The Passenger

by Francis Durbridge

  “What happened, David?” Arthur insisted quietly.

  “I — I didn’t say a word. Not a bloody word. I . . . I just walked out . . .”

  In the silence they could hear Sue’s typewriter clattering in the adjacent office.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose ultimately I’ll have to think about a divorce or . . . Anyway, I’m going away for two or three days. I’ve got an uncle in Cumberland. He looked after me when I was a boy and I haven’t seen him for years. I thought I’d stay with him.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  David pushed himself to his feet and went to the cabinet where samples of Cavalier Toys were displayed.

  “It’s come at an awkward time for you, Arthur, I realise that. But I’ve got to get away.” He went to stand behind his partner’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “Stenhouse.”

  “Oh, to hell with Jack!” Arthur exclaimed, dragging his eyes from the articulated lorry which was just reversing into one of the loading bays.

  “I’ll ‘phone him later. I’ll straighten it out.”

  “If you’d like to move in with us for a little while, you’re very welcome. You know that.”

  Arthur put a hand round his partner’s shoulder and shepherded him back towards the group of easy chairs.

  “Thanks, Arthur.” David spoke with a kind of vague gratitude. “Can I talk about it when I get back?”

  The weather at least was kind to David for his drive to the North He set off in good time knowing that he had the whole day to get to Cumberland. He had no intention of travelling by the featureless motorway. He preferred to travel by a route of his own, which took him through attractive towns and pleasant scenery. For the first time since that ghastly moment at the foot of his own staircase he felt a kind of peace. Driving the Bentley always had a soothing effect on him. It was reassuring to see the long bonnet stretching out ahead of him, to know that he had immense reserves of power there, ready to obey his vall if he needed them.

  For the moment he was ambling along minor roads, following a route that would take him northwards somewhere between the M1 and the A1. The sun was sparkling on the green cellulose and chromium radiator and the fields on either side of the road were green and fresh.

  The blue Ford Capri had been on his tail for some time now. He had been watching it in his mirror, wondering if the driver was too hesitant to pass the big saloon. He slowed slightly, lowered the window and waved it on. The Ford went past with a rush of acceleration and had soon disappeared round a bend ahead.

  A few miles further on he slowed to a halt in order to cross a major road. Diagonally opposite him was an attractive hotel with a huge wistaria clambering up its walls. He could already see the girl standing at the roadside opposite it. She had picked up her small bag and was watching him expectantly and he had no doubt that she was going to try and thumb a lift. As soon as the road was clear he accelerated across. The girl came right out into the roadway, disdaining the usual hitch-hiker’s thumbing gesture and positively waving at him to stop.

  She was an extremely pretty girl in her early twenties, wearing a set of fairly new jeans and with a cheeky cap on the side of her head. David glanced at her as he went past. He made it a rule not to give lifts to stray young women, but there was something innocent and appealing about this girl. Her face fell as she saw that he intended to ignore her signals and as he gathered speed he was left with the impression of an almost despairing disappointment. He relented almost at once. Perhaps she had been waiting there for hours and, after all, there was plenty of room in the Bentley. He found himself applying the brake before he had time to really analyse his feelings. In the mirror he could see her running up the roadside after him, hefting the bag which contained her gear. He opened the door as she came level with the car. She arrived, gasping and smiling, threw her bag onto the back and scrambled into the passenger’s seat. He leaned across to close the door himself before she could slam it.

  “Ah, that’s nice.”

  She snuggled down in the leather seat and looked round the car with satisfaction as he moved off again. David was slightly amused by her calm assumption that she had a natural right to ride free in somebody else’s car. She had not even bothered to say thanks. As the car regained its normal cruising speed, he could see out of the corner of his eye that she was studying his profile.

  “How far are you going?” she asked suddenly.

  “Er — Penrith.” Caution and a certain suspicion of unaccompanied young women made David reluctant to disclose his exact destination.

  “Penrith? Where’s that?”

  “Cumberland. Not far from Appleby.”

  “Appleby? Never heard of it! Anyway, do you go through Doncaster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well that’s okay,” she said, nodding. “You can drop me in Doncaster.”

  “Any particular street?”

  She looked at him with a smile but seemed quite unaware of the sarcasm in his voice.

  “No, anywhere will do.” She squirmed round to sit sideways in the seat, noting all the special fittings in the Mulliner saloon. “Nice car. Very posh.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” David said, still with the same ironic tone.

  “You must have pots of money.”

  He laughed. “Yes, I’m very rich.”

  She shot him a quick glance, still not sure whether to take him seriously or not. “What are you going to Appleby for?”

  “Penrith.”

  “I mean Penrith.”

  “I’m thinking of buying it.”

  “Buying it! The whole place?”

  “Yes. It’s very small.”

  She slid down in her seat, frowning and pouting slightly. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?’

  “Yes, I’m pulling your leg.”

  For the first time he looked at her properly. She grinned back at him and suddenly he was glad that he had broken his rule. There was something out of the ordinary about this girl.

  “It makes a nice change,” she said with a laugh. “It’s usually dirty stories.”

  David smiled and transferred his attention to the road again. She did not try to open the conversation till they had passed through a village.

  “Do you smoke?” she asked him suddenly.

  At first he thought she was offering him a cigarette. Then he realised from the expectant look on her face that this was her way of asking him for one. He withdrew his case from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She took a cigarette and put it between her lips, closed the case and then examined it with interest. “D.W . . . What’s that stand for?”

  “Those are my initials.”

  “I know that! I’m not that stupid! D — let’s see now. Derek?” She put her head on one side to size him up. “No, I don’t think so . . . Donald? No, you don’t look like a Donald to me. Denis, perhaps?” As David made no reply she nodded positively. “Yes, Denis.”

  “David.” David was smiling. She had somehow managed to make the simple guessing game charming and amusing.

  “Oh — oh, I like David!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “I used to know a David. Knew him well, as a matter of fact.” She paused, as if to let the significance of this remark sink in. “My name’s Judy.”

  David gave her an amused glance, but he did not pick up the cue. Instead he put his hand out for his cigarette case and restored it to his pocket. He pressed the cigar lighter fitted into the dashboard, waited a few seconds, then held the glowing red element for her as she lit her cigarette. She nodded thanks and drew smoke deep into her lungs.

  “Do you mind if I switch the radio on?”

  “No,” David said, amused by her possessive and confident manner and wondering why he did not find it annoying.

  She leaned forward and began to spin the tuning knob, searching for a suitable programme.


  The music was not what David himself would have chosen but at least it kept her occupied. He did not like to talk when he was driving and she seemed quite happy to chatter away without expecting any reply from him. Most of her remarks consisted of a running commentary, usually scathing, of the records being played by the disc jockey.

  They had travelled several miles when he realised she had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer.

  “What did you say?”

  “Do you and your wife always take separate holidays?”

  “This isn’t a holiday,” he replied curtly. “And what makes you think I’m married?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am, as a matter of fact. Technically, at any rate. Look, why don’t you put the seat back and have a nap?”

  “I’m not sleepy. Besides, I’m very fussy who I sleep with.” Her mischievous smile flashed again as she saw his frown of annoyance. “Now I’m pulling your leg.”

  David did not return the smile. He nodded towards the glove pocket. “There’s a magazine in that pocket if you’d like to look at it.”

  “Is that a polite way of telling me to shut up?” Judy asked, still good-humoured. She finally found the lipstick for which she had been rummaging in her handbag and took the top off.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it was!” She pushed her lips forward as she prepared to overhaul her make-up. “You sound just like . . . Oh, hell!”

  “What is it?”

  “My lipstick! I think it’s fallen under the seat.” She leaned forward and began to grope about under the seat. “I can’t feel it.”

  “Don’t worry.” David’s voice was really irritated now. The chatter and antics of his companion were beginning to lose some of their charm. “We’ll find it when you get out of the car.”

  He had hardly spoken when the engine faltered. It coughed and then picked up again, only to die a few seconds later. David ran the car onto the verge of the road as it coasted to a halt.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know, it seems as if . . .” David ran his eye over the dials on the dashboard. “Oh damn! Blast!”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve run out of petrol!” He switched the ignition off. “The tank’s empty.”

  “You nut!” Judy was laughing at him now. “You’re not really with it today, are you, Buster?”

  “Blast!” David glared at her with real annoyance. This was the consequence of picking up people who took your mind off your driving. “Didn’t we pass a garage a couple of miles back?”

  “Yes, I think we did. On the left-hand side. Why? What are you going to do?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m going to do!” David almost shouted. “I’m going to get some petrol!”

  He got out of the car and opened the boot. There was a petrol can in there, but he knew that he had emptied it when he had filled up the lawn mower. As he was about to move away she wound down the window and poked her head out.

  “Where’s that magazine?”

  “I told you! In the side pocket.”

  He rurned his back on her and began to trudge along the road in the direction from which he had come.

  It was a good half hour before the garage’s breakdown Land-Rover drew up behind the Bentley. David climbed out, holding the refilled two-gallon can in his hand. He reached in his pocket, found a 50p piece and handed it to the driver.

  “Thanks, guy. You’ll be okay now?”

  “Yes. Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The Land-Rover turned in the road, its driver working energetically at the steering wheel. He waved cheerfully as he drove away towards the garage.

  David moved to the rear of the Bentley, removed the filler cap of the petrol tank and was about to pour the two gallons of petrol in when he noticed that the passenger’s seat was unoccupied. He put the can down and went round to the window on that side. The car was empty. A page had been torn from the copy of ‘Drive’ which he’d been carrying in the glove compartment. It had been folded in two and hung across the steering wheel. He reached across and opened it out. A lipstick had been used to scrawl the message in bold capital letters.

  BYE, THANKS FOR THE LIFT. J.

  The magazine from which the page had been torn lay on the seat. Presumably she had grown tired of waiting and had used her very individual hitch-hiking methods to persuade some other driver to take her on. The girl had been rather maddening, but it was with a peculiar sense of loneliness and loss that David stared up the road ahead. Then he shrugged the mood off, crumpled the message and threw it into the hedge. He went to the back of the car, emptied the can into the tank and went round to see if the car would start. She fired straight away. He closed his door and drove on.

  About a week or five days after his partner had departed for his holiday in the North of England, Arthur Eastwood was seated in his office dictating letters into the machine mounted on the special drawer fitted to the side of his desk. He heard the door of David Walker’s office but, thinking it was Sue Denson, did not look up. He frowned and raised his voice, endeavouring to preserve his concentration till he had concluded the letter.

  “ . . .with all due respect, it would appear to us that you are deliberately confusing the issue. Only last Monday . . .”

  He broke off as he became aware that the person who had come in was not Sue but David Walker himself. He quickly put the microphone down and stood up.

  “David! I had no idea you were back!”

  “I got back last night,” David told him calmly.

  Arthur came round his desk, his eyes searching his partner’s face. David looked less haggard than when he had last seen him, but something fundamental in him had changed and his face was already thinner.

  “My dear fellow, you should have ‘phoned me! How are you? I didn’t expect to see you for at least another three or four days.”

  David shrugged, as if the matter of his health was of minor importance. “I’m all right, but — going away wasn’t such a good idea after all, I’m afraid.”

  Arthur hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to reopen a painful subject, then made his mind up. He said quietly: “I saw Evelyn on Tuesday. . . .”

  David’s eyes immediately jerked towards him. “Where?”

  “In the High Street.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t think she saw me.” Arthur scratched his cheek wryly. “If she did she made a pretty good job of looking the other way.”

  “Was she alone?” David asked after a moment.

  “Yes. You haven’t seen her, I take it?”

  “No, I didn’t go back to the house last night. I was tired and depressed and just didn’t feel like having a row with anyone.”

  Arthur noticed a new stoop in David’s shoulders as he went and stood looking gloomily out of the window.

  “Where did you stay?”

  “I’ve taken a room at The Crown; for the time being at any rate.”

  “You should have stayed with us, you know. I imagine you’ll have to go back to the house sooner or later, if only to collect your things.”

  “Yes, I suppose I will.” David turned round, squaring his shoulders as if determined to shake off the depression of the past week. “Well — what’s been happening here? How’s the Stenhouse situation?”

  “You might well ask!” Arthur gave a short laugh. “I’m getting fifteen telephone calls a day.”

  “From Jack?”

  “No, he’s in New York. From the accountants. And letters!” Arthur gestured towards the pile of correspondence on his IN tray. “Just take a look at that lot!”

  Down in the visitors’ car park a CID car from Guildfleet police station had just stopped with its bonnet a few inches from the low parapet which defined the parking area. Both the officers who stepped out were wearing light overcoats and hats, and in their civilian clothes carried no badges to indicate their r
ank. Yet even to a casual observer it was evident that Detective-Inspector Martin Denson was the senior. Though still in his early thirties, an air of authority showed in his tough, determined and unsmiling features. He was a big man, a shade over six foot, but quick and purposeful in his movements. He was light on his feet and Detective-Sergeant Kennedy had to step out to keep abreast of him as they moved towards the entrance to the office block.

  They were just running up the steps to the double swing-doors when Sue Denson came out, a sheaf of papers in her hand. Seeing her, Sergeant Kennedy dropped back, his face instinctively adopting the policeman’s expressionless mask.

  “Good morning, Sue,” Martin said gravely.

  Sue Denson ignored the greeting of her husband. She looked straight past him at the Detective-Sergeant.

  “Hello, Harry!” she said with forced friendliness. “How’s Dorothy?”

  Embarrassed though he was, Kennedy tried to smile. “Oh, she’s . . . fine, thank you, Sue.”

  “And the children?”

  “Yes — yes, they’re great.”

  “How are you, Sue?” Martin broke in, still in his quiet, serious voice. Kennedy thought he sounded as if he really cared, but the brief glance which Sue gave him was cold and remote.

  “Martin, I’m extremely busy this morning. What is it you want?”

  “Tell your boss I’d like to see him.” Martin’s voice had abruptly changed. This was the police officer speaking.

  “My boss?” Sue blinked, shaken by the sudden edge in Martin’s tone.

  “You do work for a Mr. David Walker?”

  “You know I do,” she said, with something like her old spirit. “Then kindly tell him I want to see him.”

  Sue noticed for the first time the official-looking briefcase in Kennedy’s hand. She looked from one face to the other and was met with uncompromising, businesslike stares. Clutching the sheaf of papers more closely to her, she turned and led the way into the building.

  As she entered the office to tell her employer that the Inspector and Sergeant were waiting to see him, Arthur Eastwood was again on the telephone, and to judge by his voice the person on the other end was being extremely irritating.

  “ . . .yes, but that’s not the point, it was despatched on the 18th . . . Forgive me, but just for once I do happen to know what I’m talking about! All right, you do that . . . No, you go ahead and do that!”