

  “What about it?”

  “Have you seen it before?”

  “Yes, of course I’ve seen it before! It’s Andy’s.”

  For the first time Martin hesitated in his questioning. “Your brother’s?”

  “Yes. But wait a minute!” Evelyn stared at the mirror above the mantelpiece, frowning as she tried to remember. “Surely . . .Andy lost it — he lost it at the airport in Milan.” She picked the camera up and examined it with renewed interest. “But where on earth did you find it?”

  “I was just going to ask the same question, Evelyn.” Standing in the doorway David had been masked by Martin, who
was facing Evelyn. The Inspector turned as David walked into the room. He pointed to the camera. “Where did you find it, Inspector?”

  “Oh — good morning, sir,” Martin said with his customary courtesy. “I’m glad you’re here, I wanted to have another chat with you.”

  “Suppose you start by answering my question,” David said uncompromisingly.

  “We found the camera and the snapshots together, sir.” “Yes, but where?”

  Martin did not answer at once. He waited until David had moved round to a position from which he could see the snapshots. That way he could have both husband and wife in his field of vision.

  “We found them in a house in Reigate Street. The house where Judy Clayton lived.”

  Parked in the road about a hundred yards from the entrance to Gameswood House Roy Norton had smoked three cigarettes before he saw Martin’s car emerge from the gateway. He opened his door quickly, stepped out and waved to the police car to halt. Martin braked and parked his car behind the Allegro. He leaned across to open the door on the passenger side as Roy came abreast of the car. Roy threw his cigarette down before sliding in beside him.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Inspector. I wanted to have another word with you about . . . Judy Clayton.”

  “Oh?”

  The monosyllabic response did not make Roy feel any more confident. He glanced uneasily at the Inspector’s profile.

  “It was a little awkward talking about her in front of Mrs. Walker, I mean — and obviously I didn’t want her to — well — get the wrong impression.”

  “The wrong impression about what, sir?” Martin’s tone made it clear that he was not interested in innuendos.

  “About my relationship — I mean, my association with . . .” Roy broke off and sighed.

  “Go on, Mr. Norton.”

  “Look, I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Inspector.” Roy squared his shoulders like Sidney Carton about to ascend the scaffold to save another’s life. “I lied to you about Judy Clayton. She didn’t just enquire about taking our course, she . . . As a matter of fact, she had several lessons from us.”

  “From you, personally?”

  “Yes. Well — there you are.” Having got the brief statement off his chest Roy felt relieved enough to switch on some of the old charm. “I thought you ought to know about it. It’s always better to be perfectly straightforward about these things.”

  “Tell me about Miss Clayton,” Martin said quietly. He put a hand up to adjust the driving mirror. “What sort of a person was she?”

  Roy waited till a lorry loaded with ballast had churned past. “Well she was all right, I suppose. Obviously, I didn’t get to know her very well.”

  “How many lessons did she have from you?”

  “About half a dozen, I should say. She enrolled for the complete course, which is fifteen, but unfortunately she . . .well, to be honest, she refused to pay us. We just couldn’t get a penny out of her.”

  “You surprise me, Mr. Norton. According to all accounts she was pretty well off.”

  “Well, that wasn’t our experience. We kept sending her bills but nothing happened.”

  “Did you speak to her about it, personally, I mean?”

  As he hesitated Roy glanced up at the driving mirror and found himself looking straight into Martin’s eyes.

  “Yes, I did,” he said, nodding emphatically. “I bumped into her in the High Street one day and I was pretty frank with her. I said: ‘You owe us twelve quid, honey. Now pay up — and no excuses, or you’ll be hearing from our solicitors.”

  “What happened?”

  “She just laughed at me.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well, no. Just as I was leaving she said if I felt like dropping in on her one evening we could discuss the matter.”

  “And did you drop in on her, Mr. Norton?”

  This time Martin removed his gaze from the mirror and turned his head to look at Roy directly.

  “Of course I didn’t!” Roy said, and laughed. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” Once again he ostentatiously consulted his watch and put a hand on the door catch. “If you’ll excuse me, Inspector . . .”

  “Just before you go,” Martin said, his voice still friendly and conversational. “Do you happen to know a man called Andy Mason?”

  “Andy Mason?” Roy twisted round, startled by the question. “Why, yes — he’s Mrs. Walker’s brother.”

  “Is he the man that runs The Grapevine; that pretty-looking pub near the river?”

  “That’s right. But he doesn’t just run it; he owns the place.” “Mrs. Walker mentioned him,” Martin said casually, “and I wasn’t sure whether it was the same chap.”

  He leaned across and opened the door for Roy.

  “Thank you, Mr. Norton. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Half an hour after evening opening-time the lounge bar of The Grapevine was already well populated and more customers were arriving every minute. Andy Mason had retained the old furniture, the exposed beams and the ornate Victorian furnishings of the bar, avoiding the mistake of sacrificing individuality for a spurious modern atmosphere. The room was full of the buzz of good-humoured conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. The two barmen, Mike and George, were busy drawing pints and half-pints of beer or pouring out measures from the rows of upturned bottles under the big mirror with its decorated edging.

  George spotted Martin as he came in through the door and made his way to the bar. He quickly wiped a patch of spilt beer off the counter and smiled at the Inspector.

  “Hello, sir! Nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Richards!” Martin said, surprised to be recognised. “I didn’t know you were here. How long have you been at The Grapevine?”

  “About six months, sir. What can I get you, Mr. Denson?”

  “I’ll have a tomato juice.” Martin edged sideways to make room for a hefty young man in a polo-necked sweater.

  “And two gin and tonics, George,” the newcomer said.

  “Okay, Mr. Houghton,” George said, making it clear that he intended to serve Martin first.

  The young man seemed unconscious that he had pushed Martin aside. “Looks like being a full house tonight,” he remarked. “Where’s Olive?”

  “She’s in London doing a bit of shopping.” George glanced round at the bar clock. “She’ll be on at eight o’clock.”

  He turned his back to pour out Martin’s tomato juice. The young man nudged the Inspector with his elbow.

  “He’s got a pretty face — but he’s not our Olive.”

  Martin smiled faintly in response to the throaty laugh. He raised his eyes to the mirror behind the bar and his heart suddenly quickened its beat. He had spotted Sue sitting alone at a small table by the window.

  “That’ll be eight pence, Mr. Denson,” George was saying to him.

  Martin dragged his eyes from the mirror and groped for change. It had been a brutal shock suddenly seeing her like that in a public place. He put a coin down on the counter and while George was fetching change, turned round to watch Sue. She had a glass of sherry in front of her and was looking as attractive as ever.

  “Your change, sir,” George reminded him.

  “Oh, thanks.” Martin picked up the coin. “Is Mr. Mason about?”

  “He’s in the office, sir.”

  “Tell him I’d like a word with him if possible.” He pointed towards Sue’s table. “I’ll be over there.”

  “Right, Mr. Denson,” George said with a grin.

  Sue had adopted the withdrawn and isolated look of a respectable woman who finds herself sitting alone in a pub. She was taking great care to avoid catching anyone’s eye and so she did not realise that her former husband had come in till she looked up and saw him standing in front of her table. The remote expression rapidly changed to one of embarrassment.

  “Hello, Sue!” Martin said good-humouredly. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” she ans
wered coldly.

  “Is this one of your haunts?”

  “No, as it happens, I’ve never been here before.”

  “Well, let me get you a drink.”

  She shook her head and pointed to the glass of sherry. “I’ve got one, thank you.”

  “I tried to get you on the ‘phone this afternoon,” Martin said, trying not to let reproachfulness creep into his voice.

  “Yes, I know. I got the message. I just hadn’t time to ‘phone you back.”

  “I think it was me that got the message, Sue.”

  He pulled the unoccupied chair out, placed his tomato juice on the table and sat down beside her. She moved her legs, so as to avoid any risk that his knee would touch hers.

  “What is it you wanted?”

  “I just wanted to have a word with you about the cottage.” “What about the cottage?”

  Martin controlled the anger which her tone and manner were provoking, forced himself to speak in an unemotional way.

  “I’ve heard from the estate agents. They’ve finally had an offer for it.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know whether to accept it or not.”

  “It’s up to you,” Sue said, looking the other way as she sipped at her sherry.

  “Oh, Sue, come off it!” Martin exclaimed, his patience breaking.

  She looked at him for the first time, tight-lipped. “Martin, it’s your cottage. If you want to sell it, sell it . . .”

  “All right,” Martin said, suddenly flaring up. “I’ll sell the bloody place and that’s it!”

  He swallowed his tomato juice and banged the glass down on the table. Sue studied him for a moment then seemed to relent a little.

  “I don’t know why you didn’t sell it last year when we called it a day.”

  “You know perfectly well why I didn’t sell it. I thought you’d . . .”

  “You thought I’d come to my senses?”

  He looked seriously into her eyes, and said very quietly: “I was hoping we’d both come to our senses, Sue.”

  The lights of a car arriving outside swung across the window and she turned her head away to avoid the glare.

  “Martin, I’m perfectly happy. I’ve got an interesting job, a good salary, and a very cosy little bed-sitter. Now will you please do me a favour? Leave me alone . . .”

 

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