“I know,” Martin interposed. “She was a friend of my wife’s.” “I didn’t realise that.” Colonel Reams contemplated Martin with faint surprise.
“We used to see quite a lot of her at one time.”
Reams gestured towards the chairs and they all sat down. “Was Mrs. Jensen very friendly with your nephew, sir?” Kennedy asked.
Reams was caught slightly off balance by this question coming from a new quarter.
“No, they weren’t at all friendly. That’s what I don’t understand. What was Ruth doing in the car? I just can’t imagine her accepting a lift from Tom.” He was shaking his head in bewilderment as he took a cigarette from a gold case and put it in his mouth.
“Did Tom say where he was going when he left here?” Martin asked.
“No. I assumed he was going into the village for lunch. But Ruth didn’t go with him, I’m sure of that.”
“When was the last time you saw Ruth?”
Reams snapped his lighter and put the flame to his cigarette. “I saw her just before lunch, about a quarter to one. She appeared to be going for a stroll.”
“Did she say she was going for a walk?”
“No,” Reams said, slightly resentful at Martin’s questioning his opinion. “But she frequently did at lunchtime. My God, Ruth!” He ran his hand through his hair in a slightly theatrical gesture. “I still can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it, Inspector!”
Martin gave him a few moments before he sprung his next question.
“How far is the nearest ‘phone box from here?”
“The nearest ‘phone box?” Reams repeated, puzzled by the question. “It’s about a mile and a half down the road.”
“Was she walking in that direction?”
“Yes, but . . .” The Colonel pointed to the telephone on his desk. “If she’d wanted to telephone anyone she’d have used this. She frequently did.”
“But not this morning, Colonel,” Martin told him quietly.
“What do you mean?” There was a slight edge in Reams voice. Why didn’t the fellow come out with it, instead of making mysterious innuendoes?
“The Sergeant and I had lunch in the village. While we were having a drink Ruth telephoned me from a call-box. I suspect the one down the road. It was about ten past one so that ties up with what you’ve just told us.”
“But why should she use a . . .” Reams stopped and gave Martin a long, thoughtful look. “It’s none of my business, but — what did she telephone you about, Inspector?”
“About Judy Clayton,” Martin answered without hesitation. “She said she’d seen the girl — here, at the stables, talking to your nephew.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” Reams thoughtfully extinguished his cigarette in the ash-tray. “I take it you’d previously questioned her about Miss Clayton?”
“Yes, and for some reason or other she’d lied to me.”
Reams leaned across to replace the ash-tray on his desk. He reflected for a few seconds and then gave Martin a direct look. “I think perhaps I can explain that, Inspector.”
“Then I wish you would, sir.”
A man of action all his life, Colonel Reams felt ill at ease sitting down for a conversation of this kind, especially when it was the other person who was calling the tune.
“Do you mind if we stroll down to the stables?” he asked Martin, getting to his feet. “With Ruth gone I’ll have to arrange for one of my lads to exercise her horses.”
Martin was as fond of fresh air as anyone and agreed at once. His suspicion that Reams was trying to avoid further revelations was dispelled as soon as they were outside. The Colonel picked up the thread of the conversation where they had broken it off.
“To answer your question, Inspector, I think Ruth was covering up.”
“Covering up?”
“Yes. For me.”
“You mean, you knew your nephew had seen Miss Clayton. You knew he was friendly with her?”
“Yes . . .” Reams was looking away towards the field where a stable lad was putting a bridle on one of the horses that had been grazing.
“Why didn’t you tell me that, this morning?”
“What was the point? I just didn’t see any sense in getting my nephew involved in a murder case when you already knew who had committed the murder.”
“You should have let me be the judge of that, sir.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Inspector.” The mild reproof in Martin’s voice had left Reams unmoved. He added with formality: “I apologise.”
“Now perhaps you’ll tell me the truth?”
“There isn’t a great deal to tell. Tom brought Judy Clayton here, to the stables, on two occasions. I took an instant dislike to the girl and told Tom not to have anything more to do with her. You can imagine his reaction.”
The sound of hooves from behind made Reams turn. They all drew back as a string of race horses, ridden by three lads and a young girl in jeans, trotted past. Reams watched the movement of the animals critically as they went by towards the stable yard.
“Go on, sir,” Martin prompted, as they walked on again.
“I knew he was still seeing her, of course — although he didn’t have the nerve to bring her back here, thank God! Then one morning — it was the day she was murdered — I saw the two of them in the village.”
From the other side of Reams Kennedy’s head turned in surprise. “What time was that?” the Sergeant asked.
“It was fairly early, about half-past eight, I should imagine.” “So what did you do about it?” Martin asked.
“Later in the day I told Tom I’d seen them and he said I needn’t lose any sleep over it because he’d finished with her.” “You mean — he’d broken things off?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Did he tell you why he’d broken things off?” Martin persisted, ignoring the Colonel’s irritation.
“Yes. He said she was having an affair with someone else. Someone in Guildfleet. I imagine he was referring to the chap who committed suicide — David . . . what was his name?”
“David Walker. Yes, I imagine he was, sir.” They were approaching the stable yard. The lads were dismounting and starting to remove the saddles from the horses. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, sir, before I leave? Anything you might, perhaps, have inadvertently forgotten?”
“No, except that . . .” Reams stopped and faced Martin. “I’m very sorry about this morning. I was a damn fool. I should have told you the truth.”
“Yes, I think you should have done,” Martin agreed, his face serious.
Martin was silent as the two officers walked back to their own car, and Kennedy was puzzling over this new and unexpected turn. Neither of them spoke till they had opened the doors and were settling into their seats.
“Well,” Kennedy observed, “we’re back again where we started — with David Walker.”
“Yes. It looks like it. Someone’s determined to keep us in square one, Harry.”
The working day had ended and the employees were streaming out of the Cavalier Toys factory as Martin drove in through the gates. He had returned the CID car and Sergeant Kennedy to the police station and was driving his own vehicle.
It was easy to find a free space in the car park which was rapidly emptying. He positioned himself so that he could watch the gates and the entrance to the office block. For a few moments he watched the scene with amusement. The work-force was evacuating the premises with as much urgency as if it had been on fire. In cars, motor-cycles, bicycles and on foot they were streaming out into the main road, forcing passing traffic to stop and give them priority. Martin wondered how some of them would react to the hours a policeman is expected to work.
A man and woman emerging from the office block drew his attention. The man was holding the woman’s arm and they were so deeply absorbed in their conversation that they did not even acknowledge the salute from the uniformed commissionaire at the entrance. They got into a Jaguar and
joined the line of vehicles waiting to pass through the gates.
Martin picked up an evening paper and began to glance through the headlines, keeping an eye on the office block entrance. About ten minutes later Arthur Eastwood came out of the door. He looked flustered and unhappy as he covered the short distance to the specially reserved space where his car stood waiting, not even responding to the greetings of a couple of the clerical staff who passed. He started the Rover, which was facing outwards, and Martin knew that he would be bound to come past him on his way to the gates.
He made no attempt at concealing his face nor any move to attract Eastwood’s attention. The Rover was almost abreast of Martin’s car when Eastwood glanced across, saw the Inspector watching him and braked sharply to a halt. He lowered his window.
“Hello, Inspector! Can I help you?”
“No, thank you, sir. I’m waiting for my wife.”
“Oh.” Arthur tried not to show his surprise. “Well, she shouldn’t be very long.”
“Was that Mrs. Walker I saw just now, with Mr. Norton?”
“It was,” Arthur said and at once the cause of his discomfiture was evident. “It was indeed! Incidentally, Inspector, did you know that, quite apart from running a driving school, Mr. Norton’s a financier?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Well, apparently he is,” Arthur said with irritation. “According to Eve — Mrs. Walker, he’s the Charlie Clore of Guildfleet.”
Martin smiled. “I find that difficult to believe, sir.”
“Yes, so do I.” Arthur nodded emphatic agreement and began to wind his window up. “Good night, Inspector.”
“Good night, sir.”
Martin had to wait another five minutes before he saw Sue coming out. She smiled at the commissionaire and thoughtfully descended the steps. She looked particularly attractive in a lemon-coloured suit with a gay scarf tied with careless artistry round her neck. As she began to walk towards the entrance, by now almost clear of vehicles, Martin got out of his car and began to move towards her on a converging line. He was only a few paces from her when she looked up and saw him. Martin stopped.
“Hello, Sue,” he said quietly.
“Martin!” She halted in her tracks. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
As always now he saw her race harden and her eyes grow remote. “Martin, I’m sorry,” she said tightly. “I’ve got an appointment this evening . . .”
“Sue, get in the car. I’ve got something I want to tell you.”
“Martin, I’ve told you!” she said with weary exasperation. “I keep on telling you! It’s just no use your trying to persuade me to . . .”
“Sue, listen to me!” said Martin with abrupt authority. “I want to talk to you about Ruth Jensen.” He paused. He had wanted to break this to her more gently but she was giving him no chance. “She’s dead. She was killed in a road accident this afternoon.”
“Oh, no! Not Ruth!”
Sue’s hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened in shock. Martin took a step forward, put his fingers round her arm and led her towards his car.
“Sue, please get in,” he said gently, opening the passenger door for her. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
For once she let herself be persuaded. She was groping for a handkerchief as he leaned across her to fasten the passenger’s safety-belt.
Half an hour later Sue was sitting at one end of the settee in Martin’s flat, a glass of almost neat whisky in her hands. She had taken off her shoes and had her legs rucked under her. The books and records which usually occupied the settee had been dumped on the floor.
In her distress she had not questioned Martin’s suggestion to bring her back to his flat and give her a good strong drink. Now she was beginning to recover from the shock of his announcement, thanks to the drink and, though she would not admit it to herself, the concern Martin had shown for her feelings.
He had made no attempt to sit down himself and at the moment was behind her at the table where he kept his small supply of drinks. As it was past six, he allowed himself a little gin with the tonic he was pouring.
“Oh no. No doubt about the accident,” he was saying. “It was genuine all right. But the thing that puzzles me is — what was Ruth doing in the car? Unless, of course, Tom was trying to sell it to her.”
Sue’s fingers played with the brooch she was wearing on a chain round her neck. “Is that likely?”
“It’s a possibility. She said something about him dealing in second-hand cars.” He came round in front of the settee, taking one of the Cavalier key-rings from his pocket. “Sue, how many of your friends have got key-rings like this?”
Sue scarcely glanced at the ring. “Oh, practically everyone at the factory’s got one.”
“They’re not difficult to come by?”
“Good heavens, no! At Christmas we must have given dozens of them away.”
“When you say ‘we’ . . .”
“I mean Mr. Eastwood. He usually distributes them.”
“Mr. Eastwood, himself?”
“Yes. He loves to do that sort of thing. At the end of the year we usually get a bonus, and he always hands out the cheque himself.”
“I see.”
Martin picked up her jacket, which she had thrown on the arm of the settee and put it carefully over the back of a chair. “But why are you interested in the key-rings?”
“Judy Clayton had one — and so has Colonel Reams.” He held the key-ring between finger and thumb, studying it as if it could tell him something. “Tell me, had you heard of Colonel Reams before I mentioned him?”
She hesitated, shaking her head slowly. “No, I . . .don’t think so.”
“No one’s ever mentioned his name at the office?”
“Not that I . . .” Sue put her feet to the floor and sat up straight. “Wait a minute! I have a feeling Mr. Eastwood had a letter from someone called Reams.”
“When?”
“About six months ago, I should say.”
“What was the letter about — can you remember?”
She dropped her eyes and tapped the front of her forehead to jog her memory. “No, I’m afraid I can’t. All I remember is that it certainly annoyed the old boy.”
“Could you get hold of the letter?”
“Well . . . I think so. It’s probably on the file.”
“I’d be grateful if you would.”
“All right,” she said, and smiled at him for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Can I fill your glass up?”
She shook her head and handed him the empty glass. As he took it to the drinks table she really looked at the room for the first time. The place needed a thoroughly good tidying up. He ought to get a set of shelves for all those books and a cabinet for the records. The bureau looked terribly out of place stuck in the corner like that, and as for the dust —!
“Sue, about David Walker,” Martin cut in on her thoughts. “What sort of chap was he? Did you like him?”
“Yes, I did. He was a hard worker; a hard task-master at times, but I liked him.”
“Were you surprised when you heard that he’d been having an affair with Judy Clayton?”
“Very surprised, and I don’t believe it.” She slipped her feet into her shoes and stood up. She was recovering from the moment of weakness now, beginning to regret that she’d agreed to come back to his flat.
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t believe he was friendly with her. I don’t even believe he knew the girl.”
“Then why did he kill her?”
“I don’t think he did kill her. I agree with Mr. Eastwood. I don’t think he committed the murder and I certainly don’t think he committed suicide.”
“Then what happened?”
“I — I just can’t imagine.” Sue shrugged, turned away towards the window. It was her first experience of Martin in action on a criminal investigation and she was seei
ng a completely new side of him. It was a strange, slightly exciting experience to be interrogated like this by a man you had lived with for years. She was well aware that just at the moment she was nothing more to him than a witness who might provide useful information. “I suppose . . .someone must have murdered both of them.”
“Tell me more about him, Sue.”
“What is it you want to know?” Her face had a hint of the old mischief in it. “Whether he made a pass at me?”
“Did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did he notice you?”
“It depends what you mean by notice . . .”
“You know what I mean by notice.”
She stared at him defiantly, her fingers again playing with the brooch at her bosom.
“Yes, he noticed me.”
“Did you ever have a meal with him, or a drink perhaps?”
She had begun a tour of the small room, briefly touching objects she remembered from their old home.
“He took me to The Crown just before Christmas. We had a drink together.”
“What did you talk about?”
“His wife.”
The answer had evidently surprised Martin. He moved round so that he could see her face better.
“His wife?”
“Yes, he was crazy about her.” Something about the way she said the words told Martin that Sue’s opinion of Evelyn Walker was not high.
“Sue, I accept what you’ve told me about Walker, about the fact that you liked him. But isn’t it possible that you were mistaken and that outside the office he was quite a different person?”
“Yes, it’s possible, but — I don’t think he was.”
“And what about Mrs. Walker?”
“What about her?”
“Have you met her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know why, I always have the feeling that . . .she’s not quite what she seems to be.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“A lot of people I know think she’s stupid, that she’s only interested in having a good time. I . . .think there’s more to her than that.”
“Yes, I know what you mean.”
The Passenger Page 9
