The Face That Must Die by Ramsey Campbell Page A

damaged goods. But after a short pause she said “Just hold on, I’ll put you through to someone.”
    Waiting, he started nervously. Had the receiver turned live and dangerous? Eventually he realised that the irregular thumping which shook the plastic in his hand was the jerking of a nerve in his palm. The plastic was slippery with sweat. What was taking them so long? Were they tracing his call?
    If they didn’t answer by the time he’d counted ten, they’d had their chance. No, his mind couldn’t sneak that excuse past him. The phone sucked at his ear and kept touching his lips like a plastic kiss, whenever he forgot to hold it and other people’s germs away. Was somebody whispering amid the loud hiss? Were they sending a car to trap him?
    It didn’t matter. He must see this through. He knew he was right. He must act like a man. Instantly he saw how he could make sure he wasn’t recognised. He shared a grin with himself in the disfigured mirror.
    The man’s voice leapt out as if to scare him. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
    All these people pretending to be so helpful! This time they needed help from him. “You want to know who murdered Roylance,” Horridge said, making his voice as high and effeminate as he could.
    “ Yes, sir. We have that under investigation.”
    Horridge heard an almost imperceptible change in his tone. He was fooled, he thought Horridge was a pansy! “Well, I can tell you,” Horridge said.
    “ Can I have your name and address, please?”
    “ No, you most certainly can not.” He grinned back at himself between the tangled graffiti, delighted with his control of the situation. He was unaware now of his sweat, the stuffy box, the slippery burden in his hand.
    “ Take this down,” he said, pulling out his birth certificate. “I won’t repeat it. I’m going to tell you the name of the killer.”
    When he heard paper rusfling, he read out Craig’s name and address.
    “ Have you got that?” he said tartly, and stood grinning at his grubby entangled reflection. What in heaven’s name was he waiting for — to be trapped by the police?
    The phone was halfway to the receiver when the policeman’s voice arrested him. “May I ask where you got this information, sir?”
    Horridge couldn’t resist fooling him once more. Effeminately wistful, he said “Roylance was my friend.”
    Stuffing his birth certificate into his pocket, he elbowed his way out of the box. He felt inflated by laughter. He must suppress it, in case it drew attention to him. Next time he mustn’t hesitate so long, not when having acted felt like this. No longer was he conscious of his limp. He felt weightless with self-confidence.
    He absorbed the view of the leafless trees against the pale bare sky. Nothing else had looked so clean to him since the quarry. Deliberately he walked towards Craig’s house. He had nothing to fear now. It was Craig’s turn to be afraid, just as his bound and helpless victims must have been. A breeze chilled Horridge’s grin.
    The sight of the bench that faced away from the park halted him. Did he dare? But there was nothing to be dared — only to be enjoyed. Craig couldn’t touch him now. He crossed the road and sat on the bench. When the police arrived, he could pretend to be asleep. Eager as a child at his first pantomime, he waited for the show to begin.
    He waited. The dark house squatted before him, sullen as a bully; it seemed to challenge him. He smiled tightly: he wasn’t to be tricked into anything rash, he had the upper hand now. Whenever he gazed at the house for a while, it appeared to stir nervously.
    Bedraggled leaves crawled along the pavement. The shadow of the house crept towards him like a stain. A glass dagger gleamed before him on the roadway, amid fragments of a bottle. How long had he been waiting? Since he’d sat down the shadow had crossed the road.
    Perhaps the policeman hadn’t believed him. Or perhaps he had, yet intended to do nothing. Horridge didn’t