Read Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother for Free Online

you off the hook yet? They need sorting out. I’ve got a few contacts;
I’ll see what I can do. God, that’s typical. Wasting their
time with the petty crimes and the innocent. If I can see you’re
innocent, they can.”
                 He
almost convinced her, he seemed so sure of himself. “You think I’m innocent?”
                 “I
know you are. I only wish I were a policeman. Believe me, I’d hunt down the man who killed your brother.”
                 For
a moment she didn’t understand. Then she remembered the inquest, remembered the
other driver swearing that her crash had been the fault of the madman who’d
walked in front of her. But Edmund Hall meant more than that; she could hear
more in his voice. “Which man?” she demanded.
                 “The
man who made you crash, and who did,” he gazed at her with a kind of furious
sympathy, “what he did to your brother afterwards. I know there’s such a man,
perhaps even better than you do. Because I’ve met him.”
                 She
stared at him. He gazed back at her, frowning slightly as if unsure she’d
understood. Of course she had. He meant that after the man had caused the
crash, he’d—when he’d stooped by the lamp standard, he’d—no, it was too
ridiculous to think about, or too horrible, or both. It was up to the police to
find out what had happened; it would do no good for her to think about it. Now
here was Edmund Hall, saying it out loud. One thing was certain: she wouldn’t
react like a wilting female, not like Dorothy. Just give her a minute to
prepare herself. “Excuse me a moment,” she said distractedly, heading for the
kitchen. “My vegetables.”
                 A
saucepan lid chattered nervously beneath her hand. She turned on the gas for
the vegetables, then stood unnecessarily watching
them. She was realizing that she might not want to hear what Edmund Hall had to
say. At last she ventured back into the living room.
                 “I
want to be completely open with you,” he said. “First, I want you to know
exactly why I’m here. I write books about crime.”
                 “Hence
the shirt,” she said, gazing at the reiterated pistols. She was both impatient
with the change of subject and glad of it: mostly glad, she thought.
                 “You
may have read some of my books,” he said. “I wrote a series first, that
everybody liked. Secrets of the Psychopaths.”
                 “No,
I haven’t, I’m afraid,” she said, pacing restlessly. She’d abandoned her
gracefulness and was stumping glumly, because she’d caught him glancing about
the room, taking mental notes; she couldn’t fool him, he was a writer. She was
damned if she was going to bother trying.
                 “ The Homicidal Heart ?” he demanded, with
an air of faint disbelief. “ Sinister Sirens ?”
                 “No,
I don’t think so.” Perhaps he was glancing about for the bookcase, like a
too-polite child looking surreptitiously for the toilet.
                 “ Love Has Many Weapons ?”
                 “Oh
yes. At least, someone told me that was good. I’ve been meaning to read it,”
she said, to forestall further embarrassment. Let’s get to the point. She plonked herself down on the couch. “You were going to tell
me about this man you’d met,” she said.
                 “I
will. But first I want you to understand my motives, Miss Frayn .”
                 “Call
me Clare, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “You’re making yourself sound like a criminal.”
                 “Call
me Ted. The trouble is , some people don’t like the way
a writer has to work. Their attitude gets to me sometimes.” He sat forward.
“I’ve sold the idea of a book,” he said. “It could be a bestseller. It’ll have
a damn good publisher, and one of