The Face That Must Die (19 page)

“
You reckon if you make something illegal people don’t do it?”

Peter was reaching in his pocket. Cathy made to grab his wrist. His mother said plaintively “You’re going to move, Peter, aren’t you?”

His hand emerged empty, since the argument had changed. “What for? It’s a good flat, and the rent’s low. We wouldn’t get another like that.”

“
Yes, and now we can see why the rent’s low,” his mother said.

“
You could live here until you found somewhere decent, if money’s the problem. We’d look after you.”

Was it an accident of words, or was she criticising Cathy? Peter glanced at Cathy as he said “We’re all right where we are.”

“
You do what you think best,” his father said. (Rather than consulting Cathy?)

“
But it can’t be doing you any good to live there, among all these drug-takers that we read about.”

Peter stood up. His grimace might have been a suppressed grin. “Where are you off?” his mother said mechanically.

His footsteps clumped upstairs. “You can see we’re right, can’t you,” his mother told Cathy. Not that Cathy disagreed — but if she had, they would have blamed her for his obstinacy. She was beginning to glimpse their view of her.

His mother took framed photographs from the sideboard, where they interrupted ranks of plates. “That’s Peter when he was little.” Cathy hadn’t seen these before; his mother must have a large stock, so as to be able to change the display. She was treating Cathy as she might have treated any visitor — in order to avoid hearing her thoughts about the argument?

Peter’s childish face beamed smugly out of its frame. Did his parents cling to this image of him so as not to see what he’d become? Perhaps they still saw this image in him — perhaps they ignored the rest of him, as they’d ignored his living with Cathy before they were married. If they suspected anything about him, no doubt they blamed her for it.

Peter reappeared, and saw the photographs. “Oh Jesus, put that stuff away.”

Cathy tugged his beard playfully. “We’re just delving into your guilty past.” His mother frowned as though that were an insult.

“
Well, don’t,” he snapped, and turned to his father. “Anyway, what’s wrong with people taking drugs? Just because they aren’t legal yet — ”

“
Subject closed,” his father said: refusing to be distracted, or determined not to have an argument disturb his home? “I think we’ve made our feelings plain about your living there,” he said. “I hope you’ll take them to heart. In time you’ll see we’re right. I only hope it won’t be too late.”

Silence filled the room, oppressive as humidity. It made Cathy nervous, and she rose. “Where are you off?” said Peter’s mother.

She dawdled in the bathroom, surrounded by the scent of air freshener. A pink fluffy cover disguised the toilet as a large stumpy flower or a toy with a soft head. The room seemed almost intolerably polite.

She trudged downstairs, past miniatures like windows on a better world. Below her in the hall, something fell with a thud. Momentarily the stairs were steep and dizzying. Then she saw it was the newspaper, delivered at last. She hurried down and grabbed it; it might help break the awkward silence. “Here’s the paper,” she called.

RAZOR KILLER CAUGHT

At first she hardly dared read on. She hadn’t been able to read any of the reports of Mr Craig’s death. But if the headline meant what it seemed to mean — Her gaze snatched nervously at the words. By the time she reached the living-room she was smiling. “They’ve caught him,” she said.

All three stared silently. “The man who did the killings,” she stammered, excited. “The police have got him. They’re sure he’s the one.”

“
Well, fine. About time,” Peter said.

His parents were less easily convinced. They read the report together, frowning. Eventually his father looked up. “That does seem satisfactory, I’ll admit.” His relief prompted him to say “Shall we have a game of whist?”

Peter’s mother shook her head at her son; her forehead stayed pinched. “It still isn’t a nice area. I don’t like to think of you living there.”

“
We aren’t going to stay there forever. But Christ, nothing else is going to happen.” He grimaced at her, annoyed by her concern. “Nobody else is going to be killed.”

* * *

Chapter XVI

RAZOR KILLER CAUGHT

The man responsible for the slashing to death of three Liverpool men has been caught, police announced today.

They gave his name as Harold Nickelby (28) of Toxteth, Liverpool.

Confession

According to a police spokesman, Nickelby was seen by a young policeman loitering near a public lavatory known to be frequented by homosexuals.

When the policeman, who had noticed his resemblance to the identikit picture recently issued by police, asked Nickelby to accompany him, Nickelby is alleged to have said, “Don’t bother checking. I am the man you want.”

When cautioned, he is alleged to have said, “I’ll be glad when it’s over. I need to be put away.”

Preying

Nickelby is being held by police in connection with the killings of Tommy Hale on 16 November, Norman Roylance on 24 December, and Roy Craig on 9 January.

Nickelby, who is unemployed, is said by police to have a history of unprovoked violence.

According to the police spokesman, Nickelby said he was “glad to be stopped” because the killing of Craig had been “preying on his mind.” He is alleged to have said that he felt compelled to return several items to the house on Aigburth Drive where the murder was committed.

Horridge glared at the newspaper. Twilight was seeping into his flat, insidious as mist; his surroundings grew dim. They thought they could dim his mind so easily, did they? They must think he was mad, to be tricked so simply.

Making out that Craig’s death had been a copy had had no effect — so now they were trying this ruse on him. Had they arrested an innocent man as a scapegoat? They were capable of that, he knew only too well. But no, he was sure that Nickelby didn’t exist — you could tell the book from which they’d borrowed his name.

Their methods were so obvious. If they tried to catch criminals that way, God help the country. Most blatant of all was the purpose of their last line. They wanted to sneak into his mind the idea of returning to Aigburth Drive. Did they really think he’d go back so that they could catch him?

But he had to go back, to wipe away his fingerprints.

Suppose the painter had already shown the police? Like them, she’d tried to suggest he was a homosexual: might they be in league? But then the police would have arrested him by now. No doubt her daubing occupied her time. Besides, why should the police have let her into their secret? She must think Craig’s executioner had been arrested.

She had no cause to go to the police before she went away. But was she going away? Might the words on the card he’d glimpsed have meant that her friends were to visit her?

Babble, babble. He’d watch the house until he saw her leave. But the police might be watching for him. Babble, babble. They couldn’t watch all the time, if they were as undermanned and overworked as they liked people to believe. He’d spot them if they were about: he’d keep an eye open for suspicious characters.

Tomorrow. Wasn’t that when she was going? Surely that was right. His memory wasn’t trying to betray him. He struggled to project the image of the card in his mind. There it was, on the mantelpiece, in the rubbish dump of a flat. But he couldn’t read the end of the line. See you on, on See you on

Twilight brought the walls creeping towards him. They boxed in his mind. Abruptly he stood up, and went walking. The paths were hardly visible. Once he strayed onto a squelching verge. Low fences glimmered like decaying wood in a marsh; the tower blocks looked like tombs — few lights relieved their massiveness. See you on Jan See you on Jan

He wished he could flee to the country. Silhouettes with hollow footsteps tramped overhead on concrete walkways between buildings. Must he live the rest of his life in this prison camp? He thought he remembered where the cottage was, but he dreaded finding out who lived there now — if it hadn’t been pulled down. Besides, he’d once tried walking in the country after his fall. Within an hour he had been near to crying out with the pain in his leg.

Children ran home from school along the dim paths, careless of whom they knocked down. When he lurched aside from one gang they laughed at him as though he were the simpleton whom everyone had mocked when Horridge was a child. Horridge had never been sure that the creature was so simple; he’d known enough to play with himself. Could anyone have made such inhuman sounds in public unless he’d been pretending to be simple? If he had really been so stupid, then he should have been put out of his misery.

They needn’t think Horridge was a simpleton — not the children, nor the police. He could see more clearly than any of them, including the housewives who trudged home laden with baskets, trying to look burdened as women in the paddy fields: they didn’t impress him.

A face poked forward from the dimness at him. She lived near his flat. He felt as though she’d punched him in the stomach. She must be wondering why he was strolling; he never did so in Cantril Farm. He mustn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Anyone might be watching.

He hurried home. Not too fast! If he passed her, she would observe that too. He watched dimness engulf her. See you on Jan On Jan On Jan Her door clicked shut. Surely it was too dark for anyone else to see him. He ran like an injured child trying to win a game of hide and seek.

As he switched on the light, he saw it: Jan 15. All at once it was vivid, for he remembered how they hadn’t written 15
^th
— they didn’t sound English. You couldn’t expect her friends to be worth knowing; one of them had been Craig. See you on Jan 15.

He listened to the radio, to hear whether they were in league with the police. Yes, here came the lies: the fictitious Nickelby was the culprit, killing Craig had been too much for him. Let them play their game if it amused them. The news was followed by weather reports. “Heavy rain,” the newsreader said. “Poor visibility.”

Horridge stumbled to his feet and grabbed the radio as though it had begun ticking. He turned up the volume. Had he misheard? The suave voice read the reports; each one received the same careful false inflections. He switched off the set, almost wrenching the knob loose. The man hadn’t been saying “visibility” at all. He had been saying “disability.”

He managed to douse his fury. He’d more important things to think of than their cheap vicious tricks. He must remember everywhere he’d touched. Then he could go in quickly, wipe away his prints, and go straight out. He’d be too quick for the police.

The door and the doorknob. No doubt his prints were mixed with Craig’s. He squirmed, disgusted. Craig and the painter must have had some doubly unnatural relationship. He was too tense to finish his dinner. He scraped half a piece of toast into the bin. Baked beans oozed down the plate, discomforting him.

He’d touched several of her pieces of clay before selecting two. Did clay hold fingerprints? He’d take the pieces away, just in case. She wouldn’t have moved them — she was too untidy. Luck hadn’t deserted him altogether, surely.

He finished the list in his mind. What could he do now until he grew tired? He ought to have borrowed a library book before fleeing. At last he switched on the radio. Perhaps they’d exhausted their tricks for tonight — or could they tell when he was listening?

There was nothing he cared to hear. Radio Merseyside was blaring jazz, Radio City was snarling pop music. Elsewhere was a murder play. Here were bland songs of yesteryear, soothing, reassuring, false. On the station that was meant for serious music was cacophony. Clang! Bong! Ping! It sounded like a herd of savages let loose in an ironmonger’s.

He lay in bed and tried to sleep. He must be wide awake tomorrow. The clock was chanting: See you on Jan, see you on Jan. His mind listed places he must wipe, over and over. Had he forgotten one? The door. The doorknob. The table. The chair in which he’d sat. The cup — he must wipe all the cups, to make sure. The kitchen door and its handles. The tap. The knife with which he’d cut open the clay to receive the keys. The spoons — he’d stirred his tea. Wasn’t listing things supposed to help you sleep? The door. The doorknob. The table.

He slipped the key into the door. It was the right key; as soon as he’d entered the hall he had clenched his fist around the front door’s. The door of the flat refused to budge. He grasped the knob and shoved. He must wipe that last of all.

The door jerked wide. He eased it shut behind him. Apart from its jumble, the flat seemed deserted. A face stared at him from the painting of the art gallery. He ignored it — no time for distractions. He would start in the kitchen and work outwards.

When he opened the kitchen door, the painter was at the sink.

She turned and saw him. Her mouth fell ajar. His hand struggled in his pocket; his documents cascaded out, onto the floor. His birth certificate displayed his name. As she gazed at that, he fumbled open the razor.

When she saw the blade, her mouth gaped. A scream rose in her throat, like the shrill of a train rushing up a tunnel, but it wasn’t quick enough. He slashed her cheek. Her face tore like canvas, and a multicoloured torrent spilled out, drenching him. He was covered with paint sticky as glue.