I was walking along the main street of a small seaside town in the north of England looking for somewhere to make a phone call. My car had broken down outside the town and I wanted to contact the AA Company. Low grey clouds were gathering across the sky and there was a cold damp wind blowing off the sea which nearly threw me off my feet every time I crossed one of the side streets. It had rained in the night and water was dripping from the bare trees that lined the street. I was glad that I was wearing a thick coat.      There was no sign of a call box, nor was there anyone at that early hour whom I could ask. I had thought I might find a shop open selling the Sunday papers or a milkman doing his rounds, but the town was completely dead. The only living thing I saw was a thin frightened cat outside a small restaurant.      Then suddenly I found what I was looking for. There was a small post office, and almost hidden from sight in a dark narrow street. Next to it was the town' s only public call box, which badly needed a coat of paint. I hurried forward, but stopped in astonishment when I saw through the dirty glass that there was a man inside. He was fat, and was wearing a cheap blue plastic raincoat. I could not see his face and he did not even raise his head at the sound of my footsteps.       Carefully, I remained standing a few feet away and lit a cigarette to wait for my turn.  It was when I threw the dead match on the ground that I noticed something bright red  _ from under the call box door. Why didn't the man raise his head when the writer came near?
He was annoyed at being seen by the writer. He was angry at being disturbed by the writer. He was probably fast asleep. He was probably murdered.