The Passenger

by Francis Durbridge

  “I see. And what does Mr. Tom Reams do, exactly?”

  She had begun to lead the horse towards the paddock. Martin fell into step beside her.

  “That’s a good question. He’s supposed to be Colonel Reams’ assistant but he spends most of his time selling second-hand cars. He’s even trying to sell me one.” She laughed and then turned to look at him enquiringly. “What is it you want to see the Colonel about, Martin?”

  “I’m making enquiries about a girl called Judy Clayton. She was murdered.”

  Ruth halted. The horse champed on its bit, impatient to move on. “Judy Clayton? Oh, yes — yes, I read about it.”

  “I wondered if, by any chance, she’d been here, to the stables?”

  She hesitated fractionally before answering rather rapidly. “No, I — don’t think so. Not to my knowledge.”

  It was the horse who gave her the excuse to avoid any further questions. It was beating a tattoo with its hind legs and tossing its head, forcing her to grip the reins tightly.

  “Martin, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got half a dozen horses to exercise.”

  “Yes, of course. Nice to see you again, Ruth.”

  He watched her as she put a foot in the stirrup and then swung the other leg over the saddle in a lithe, fluid movement.

  “Give my love to Sue if you see her,” she said, looking down at him.

  “Yes. Yes, I will,” Martin said, without much hope that he would ever deliver the message. “Look, the Sergeant and I will probably be having a bite to eat at The Golden Swan. Why don’t you join us?”

  “I’d like to but — not this morning, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, another time, perhaps?”

  “Yes, I’d love to. Goodbye, Martin.” She pulled on a rein to swing the horse round, then both rider and mount presented their back view to him.

  “Goodbye, Ruth,” Martin said, watching the trim figure with a touch of wistfulness.

  He was thankful that there was no sign of the MGB outside the building which Ruth had indicated. A Volvo Estate car drawn up in front of the door led him to hope that the Colonel was in his office. Leaving Kennedy to get what joy he could from the fast receding figure of Ruth Jensen he went through an empty outer office and knocked on the only door opening off it.

  “Come!” a strong voice shouted from inside.

  Martin walked in and found himself in a surprisingly efficient-looking room with modern furniture and office equipment. One whole wall was occupied by a bank of filing cabinets, presumably containing records of the horses trained by the Colonel. Every square foot of available wall space was covered with framed photos of past race winners, many of them being led into the winners’ enclosure by delighted owners in grey top-hats and tail-coats.

  The Colonel was about forty-five with an alert, almost ruthless face. He had a carefully-trimmed moustache and neat hair. He wore a newish hacking jacket in bold check. The eyes which looked up to inspect his visitor were those of an army officer.

  “Colonel Reams?”

  “Yes,” the Colonel confirmed, his manner doing nothing to make things easier for a visitor.

  “My name is Denson, sir. Detective-Inspector Denson. Could you spare me a few moments, sir?”

  At mention of a rank in the Force, Reams pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “Why, yes, of course. Sit down, Inspector.” He indicated one of the easy-chairs and sat down in the other himself. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m investigating a murder case, sir. A girl called Judy Clayton was murdered and we . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” Reams interrupted, nodding. “I read about it. The chap who did it committed suicide, is that right?”

  He spoke as if assuming that the case must now be closed. Martin took a photograph out of his pocket.

  “There are still one or two loose ends to be tied up, sir.” He handed Reams the photo. “This is a photograph of Miss Clayton.”

  The Colonel gave the photograph a brief scrutiny and then looked up.

  “Well?”

  “Did you ever meet her, sir?”

  “Me?” Reams smiled at such an apparently ridiculous suggestion. “Good heavens, no! What makes you think I might have done?”

  “I wondered if she was friendly with someone here, at the stables?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” Reams shook his head and handed the photograph back to Martin.

  “Would you have known about it, if she had been?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Reams said confidently. “We don’t just let people drop in when they feel like it.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you do, sir.”

  As so often, Martin’s quiet and polite remarks, combined with the placid but somehow sceptical expression of his blue eyes, provoked a reaction.

  “Look, Inspector, what’s this all about? Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “During the past six months Miss Clayton made a great deal of money out of horse racing — she actually backed five winners in a row.”

  “Smart girl,” Reams commented drily.

  “It just so happens that the horses in question were trained by you, Colonel.”

  “That makes her even smarter.” Reams recrossed his legs. “My dear Inspector, if all the people who back my horses were friendly with someone or other in my stables then, believe you me, we’d have a lot of friends.” He favoured Martin with a bland smile.

  “Yes, I imagine you would, sir. But it wasn’t just the fact that she backed the horses that brought me here.”

  “No?” Reams said, but he managed to look as if he was not particularly interested in the answer.

  “On the day she was murdered she accepted a lift in a car. David Walker’s car.”

  “The chap who committed suicide?”

  “Yes. He picked her up near a pub called The Golden Swan.” “The Golden Swan? That’s just down the road.”

  “Yes, I know, sir.”

  Reams was frowning with concentration, very much the man who wants nothing more than to assist the police in their enquiries. “I’m beginning to see what you’re getting at. You think she might have been here, to see someone, the day she was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I must confess I didn’t see her.” Reams’ eyes patrolled the rows of photographs on the wall behind Martin. “I can’t ever remember seeing her around.”

  “It was just a thought, sir. A vague idea of mine.” Martin stood up and held out his hand. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  Reams opened the office door for him and waited politely till he had gone through the outer room. As he saw the Inspector coming Kennedy started the engine.

  “What’s he like?” he asked, as Martin slid into the passenger’s seat.

  Martin reached up to pull the safety-belt across his chest. “I shouldn’t think he backs many losers.”

  The Golden Swan was a more pretentious place than The Grapevine. Its position on a crossroads and fronting onto a main road brought a steady trade from motorists. There were two bars and a separate dining-room staffed by foreign waiters. It was just coming up to lunch-time when the police officers drew into the car park. Martin was still hoping that Ruth Jensen would change her mind and join them for lunch.

  “These are on me,” Kennedy said as they entered the lounge bar. “What’ll it be?”

  “A tomato juice, Harry. With a spot of Worcester sauce.” “Right. You grab that table while I get the drinks.”

  Martin amused himself by watching the customers till Kennedy came towards him with a small glass of tomato juice in one hand and a pint of beer in the other.

  “I take it I’m driving this afternoon.” Martin nodded at the tankard as he moved over to make room for the Sergeant’s large form.

  “The car’s booked out in your name.” Kennedy took a long pull at his beer. “The dining-room’s pretty crowded, by the way; maybe we’d better reserve a table.”

  “Knowing how irritab
le you get when you miss lunch, I’ve just done it.”

  The two men had switched their minds away from the investigation, a form of relaxation which was necessary during these tough cases which could go on for weeks. They discussed their respective holiday plans and were moving on to the costs of running a car nowadays when a girl wearing a waitress’s apron came up to their table.

  “Excuse me, are you Inspector Denson, sir?”

  “Yes, I am,” Martin replied, wondering how she had been able to pick him out amongst all the other customers.

  “You’re wanted on the telephone.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Martin finished off his tomato juice. “Where is it?”

  “In the hall, sir.”

  There was a telephone cubicle in the hall alongside the hotel’s reception desk. The receptionist indicaied that she had switched the call through to there. Martin closed the door and picked up the receiver.

  “Denson speaking.”

  “Martin? This is Ruth Jensen.”

  “Why, hello, Ruth.”

  “Martin, there’s something I ought to have told you this morning,” she said quickly. “I meant to tell you, but — I didn’t want to get Colonel Reams into trouble

  “Is it about Judy Clayton?”

  “Yes.” She paused, and when she went on the sentences came out jerkily. “I saw her, the day she was murdered. She came to the stables . . . She was with Tom Reams . . .”

  Ruth’s voice had faded, as if she had turned her face away from the ’phone to look round.

  “Go on, Ruth.”

  “I was in the office building looking for something and Tom’s car drove into the paddock. It stopped outside the window and I could hear what they were saying. They were talking about ..” “About what? Can you speak up? We’ve got a bad line.” “About the man that . . . committed suicide.”

  “David Walker?” Martin, who was always conscious that telephone conversations are the easiest to overhear, kept his voice down, despite his surprise.

  “Yes. Tom said he’d heard that David Walker’s wife . . . Look, Martin, it’s difficult to talk in a call-box. I think we’d better arrange to meet somewhere.”

  Martin frowned in annoyance as the sound of pips warned that Ruth had used up her time. She must have had fresh coins ready for after a few seconds he heard her voice again.

  “What time do you finish work?” he asked.

  “About six. I can meet you this evening if you like, in Guildfleet.”

  “I can easily drive down here again if you’d like me to.”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “I’d sooner come to Guildfleet, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right, let’s meet at my place. Number four, Leonard Close. It’s a mews next to Marshalls the stationers. I’m on the second floor.”

  “I’ll be there about eight o’clock.”

  “Right. See you then.”

  Martin heard the click at the other end before he put his own receiver down. He stood for a moment, wondering why the conversation had made him feel so uneasy. Then, becoming conscious of the smell of stale cigarette smoke mingled with some kind of disinfectant spray, he pushed open the door of the booth.

  The three-course set luncheon was such a good buy that the two men settled down to really enjoy their lunch. They had been in the dining-room for an hour and a half when Martin paid the bill.

  Kennedy checked his watch as they crossed the car park. “Twenty to three. We should be in Guildfleet by half past —” Martin nodded and went round to the door on the driver’s side.

  Kennedy pushed the passenger’s seat back, stretched his legs and folded his arms as Martin took the car out onto the road back to Guildfleet. He thought that his Sergeant was settling down for a nice sleep and was surprised when Kennedy spoke. Evidently he had been mulling over the Inspector’s account of his conversation with Ruth Jensen.

  “You say she sounded worried?”

  “Not just worried — tense. Almost frightened, in fact.” “How long have you known her?”

  “About four or five years. She’s a great friend of Sue’s. She and her husband often used to come to the cottage.”

  He pulled out to pass a long vehicle which was travelling at a good forty miles an hour. The driver flashed his lights, giving the standard signal that the passing vehicle was clear. Martin raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  “Whichever way you look at it, there’s something damn funny about this case, Harry. Every time we make enquiries, every time something happens, we find ourselves back in square one.”

  “Square one being?”

  “That David Walker knew Judy Clayton, picked her up by arrangement, killed her, and then conveniently committed suicide.”

  “And you don’t think that’s what happened?”

  Martin took his eyes off the road for long enough to glance at Kennedy. “No, I don’t.”

  Kennedy grunted and did not pursue the question further. A minute or two later his head dropped forward, jerked up and then dropped again. Martin smiled to himself. He did not grudge Kennedy his cat-nap. Unless he was very much mistaken the young man was going to be doing a good deal of overtime before this case was broken.

  A few miles further on he noticed that the brake lights of the car he was following had flashed just before it disappeared round the bend ahead. He slowed and took the corner warily, but even at reduced speed he had to brake hard to avoid ramming the rear of the car in front. Kennedy was jerked forward against his seat-belt. He shook his head and opened his eyes.

  A hundred yards ahead an articulated lorry was slewed sideways, almost completely blocking the road. Beyond it was the white shape of an ambulance. It had evidently just arrived, for the crew were dismounting and running towards the small group which had formed round something which was still invisible. Two police cars were already on the scene, their blue lights flashing.

  Martin switched off his engine and got out. As he walked past the line of stationary vehicles, Kennedy was going back to wave down traffic coming round the bend. Martin saw now that one of the police officers was talking to the driver of the lorry, who was standing beside his vehicle, miserably smoking a cigarette. As he came abreast of the lorry he saw the upturned wheels of a capsised sports car. The black rubber marks and the churned up rurf at the verge told all too plainly what had happened. Near the car a human form had been completely covered by a rug. The ambulance men were trying to extricate someone else from the wreckage.

  The policeman standing beside the driver was about to tell Martin to keep back when he recognised the Inspector.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” He saluted and Martin nodded acknowledgment. “It shouldn’t be long now. They’re just getting the passenger out, then we can get the lorry away and let you through.”

  “It looks pretty serious,” Martin said.

  “The driver — a young chap called Tom Reams — was killed.” He gestured towards the still form under the blanket. “And I must say, he bought it! Driving like a maniac. We don’t know about the passenger yet.”

  Martin’s interest had sharpened at mention of Tom Reams. He went towards the group surrounding the wrecked car and pushed his way between the half-dozen bystanders who were watching the ambulance men. They had got the second victim out of the car and onto a stretcher. It was a woman. Martin just had time to recoognise the features of Ruth Jensen before one of the ambulance men closed her eyes and pulled the sheet over her face.

  He watched in shocked disbelief as the stretcher was lifted and carried towards the ambulance. He just could not believe that the mangled and disfigured form was that of the girl he had seen swing herself onto the back of a horse only a few hours ago.

  He was still standing on the same spot when Harry Kennedy came excitedly towards him, pushing a way through the hushed and awed little crowd.

  “It’s Tom Reams’ car! Is he —?”

  He stopped, following the direction of Martin’s eyes. The ambulance men had returned for
the second body. Kennedy waited till they had put the blanketed form onto a stretcher and started back towards the ambulance.

  “He’s dead?”

  “They both are.”

  “Both?” repeated Kennedy, who had not seen the first stretcher.

  “Ruth Jensen was with him,” Martin said very quietly.

  The lorry driver was just lighting yet another cigarette when Martin came over to talk to him. His hands were trembling and he looked in need of some medical attention himself.

  “What happened?” Martin asked.

  “Who are you?” the driver demanded, seeking relief from his shock in belligerence.

  “Detective-Inspector Denson.” As he saw the man’s face register alarm he added quickly: “The lady in the car was a friend of mine.”

  “A friend of yours! Oh, my God! I’m sorry, mate.” The driver shook his head and sucked air through his teeth. “But I just hadn’t a chance! He was driving like a flaming madman — wasn’t even looking where he was going. He was looking at the bird the whole time. There was nothing I could do! Honest, guy! Couldn’t do a ruddy thing.”

  Martin had stopped listening to the man’s protestations. The ambulance had started up. The little group had to step back to give it room to turn. It moved off up the road without urgency, its blue light switched off. The police officers had got out their measuring tapes and were making notes on the scene of the accident, but Martin still stood there with his hat off, watching the white vehicle till it vanished round a bend.

  “I knew he’d come a cropper sooner or later,” Colonel Reams said. “He used to drive like a maniac. God knows, I warned him often enough! But it was no use at all, he just didn’t want to know.”

  The Colonel had taken the news with only a slight stiffening of his features. The early return of the police officers and something about their manner had warned him to prepare himself. When Martin had finished the stark announcement he turned away and stood looking out of the window of his office towards the paddock, where half a dozen horses were grazing.

  Now he turned and came back into the middle of the room.

  “As for Ruth . . . It’s tragic. It really is! You couldn’t have met a nicer girl . . .”