Henry Morgan - The drivers

Peter had searched through her belongings and found nothing missing, no shoes, no skirts, no underwear, everything was as it should be. Admittedly she only had one suspender belt, the one Claire had bought for her with matching briefs and bra, but that was in her undies drawer along with her usual cotton panties.

If a woman was about to run off for a passionate affair she would certainly take along clean knickers if not the only daring set of underwear she owned. Unless, of course, she was going to spend most of her time minus them. He couldn't bare the thought of that, she wasn't that sort of girl. Then he'd tortured himself by thinking that maybe she was? Perhaps the age difference mattered after all?

Since starting his search he had taken to hanging out at the service station where Susan was last seen. He'd spoken to the woman who'd seen her that night but she could only repeat what she'd told the police. 'He was a big man, a trucker, and they were holding hands.' Since that time Peter had gone back most evenings, hoping they would pass through again.

Few people cared to talk, especially when he started asking questions about the truckers. He found the best way to gain the confidence of the lorry men was to leave his tidy clothes at home. The sight of a tie had copper stamped all over it, and a jacket and trousers was like garlic to a vampire. He took to wearing dirty jeans and an oily tee shirt and found the men much more convivial.

Tonight he'd gone one further and borrowed a friend's Ford Cargo truck which still had some engineering parts loaded on the back. Inside he was involved in conversation within minutes.

Including Peter there were four of them sitting around the table shovelling beans and egg down their throats and cracking filthy jokes.

"What about that blonde hiker Jack passed over? Fucking cracking or what? I would have kept her, me."

The other two men turned quickly towards Peter, uncertainty and concern clearly evident on their face.

"She's a bleeding housewife though, don't know what the daft bastard was thinking of."

"Shut up, man!" shouted the Geordie. Nodding his head towards Peter. "What do you think you're playing at?"

Dan seemed unperturbed by his friends reproval.

"He's alright," he quipped. "Ain't you mate? Got a truck in the park, like the rest of us."

Peter gave a nonchalant shake of his head which belied the churning inside his stomach. He dare not show any sign of interest or their suspicions would be aroused. His best chance of gleaning more information was to remain indifferent to the conversation. Given the turmoil of emotions he was experiencing, it wasn't easy.

"Anyway," continued Dan. "She's with Lincoln, he's working the east coast."

Peter was living on his wits.

"Lincoln? Does the Grimsby and Hull runs?"

Dan laughed. "You know Lincoln? Always wears green, like Robin fucking Hood. Owns his own firm. The Fe -"

"Dan!" There was no mistaking the tone of the Geordie. "It's time we were off."

The words panicked Peter, desperate for more information.

"Is Lincoln doing a run now?" he asked.

The Geordie grabbed hold of his mate's arm, then turned to Peter.

"We've got to be on our way, see." He looked at the other man still sitting at the table. "Don't you think you'd better make a move as well?"

The man next to Peter swilled the last of his tea, nodded his agreement and left with the others.

It was important not to get too carried away. After all, no names had been mentioned, just that some one called Jack had picked up a married hiker and now 'Lincoln' had her. Blonde! But there were hundreds of hitch hikers out there, perhaps thousands. What were the chances of that one being Susan? It was no good.

No matter how calm he tried to be, something told him he was at last on her trail.

Almost a month passed before Peter got the break he so desperately needed.

She was a woman in her mid thirties, clearly down on her luck, although she was quite good looking. Even her body was in remarkable shape considering the amount of cider she was obviously used to getting through.

"You the law?" she asked. "You gonna nail Lincoln or something?"

"I'm just looking for him, that's all."

"Well you can't be a mate," she said, "or you wouldn't be calling him Lincoln. He hates that name. The other drivers call him that to wind him up." She pulled a long drag on her cigarette, sucking in her cheeks until the glowing tobacco gave way to spent ash that broke and fell away from the rest.

"You still ain't said why you're looking for him?"

"You a friend of Lincoln's then?" Peter asked in reply.

She gave a laconic grunt, belched a cloud of apple scented fumes and landed the cider bottle down heavily on the bar.

"I know Lincoln alright." Her voice trailed off as her gaze fixed itself on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. In the space of a few moments her blank expression changed to anger and then to solid fear. She picked up the bottle and moved a safe distance away from Peter.

"Here," she muttered. "You're not a Driver, are you?"

He drew a five pound note from his pocket and motioned to the barmaid for the same again.

"Printer," said Peter. "Office stationery, that sort of thing."

She took the bottle from him with a tentative hand while her eyes scanned him. His jeans and lumber shirt were just a bit too new and tidy to be real working clothes.

"I believe you," she said. "Your stomach is smaller than your shoulders."

Peter gave her a grin in recognition of her humour before asking if Lincoln used the pub. The woman made a mock gesture of choking on her drink.

"You got to be joking," she laughed. "Do you think I'd be in here if he did? I never want to see that bastard or his brother again. I wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire."

"So you know where he lives then?"

She gave a drunken shake of her head.

"Used to, but not any more. He moved. He's an entrepe-fucking-neur now, got four artics and his own depot you know? Gone up in the world since his Transit van. Thinks he's bastard Rockefeller."

"Where is it, his depot?"

The days drink was beginning to tell on her.

"I knew him when he had bugger all. He was always a bighead mind, always thought he was bleeding chocolate. He was the same in school. My own fault I suppose, I knew what the get was like".

"What about the depot?" he asked again. "Where is it?"

For a split second she seemed to regain all her faculties as she stopped talking and studied his face.

"Why?" she asked. "Why are you so bleeding interested?"

Peter decided to take a gamble.

"I don't like him either," he said, "and I think you should get back at him."

"For what?" she asked. "You don't know nothing about me."

"Let's sit down and have a talk."

She lit another cigarette then leant towards him to whisper in his ear.

"You get us a couple more bottles and we can go back to my place. Safer there."

On the way to her flat above a betting shop Peter discovered her name was Melanie, the rest of the time he'd spent keeping her upright and out of the gutter. At the door they were met by a half eaten chicken fried rice and a pool of vomit left, by the look of it, from the night before.

"Dirty bastards some people," Peter said.

"Yeah," she answered, unperturbed. "I tried to get inside before I chucked, but I couldn't get the key in the door. I'll clean it up in the morning."

He stepped over the mess and helped her up the flight of stairs to her flat, where she slumped down on the settee.

"Give us one of those bottles."

"You've had enough for now!"

That seemed to sober her up a little because she opened her eyes to look at him before getting up and taking the bottle out of his hand.