The Smile of a Ghost E-Book

Phil Rickman

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Merrily Watkins Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 708

Beschreibung

The Parish Priest must solve the mystery of a young boy's deathly fall from the Ludlow Castle ruins, and discovers a hidden obsession with the afterlife amongst the ancient streets... 'Compassionate, original and sharply contemporary. Rickman's crime series is one of the best around.' - Spectator In the affluent, historic town of Ludlow, a teenage boy dies in a fall from the castle ruins. Accident or suicide? No great mystery - so why does the boy's uncle, retired detective Andy Mumford, turn to Diocesan Exorcist Merrily Watkins? More people will die before Merrily - her own future uncertain - uncovers a dangerous obsession with suicide, death and the afterlife hidden within these shadowed medieval streets.

Leseprobe

Smile of a Ghost

PHIL RICKMAN was born in Lancashire and lives on the Welsh border. He is the author of the Merrily Watkins series and The Bones of Avalon. He has won awards for his TV and radio journalism and writes and presents the book programme Phil the Shelf for BBC Radio Wales.

ALSO BY

PHIL RICKMAN

THE MERRILY WATKINS SERIES

The Wine of Angels

Midwinter of the Spirit

A Crown of Lights

The Cure of Souls

The Lamp of the Wicked

The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

The Smile of a Ghost

The Remains of an Altar

The Fabric of Sin

To Dream of the Dead

The Secrets of Pain

THE JOHN DEE PAPERS

The Bones of Avalon

OTHER TITLES

Candlenight

Curfew

The Man in the Moss

December

The Chalice

First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Macmillan.

This paperback edition first published in the UK in 2012 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Phil Rickman, 2005.

The moral right of Phil Rickman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-0-85789-015-3 (paperback) ISBN: 978-0-85789-022-1 (eBook)

Printed in Great Britain.

Corvus An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd Ormond House 26-27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

The Smile of a Ghost

Contents

Mumford

PART ONE: Robbie

1. Into the Loop

2. Vice-rage

3. Pebbles

4. Routine Pastoral

5. Saturday Sun

6. On the Slippery Slope

7. I’ll Be Waiting

8. Imbalance

9. The Bishop’s Tale

10. Leave God Out of It

11. Nightshades

12. Esoteric

PART TWO: Jemmie

13. Extreme

14. Black Poppies

15. Ghost-Walk

16. Kindred Spirit

17. Outcast

18. Departure Lounge

19. The Joy of Death

20. Old Ludlow

21. Tradition

22. Stepmother

23. Duality

PART THREE: Bell

24. Ancient Incense

25. His Element

26. The Mix

27. Carrying a Light

28. Tonguing the Yew

29. All the Big Words

30. Victim

31. Smoke

32. Media Studies

33. Lift Shaft into Heaven

Mumford

34. Old Stock

35. A Resort for the Dead

36. The Legend

37. Like in the Belfry

38. Like Hello!

39. Raw Madness

Mumford

40. Heavier Than You Know

PART FOUR: Sam

41. Big Bump

Mumford

42. Like Heat

43. Nobody but God

44. Lab Rat

45. Marion

46. Gridiron

47. Point of Transition

48. Running Through the Town

49. An Intimate Eternity

50. Dead Person Watching

Mumford

ALL THE PEOPLE who’d told Mumford, It’s a new beginning.

All the beaming faces blurred by pint glasses frosted with froth, all the damp handshakes. Mumford mumbling, Ah, thanks… thank you… very nice… ’course I will… No, I won’t be going nowhere… yes… no… thank you.

Andy Mumford, who didn’t see the point of new beginnings – complete waste of half a lifetime’s experience. Andy Mumford who had just wanted to carry on.

The way this town had carried on: the oldest town he knew – or at least the one that looked oldest. Bent and sagging, and people loved it for that, and nobody looked up at the crooked gables and the worm-riddled beams and said, What this old place needs is A New Beginning.

Mumford felt a gassy fury inside, like in one of the first-ever pictures he could remember – in a children’s encyclopaedia, it was, and it showed the inside of a volcano close to eruption. How many years ago was that now – forty-four, forty-five? God almighty.

Not that anybody would ever know about the volcano in Mumford. Not showing it was the one thing he was real good at. Not showing his excitement when the suspect in the interview room said the wrong thing at the right time, springing the trap. Not showing what he really wanted to do to the rat-eyed rapist with a cellar full of porno videos. Never showing his feelings because he was a professional and because he was…

… imperturbable.

Clumsy old word, bit of a mouthful, but probably the nicest thing anybody ever said about him in all those years in the Job. And that was all right. Imperturbable implied solid, reliable… professional.

Only, what bloody use was being totally professional when you didn’t have a profession any more? What use was imperturbable ever going to be to him again?

Mumford walked up Broad Street, Ludlow, which some folk maintained was the most beautiful street in the most beautiful medieval market town in the country, and it might as well have been a semi-derelict industrial estate for all he noticed.

Warmish evening now, Easter just gone and the town coming alive for the tourists, everybody’s world opening up, Mumford’s closing down. What would he do, day to day, through the summer? And then the autumn and the winter and then another year. Another thirty years, if he was spared. The length of his career all over again. Thirty years of what’s the point?

He reached the top of the wide street, across from the Buttercross, the old market building with its fancy little clock, behind it the tower of St Laurence’s soaring over a tight mesh of streets and alleys. The whole scene warm and golden. Andy Mumford feeling as warm and golden, frankly, as shit.

Ludlow wasn’t his town, mind. Mumford came from Leominster, back in Herefordshire, a dozen or so miles down the A49. It was just that his Mam and Dad had moved here to take over a little shop after the old man retired from the Force (‘Why don’t you get yourself a little shop, Andy?’ some bastard had said in the pub; Andy could’ve nutted him) and now Gail was working part-time as an auxiliary nurse at Ludlow Community Hospital.

Because Gail was still a professional.

For probably the first time ever, Mumford had brought his wife to work this morning and he’d come back now – after what had to have been the longest day of his entire life – to pick her up. Tonight they were going to have a meal at one of the fancy new restaurants that had opened up here.

A celebration meal. A couple of extra glasses of wine for him because Gail would be driving them home. A toast to a new beginning. A meal they wouldn’t normally think of affording in the town that, with all these new eateries, had become the Food Capital of the Welsh Marches – Mumford conceding that, for the town, this probably did, in fact, qualify as a new beginning. Always been prosperous, but it had real wealth now, all these poncy-voiced bastards moving up from London with their silver knives and forks.

Mumford glared, with this new resentment, at the little shops with their blinds down and the dark windows of the Buttercross where the town councillors met and patted each other on the back and swapped the odd Masonic handshake.

He was in his best suit, the suit he’d last worn to collect his commendation from the Chief Constable, and Gail had brought to work some nice clothes to change into at his Mam and Dad’s house down the bottom of town, behind the new Tesco’s.

Which was why Mumford was walking uptown… trying to get himself into the right mood to face his Mam and his bloody Dad for the first time since the Home Office had officially repossessed his warrant card. Needing to sound a bit jovial from now on, on account of imperturbable was no longer enough to see him through. He was expected to become a member of the human race. To become Andy.

Andy, the dumpy, middle-aged, genial, smiling, bastard civilian.

We’ll likely be seeing a bit more of you at last, then, Andy, Mam had said the other night on the phone. You can do a bit of decorating for us, if you want to. And Robbie, he wants to show you all his favourite places in the town, don’t you, Robbie? He’s nodding, see. He’s always saying when’s Uncle Andy coming?

Robbie, his young nephew, his sister’s boy from Hereford, who preferred to spend the school holidays with his grandparents in Ludlow, even though his grandad despised him.

I’ll be getting some kind of job, Mumford had snapped back. En’t that old yet.

Guessing that when he got there tonight she’d have forgotten he was even retired. In any other job he wouldn’t have been. If he’d just been a bit more ambitious in the early years, if he’d pushed a bit more, he could’ve made Inspector and stayed on till he was sixty. But he was a plodder, and the plodders didn’t get promoted and so they were forced into retirement at fifty. And everybody thought that, being plodders, they were looking forward to it: crown-green bowls, growing sprouts, bloody line-dancing.

Surprisingly, the only bit of understanding had come from Francis Bliss, his last boss, who was fifteen years younger and, as a senior officer, still had another twenty-odd years to serve if he wanted it.

CID room, Mumford’s last morning, Bliss frowning.

This is all to cock, this system, Andy. We just throw away our best natural resources, like pressing the fuckin’ delete button on thirty years of database.

He’d respected Bliss for that. Realized how much he’d come to respect Bliss as a detective, too, despite him being a smart-mouth from Merseyside. Knew that when the time came, unless the world was a very different place by then, Bliss – never a man you’d call imperturbable – would go out cursing.

Cursing.

Mumford looked up at the hard, shiny evening sky, ready to curse God.

But God got in first.

God pulled the rug from under the slippers that Mumford was never going to wear.

He was turning the corner to walk up to Castle Square when he heard it coming up behind him, a sound that used to make his blood race but now seemed more like a taunt, and he wanted to shut it out. The way this morning he’d punched in the button on his alarm clock – which he’d routinely set without a thought last night – and then lain there staring into the white-skied emptiness of a new day.

Ambulance. He stood on the corner under the dull maroon façade of McCartney’s estate agents, and watched it barrelling through the narrows, a couple of tourists glancing up in annoyance like it ought to be horse-drawn in Ludlow.

He didn’t really mean to follow the thing. It wasn’t even instinct, just that it was heading the same way as he was. In fact, he nearly turned back when he saw the patrol car on the square under the Cheddar-cheese-coloured perimeter wall of Ludlow Castle.

He did, in fact, turn away when the first copper came out of the gateway, near the old cannon from Sevastopol, and he saw it was Steve Britton, station sergeant at Ludlow – no hair left but still a few years yet to serve, and even then they’d probably keep him on as a civilian.

But Steve had seen him.

‘Andy?’

Mumford kept on walking, figuring Steve would think it was a case of mistaken identity or that Mumford hadn’t heard him. But then he heard footsteps – not merely footsteps, police boots – clattering across the empty square, and Steve Britton was shouting now.

‘Andy!’

So he had to stop and stand there, waiting wearily, in front of Woolworths, staring down at the pavement, steeling himself for what was coming: Andy, mate, I’ve only just heard. Free at last then, eh? Look, I get off in an hour, we’ll have a couple of jars.

But when Steve Britton drew level with him it was different.

Steve’s long melon face was damp with sweat and his eyes had a look that Mumford recognized straight off. A look he’d probably had on a few dozen times himself over the years, carrying out just about the worst chore you ever got saddled with as a copper.

Confusing, though, on account of he’d never faced it before.

Never actually been on the receiving end, feeling that sharp, flat punch of dread – a punch deep to the gut, right where, a few minutes ago, the volcano had been simmering.

Andy couldn’t say anything. He just stared at Steve, and at his uniform. Wobbling slightly, experiencing, for the first time ever, what the sight of that uniform on your doorstep meant to the average person with no drugs in the house.

‘Andy…’ Steve getting his breath back. ‘You been down to your mother’s tonight?’

‘Not yet.’ His mother? Andy felt his own breath catch. ‘Something happened? Something happened, Steve?’

Far from bloody imperturbable, the way that came out. Realizing how scared he was now, how exposed, the streets spinning.

‘Yes,’ Steve said. ‘Something’s happened.’

Walking with Steve Britton back to the castle.

The castle, of all places. Christ.

The castle was ruined but pretty big, a lot of it left. You couldn’t see much from here, the town side, but from down below, across the river, it was still massive and imposing and had been dominating Ludlow for most of the last millennium.

Mumford had probably been in there just twice in the whole of his life, and never in the last twenty years.

But Robbie practically lived here when he was staying with his grandparents, which was every school holiday since his mother moved in with the toe-rag. Robbie, the history buff. Quiet, likeable boy, covering up for his gran, day after day.

Please God, not Robbie. This’ll destroy her.

Couldn’t be, anyway. No logic to it.

‘How’d this boy gain access, Steve?’

‘We figure he stayed in. Hid somewhere after they closed the castle for the night. There’s a hundred places to hide… inside these little passages, the towers… it’s a bloody honeycomb.’

It actually looked like a honeycomb, all yellow and orange in the evening light. The main gates were wide open, a young uniform Mumford didn’t recognize guarding the entrance.

You forgot how big this castle was. Inside the perimeter walls there was a green open space where they had sideshows and medieval-type displays in summer, and then the Christmas Fair. From here a stone footbridge took you over the moat, which was all dried up now, leading into the main fortification with this huge gatehouse tower that had been the old Norman… keep, was that the word?

Robbie would know.

Couldn’t be. One fourteen-year-old boy looked much like another – trainers, baseball cap. This would turn out to be some tourist kid larking around.

Mumford went back to being observational, like he hadn’t retired two days ago and this was still his job. Some part of him knowing that if he was to keep from losing everything that had ever meant anything in his life, he needed to start off how he meant to go on, and that was not as just another member of the bastard public.

Walking with his uniform counterpart, Sergeant Steve Britton, towards another…

… another death scene.

Just another death scene. Nothing to do with him. A mistake.

Red spears of sunlight were bouncing off the ambulance parked near the footbridge. A couple of paramedics were bending over the edge of the dried-up moat.

‘Visitors can go right to the top, see,’ Steve said, talking rapidly, a bit hoarsely. ‘Good… good views.’

‘Robbie Walsh knows his way blindfold, Steve.’

The square tower seemed awful high now, the size of a big block of flats in this part of the world. A St George’s flag was hanging limp up there against the amber sky. The stone bridge had a wooden handrail, and even from here Mumford could see there was blood on it, like a splash of spilt creosote. Should’ve been taped off.

He could see into the moat now, something humped and twisted on the bottom, the fact that they’d left it down there saying everything.

‘Must’ve come down on the handrail, bounced off,’ Steve said.

‘Broken neck?’

‘And the rest.’ Steve swallowed. Likely never had to do this before to one of his own. ‘Andy, I… I hope it’s not. I hope I’m mistaken, that’s all.’

‘Sure t’be,’ Mumford said. ‘Let’s get it over.’

‘We used to see him all over town. Walking up Broad Street, and down Old Street, and past the station. You’d think he’d get sick of it, same streets, day after day.’

Steve making it clear he knew what Robbie Walsh looked like.

‘He never got sick of it,’ Mumford said. ‘Always finding new things, so they reckoned. He loves it here. History-mad. Goes to all the lectures, all the exhibitions. Has some kind of season ticket for this… for the castle. So he can come in and out.’

‘People knew him, Andy. All the local people and the shopkeepers knew him. Always polite. Not like most of the little sods.’

Steve keeping up this street-corner chat routine to delay the moment, prepare Mumford for the worst. One of the paramedics was on his feet now, talking to the cops and shaking his head, likely telling them what they already knew.

‘Witnesses?’ Mumford said.

‘Feller seen it from over the river, top of Whitcliffe. Artist bloke. Paints pictures of the castle. Watching a buzzard through binoculars. Said it was… Ah, you don’t wanner know this stuff…’

‘I wanner know everything.’

‘Just make sure first, eh?’

‘I wanner know everything,’ Mumford snarled, knowing that he was shaking like a civilian.

That night, Angela, his sister, did some screaming.

The Hereford boys had finally found Ange and her partner in the Orchard Gardens, the city’s most misnamed pub, out on the edge of the Plascarreg. So it was getting on for midnight when they got to the Community Hospital, and Ange must have drunk a fair bit, which didn’t help.

In the hospital mortuary, Mumford, for all his experience, had turned away, biting his lip. Lying there, with only his not-too-damaged face exposed, the boy had looked all of eight. Ange had taken one quick glance and then it was the full hand-wringing dramatics: It’s him, it’s him… oh shit, shit, shit, look what they done to him!

During this performance, Mumford had found himself watching the scumbag partner, Lennox Mathiesson, hunched up with his hands in his pockets, nodding his head, half-fascinated, ear-trinkets clinking. It sickened Mumford that Angela was three months pregnant with this rubbish’s baby.

Tomorrow morning, the body of her first child would be taken to Shrewsbury for the post-mortem. Tonight, outside the hospital, Ange shelved her grief and set about doing what Mumford reckoned she’d been doing since before she could walk, which was generously apportioning the blame so that there was none of it left for her.

‘That selfish ole bitch, I just hope she’s satisfied. I gotter come all this way to see my son lying dead, killed, because she wasn’t fit to look after him. She robbed me… robbed me of my son. I hope she’s fuckin’ satisfied now.’

Ange in the car park, legs apart, arms folded and a sawn-off top advertising her navel and her condition. Thirty-nine years old.

‘I reckon you better get off home, Angela,’ Mumford said. ‘I’ll phone for a taxi.’

‘Happier yere than he ever was with you? You remember when she come out with that one? What did you say? Nothing, as usual.’

‘She’s not right,’ Mumford said quietly. ‘You know that.’

Except on that occasion, Mam had been dead right. Mumford drew away from the alcohol fumes, stumbling back into a tree trunk as his sister stuck her wet, smudgy face up to his.

‘She en’t fit to look after a child, that’s for sure. And you never said a word, so I hope you’re satisfied too, mister smart-arse fuckin’ detective.’

‘He en’t a detective no more.’

Knowing smirk from Lennox Mathiesson, ten years younger than Angela, two convictions for burglary, one aggravated, plus an ABH. Well, Mam’s mind might be on the blink but she could still recognize a bad bastard when she saw one, and that was why her and Ange hadn’t spoke for the best part of two years, since Ange had left Robbie’s dad – decent enough bloke, worked at Burton’s men’s-shop – for Mathiesson.

Mumford got out his mobile, putting in the number of this taxi firm he knew in Leominster. It’d cost, but he just wanted an end to this night.

‘Oh yeah, get me out.’ Ange staring at him with contempt. ‘Get me out, ’fore I makes trouble. Well, we’re gonner make trouble, mister, you count on it. We can sue that castle, for a start.’ Hands on her hips now, body arched, belly swelling out. ‘Letting him run wild all day in dangerous ole ruins that oughter be fuckin’ pulled down.’

Run wild? Robbie? Mumford was thinking of all the times he’d heard her say, I wonder sometimes where he came from, hiding away with his books, no proper friends. It’s not like having a normal child, is it?

‘Angela,’ he said, ‘obviously you’re terrible upset, but let’s just get one thing straight: there’s no case to sue the castle. Robbie was there illegally, when it was closed for the night.’

‘Well, we’ll fuckin’ see about that, won’t we, mister smart-arse fuckin’ ex-detective.’

Mumford nodded, standing with his heels in a flower bed, taking it. What else could he do?

‘And what’s disgusting, like I say, is she never knew where he was. I bet she even forgot he was stayin’ yere.’

Laughable, that, coming from Ange. It had always been Mumford himself who’d picked Robbie up and brought him over to Ludlow for his holidays, and his most sorrowful image of the boy was not the lolling body under the tower but the pale kid with a suitcase waiting like an orphan at the top of the steps at the Plascarreg.

Different boy altogether when he got to Ludlow, but Ange was never going to want reminding of that.

He got the taxi firm on the mobile. ‘Soon’s you can, Paul, eh?’

‘And I’ll tell you what, mister – you can tell the ole bitch she can pay for the fuckin’ funeral…’

‘God almighty, Angela!’

It had been like this for as long as he could remember. Mam had been forty-five when she’d had Ange, and the gap was always too wide – Mumford always in the middle, covering his ears.

‘Wasn’t fit to look after nothin’, and you never seen it, or you pretended not to, more like, ’cause you was always too busy persecuting folks just wanted a bit of pleasure outer life.’

Meaning the time he and Bliss had had Mathiesson’s brother for enough crack to lay out half the estate. Personal use. The balls they expected you to swallow. Mumford had never set foot in Ange’s flat from that day to this.

‘You bloody let her take him away from his own mother just when I needed the help. You robbed me, she robbed me, every—’

Ange had started to cry again then, tottering across to Lennox Mathiesson, who gathered her into his tattooed arms, giving Mumford this thin smile over her quaking shoulders.

Time he was off. Needed to pick Gail up from poor bloody Mam’s. Gail in her best frock for the celebration dinner. Christ.

‘Anyway, you know where I am,’ Mumford said and walked away, Angela screaming at his back.

‘You tell her I hope she never sleeps again!’

All the lights were on in his mam and dad’s house, the last neighbour walking away. They were good to her, the neighbours in this short, terraced row down at the bottom of the town, between the station and the new Tesco’s.

Mumford sat in his car and just wanted to stay there. He could see Gail and his dad through the extended front window, its curtains still drawn back. His dad had a hand on his forehead, likely with exasperation by now; his dad had never had much patience with female emotions. Gail had a cardigan over her new frock, and she was bending down, like she was bending over a sickbed. Below the level of the window frame, his mam would be sitting in her chair and the TV would be on with the sound turned down.

He could feel the atmosphere in that room coming out at him like radio static.

Gail was a nurse and knew how to handle people in grief; all Mumford knew was how to catch the people who’d caused it. Which didn’t apply in this case, whatever Ange said, and, even if it had, he wasn’t allowed to do anything no more.

Unless Ange was halfway right, and he was the guilty party.

He leaned his sweating forehead against the back of his hands on top of the steering wheel and let the breath come out of him. Feeling beyond exhaustion.

Aye, he’d known the state she was in, the ole girl, but he’d also known how much it had meant to her having Robbie around. Didn’t know much about degenerative brain disease but he did know his mam would have gone downhill a whole lot faster without the boy.

When he looked up, he saw how pale the night sky was, the big tower of St Laurence’s looming out of the body of the town. And became aware of another person standing out on the edge of the Tesco’s car park, still as a post, looking across the road at the house.

A woman, it was, with pale hair escaping from the hood of a long grey cape that hung to the ground. The night was so still that the cape didn’t move, its folds like the stone pleats of the robe of some religious statue. The only movement was a white flickering like a candle on an altar. And it was a candle, Mumford saw, in a metal lantern that hung from the woman’s hand emerging from a slit in the cape.

Mumford experienced a moment of superstitious fear – like he was seeing the angel of death outside the house – and then a bigger fear that he, like the ole girl, was losing his marbles, and he got out of the car in a near-panic.

As he reached the edge of the car park, the woman turned to face him, and there was enough light for him to see that she was entirely human and that she’d been crying.

‘You all right, madam?’ Mumford said.

She didn’t reply, just walked away with the candle-lantern swinging like a captured star in a cage, and Mumford shook his head and crossed the road to his parents’ house.

PART ONE

Robbie

‘I talked to one of the officials and he told me that he was always getting reports of odd happenings in and around the castle.’

Peter Underwood, A Gazetteer of British Ghosts (1971)

‘It is well recorded that those left behind often do experience feelings of closeness to their dead loved ones during the months immediately after their loss.’

Ian Wilson, In Search of Ghosts (1995)

1

Into the Loop

‘NO – PLEASE – I want to understand this,’ Siân said. ‘You’re telling us that you yourself have seen one.’

Her pewter hair hung like a warlord’s helmet. She’d found her way to the head of the table, and she was sitting there in judgement. Her expression was like, Say it… say that word again.

The word that Merrily was realizing should be avoided.

‘I once had an experience, that’s the only way I can describe it,’ she said. ‘A series of experiences, if you like, that I couldn’t rationally explain.’

In the vault-like vicarage kitchen, beeswax candles burned low in their saucers, and the empty ashtray mocked her. She’d been trying to tell herself she’d guessed it was likely to turn out this bad, but the truth was, no, not in her worst dreams.

‘And so I went to the Church for advice, and the Church wasn’t exactly helpful. Felt I was being treated like some kind of hysterical loony.’

Siân’s grey eyes blinked once, like the steel shutters on the little windows of a police cell. Merrily stared into them. Sorry – I meant, like some kind of emotionally dysfunctional person with advanced learning difficulties.

‘And where exactly did you have this… series of experiences, Merrily?’

‘Here. At the vicarage. Upstairs. Just after we moved in, a couple of years ago.’

‘This is rather a big house,’ Nigel Saltash said.

‘Huge – certainly compared with anything I’d lived in before.’

‘Just you and your daughter?’

Saltash tilted his head fractionally, as though he needed this slight motion to activate his enormous brain. It also turned his smile on. He had an all-purpose smile: questioning, explaining, sympathizing, patronizing. For many years, he’d been a psychiatrist; some things didn’t change.

‘Just the two of us, yes,’ Merrily said. ‘Me and Jane. Like now.’

‘So, if I were to humbly suggest – and you could say I’m simply playing devil’s advocate, if you like – that you were feeling terribly insecure at the time… a stranger in the village, not yet fully licensed or formally installed as vicar… and you’d been thrown into this enormous, ancient, echoing… rather spooky old house…’

‘Plus, I was not that many years widowed. And we had very little money. Also like now.’

‘And have the experiences stopped now?’

In the candle-glow, Nigel Saltash’s face was taut and tanned from skiing somewhere. His light grey hair was cropped tight and fitted flush into his beard. He was long and lithe and living proof that seventy was the new fifty.

‘Yes, it was all over very quickly,’ Merrily said. ‘Once we’d got certain things sorted out.’

‘You’re playing into my rationalist’s hands, Mrs Watkins. Deliberately, perhaps?’

‘Well, I suppose I’m making the point that someone like you can turn anyone’s circumstances to your professional advantage.’

‘But am I necessarily wrong?’

Merrily shrugged. ‘I’m always going to say “I know what I saw,” and you’re always going to say “But you didn’t really see it at all.” ’

‘And that way, surely, we arrive at something approximating to the truth,’ Siân Callaghan-Clarke said.

‘Do we?’

‘Nine times out of ten, yes.’

‘Anyway,’ Merrily said, ‘that was the main reason why, when I was offered the post of exorcist – Deliverance Consultant – I would have found it hard to say no.’

‘I still cannot believe you’ve been allowed to go on for so long… alone.’ Siân was shaking her head. ‘The danger you’ve been in…’

‘Sorry?’

One of the candles sputtered out, and Merrily ran a forefinger nervously around the rim of her dog collar.

She’d been naive; she’d misread the signs.

Huw Owen had told her at the start what she’d be up against. If women priests were seen as soft plaster patching up the already crumbling walls of the Church, a woman exorcist—

Might as well just paint a great big bull’s-eye between your tits, Huw had said memorably.

A month or two ago, when the Bishop, Bernie Dunmore, had said, I’m afraid that, once again, I’ve been asked what you’re doing about establishing a Deliverance advisory panel, she’d shrugged it off.

Realizing that, OK, sooner or later there was going to have to be a support group within the diocese, but it had to involve the right people, didn’t it? People who were sympathetic, who didn’t have an agenda, political or otherwise.

Only, the ones she’d thought of as the right people hadn’t wanted to know – Simon St John, vicar of Knight’s Frome, backing away in mock terror when she’d asked him, making the sign of the cross with both hands. But the point was, she knew that he would always be there for her, like the wise old owls outside the diocese, Huw Owen and Llewellyn Jeavons. It just wasn’t official; some of these people didn’t do official.

Whereas people like Siân Callaghan-Clarke and Nigel Saltash didn’t do anything else.

Saltash was a good friend of the Dean, and giving his professional services free – no better reason for the Dean to take him to meet the Bishop and the Bishop to introduce him to Merrily. In any modern Deliverance circle, a qualified psychiatrist was now fundamental. A free one was a godsend.

Thank you, God. Thank you so much.

‘You mean I’m in spiritual danger?’ Merrily said. ‘As a woman in a male tradition?’

Now Siân was staring at her, leaning back in her chair like Merrily must be deliberately winding her up. Siân’s mother was a New Labour baroness; she wore her feminist credentials like defiant tattoos. Within five years she’d either be a bishop or out of the Church. Spiritual danger, political danger – all the same to her.

‘I meant, like, the first exorcist having been Jesus himself,’ Merrily said lamely.

She let the silence hang, recalling the reported mutterings of her predecessor, Thomas Dobbs, as he’d prowled the cathedral cloisters trying to engineer her resignation. At the time, she’d been probably the first – certainly the youngest – woman diocesan exorcist in Britain, operating under the customized title Deliverance Consultant. Appointed, it later became evident, largely because the former Bishop of Hereford had wanted to get into her cassock. Siân Callaghan-Clarke, already a well-placed minister in the diocese, would have heard the rumours and stored them away.

Payback time for bimbo priest?

Martin Longbeach carefully relit the candle with a taper. Martin, tubby and camp, wore an alb and an outsize pectoral cross and was known to covet the south Herefordshire parish of Hoarwithy because of its exotic Italianate church. It had been his idea that they should light candles tonight, to ‘aid concentration’.

‘By danger,’ Siân said, ‘I meant the danger of being compromised and exploited… and of having to make instant decisions that you’re perhaps not…’

… qualified to make, experienced enough to handle.

Siân left this unsaid. Merrily sat in the candlelight, images of the past couple of years encircling her like pale smoke – fears, anxieties, faltering hopes, tentative joys. And also the most bewildering and stimulating years of her life.

There was a stillness in the air. Was this it? Intimations of the end, on a cool April night?

Siân Callaghan-Clarke clasped her long hands and leaned over them across the table.

‘Tonight we’ve tried to go over what we understand by the term “Deliverance”, and the multiplicity of conditions we’re expected to examine – from perceived ghosts and poltergeists, to perceived curses, possession and so-called psychic attack. We’ve considered the cases Merrily has to deal with, day to day: the deluded, the disturbed, the fantastical, the pathological liars—’

‘Not forgetting those in need of prayer and non-judgemental understanding. And the ones afflicted by what seemed to be genuine… intrusion,’ Merrily said.

‘Seemed to be.’ Nigel Saltash smiled.

‘Seemed to me to be. A conclusion not lightly reached.’

‘The point is,’ Siân said, ‘that deciding who is deluded and who – however remote that possibility might be – is, ahm, genuinely afflicted… has been Merrily’s sole responsibility. An impossible situation for just one person, who also has a parish to run.’

‘I’ve not been without back-up. Huw Owen’s always on the end of a phone.’

Merrily felt the outline of the unopened packet of Silk Cut in a pocket of her denim skirt. The other back-up.

‘Ah yes,’ Siân said, looking over her half-glasses. ‘Huw Owen.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Saltash said. ‘Who is Huw Owen?’

‘Nigel, I’m not sure you’ll want to know.’

Siân’s eyes were still and neutral. Merrily was furious but bit down on it. She really, really needed a cigarette. They were all looking at her.

‘Huw was my primary tutor. Me and a bunch of others. He runs training courses for the Deliverance Ministry in a former Nonconformist chapel in a remote part of the Brecon Beacons.’

‘Where nobody can hear you scream,’ Siân said. ‘My understanding is that Huw Owen, while living the life of a fourth-century hermit, has himself been in such a precarious psychiatric state for so long that—’

Merrily felt herself arch like a cat. ‘That’s ridic—’

‘—that not only can he no longer be relied upon to remain au fait with current thinking—’

‘And fucking defamatory!’ Merrily said.

In the silence, the phone rang in the scullery, which she used as her office.

Siân looked up, said mildly. ‘You want to get that?’

‘I’ll… let the machine take it.’ Merrily glanced at the scullery door, which was ajar. ‘If it’s not urgent…’

They all sat there uncomfortably as the machine in the office played Merrily’s outgoing message through the open door, Nigel Saltash giving her a look that was professionally wry and sympathetic.

It was Saltash who’d introduced Siân, who’d worked with him when she was standing in as a hospital chaplain. She said she’d been wary of Deliverance work up to now, but if Nigel was going to be involved…

Siân, in turn, had brought in Martin Longbeach, once her curate, who was clearly a placid and malleable guy. And, no doubt, guaranteed not to fancy Merrily.

This was a nightmare.

There was a bleep from the answering machine and a cough.

‘Mrs Watkins. Mumford. Andy Mumford. I’ll… call you later, if that’s all right with you.’

The line went dead, the machine rewound, Merrily nodded.

‘I can call him back.’

‘Would that have been Sergeant Mumford?’ Siân asked. ‘From Hereford CID?’

‘I think he’s about to retire, actually. May already have…’

‘You’ve had some interesting dealings with the police, haven’t you? I was talking the other day to Sergeant Mumford’s superior – DCI Howe?’

‘Oh? Yeah, our paths have… crossed.’

‘So she tells me. I get on very well with her.’

Figured. If glacial Annie had opted for the Church rather than a fast-track police career, Canon Callaghan-Clarke would have been her ideal spiritual director.

‘I’ll make some more tea,’ Merrily said. Nobody had referred again to Huw Owen. Nobody had reacted to her outburst.

‘No, I think we should say goodnight at this point.’ Siân folded her document case, took off her glasses. ‘Given ourselves quite a lot to consider.’

‘Yes.’

‘I think we’ve all accepted that, having inherited a basically medieval structure, our task is to turn it into something practical, efficient and geared to the demands of the twenty-first century. To formulate a set of parameters, so that changes in, say, personnel will not damage the efficacy of the essential Deliverance module.’

Merrily gripped the cigarette packet on her thigh. Deliverance module?

Siân stood up.

‘I think the main decision we’ve made is that, to ease the very obvious pressure on Merrily, all of us should immediately be brought into the loop – the Deliverance e-mail loop, that is. And that each and every new case should be submitted for observations before any action is taken. Correct?’

‘It makes sense,’ Martin Longbeach said. ‘We might not always be able to make a contribution, but it’s a question of sharing.’

‘I’ll… tell Sophie at the Bishop’s office,’ Merrily said.

‘And in my case,’ Nigel Saltash said, ‘in these formative days, I do think it might be rather a good idea for me to tag along and observe some of the people you’re dealing with, Merrily. I mean, purely from an educational point of view?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I want to learn. See how you operate. Had more time on my hands since we sold half the land. Always thought I could settle down, in retirement, as a farmer, but I’m afraid that once a shrink… Would that be in order? I want to understand how you see Deliverance.’

Merrily took a big breath. ‘Nigel, how I see Deliverance… I’m supposed to be a priest, right? I have to operate on the basis of there being a spiritual element – that we’ve got used to calling God – in everything. So I actually believe that things can happen on more than one level.’

‘Indeed,’ Martin Longbeach said. ‘The holistic approach is essential. All aspects of life are interconnected.’

‘And the fact that there are certain things that I’m never going to be able to explain scientifically or psychologically… that doesn’t bother me one way or the other. And I think we should be there to say to the people affected: no, you’re not necessarily going mad—’

‘But if you are’ – Nigel Saltash smiled hugely – ‘we can also help you with that.’

Merrily sighed. ‘As I tried to say, when I was having problems the Church looked at me sideways and raised its eyebrows pityingly. I don’t want anybody out there to feel I’m writing them off as disturbed or deluded.’

‘And I’d absolutely hate to cramp your style, Merrily,’ Saltash said.

Merrily stood up. Her legs felt weak.

‘We’ll see what we can work out.’

‘Of course we will,’ Saltash said.

Dear God.

2

Vice-rage

LOL HAD A bunch of new-home cards. He’d put them in the deep sill of the window overlooking the bathroom-sized garden and the orchard beyond. Jane began to read them, holding the first one up to the hurricane lamp hanging from the central beam.

‘Alison, eh? Wooooh!’

The card had a pencil sketch of horses on the front. Alison Kinnersley, who bred them, had lived with Lol for a while before taking up with James Bull-Davies, whose family had once run this village before they ran out of money. Two years ago, even a struggling squire with holes in his farmhouse roof had been a better bargain than Lol.

But now Lol had Mum and a career back on course, and the village more than accepted him, and even Alison was being generous.

It’s definitely the right thing to do, she’d written. You can’t hide it for ever. Even James thinks that now, and I don’t need to tell you how conservative James is.

‘Wow,’ Jane said, ‘if it goes on like this, they’ll be inviting you to run for the Parish Council.’

Lol looked down from the stepladder, the overloaded paint-roller in his hand dribbling burnt orange onto the flagstones. Jane had chosen the ceiling colour; it looked wrong now, but she was never going to admit that. Lol just looked uncomfortable. He had orange smudges down the front of his Gomer Parry Plant Hire sweatshirt, tiny spots on his round, brass-rimmed glasses.

‘Then again,’ Jane said, ‘maybe not.’

There was a card from the Prossers at the Eight till Late and one from Gomer Parry and Danny Thomas – Welcome back, boy – with a sheep on the front driving a JCB.

Finally, one from Alice Meek. God bless you in your new home, Mr Robinson. Big letters full of stroke victim’s shake. Alice was only alive because of Lol, and the village knew it, and that was why he was so welcome here now.

And, of course, it was making him wary. Lol didn’t wear medals. Finding the old girl half-frozen over a grave in the churchyard, carrying her into the vicarage, and all the heavy stuff that had happened afterwards… he didn’t even like to talk about any of that. It could easily have ended so differently.

The verdict at the inquest on the guy who’d wanted Alice dead had been Accidental Death – totally correct – although most of what had happened had not come out, the villagers closing ranks around Lol. No longer an outsider, even if it wasn’t publicly acknowledged that he was Mum’s… whatever.

Couldn’t have worked out better, really. His first album in many years was out, he had respectable gigs scheduled. And he was about to abandon his temporary flat at Prof Levin’s recording studio at Knight’s Frome – like, thirty miles away – for this little terraced house a one-minute stroll from the vicarage. So, like, if his star, for once, was accelerating towards the high point of the heavens… well, nobody could say it had been easy.

Jane looked up at him. It was getting too dark to paint, and the electricity was still disconnected, but he was going at it like, if he stopped, somebody would come and take the house away and maybe take Mum, too… and then the tour would be cancelled and the album would be savaged in the Guardian or Time Out, and…

‘Come on down, Lol. Tomorrow is another day.’

‘Need to finish this corner.’

‘You can’t even see the corner. Let’s go and get some chips, otherwise I won’t get to eat till breakfast. If Mum gets through with the po-faced gits on the Deliverance Committee before eleven, it’ll be a certifiable miracle.’

‘Hate going in the chippie now,’ Lol said. ‘They won’t let me pay.’

Jane laughed.

‘It’s not funny, Jane.’

‘Lol, they like you. That’s—’

‘Unsettling.’

Jane sighed. ‘When’s the next gig?’

‘Next Thursday. Bristol.’

‘Wooh, bigger and bigger. Glastonbury next year?’

‘Jane, you trying to make me fall off?’

Oh God, Nick Drake Syndrome; it never really goes away.

‘Bad enough that there’s this guy from Q magazine coming to interview me on Saturday,’ Lol said. ‘I mean, if I’d thought—’

‘What?’ Jane went to the foot of the ladder, shouting up like he was on a mountain. ‘Did you actually say… Q magazine? Like, did I hear that correctly? And did you say, “That’s bad enough”? And are you insane?’

‘Just there are things I don’t necessarily want people to read about.’

‘So like’ – Jane spread her hands wide in frustration – ‘don’t talk about them! Talk about any old crap. Lie. They won’t care, they’re a music mag. When will it be in?’

‘Dunno. It’s a monthly. Guy said they work weeks in advance. Maybe it won’t be in at all. They probably do a lot of interviews that get overtaken by better stuff.’

‘This diffidence is worrying.’ Jane shook her head. ‘I think I preferred the paranoia.’ She went to put Alice’s card back on the window sill, and found another one lying face down. ‘What’s this, Lol?’

Actually, this one wasn’t a card, as such: it was a folded paper, lined, like from a writing pad. She opened it out and held it up to the lamp, saw crude line drawings done in thick fibre-tip, of a big house and a little house with two parallel lines between them, suggesting a road. Across the big house was scrawled:

VICERAGE

Jane looked up at Lol. ‘Vice-rage?’

‘Vicarage.’ Lol started rolling hard at the ceiling. ‘Could be a double meaning there, I suppose, but I wouldn’t think whoever sent it was that smart.’

There was a double-pointed arrow connecting the two houses across the road. Underneath the drawing was written:

RECKON YOU CAN FIND YOUR WAY IN THE DARK?

‘Bloody hell,’ Jane said. ‘It’s a poison-pen letter.’

She looked up the ladder. Lol went on painting.

Jane smiled thinly. So this was the problem.

Well, there was always going to be one spiteful bastard, somewhere. Mum got along with most people in Ledwardine, but not everybody approved yet of women priests. And it was a safe bet that not everybody who did approve would accept the idea of the female clergy having intimate relationships unsanctified by marriage – like the clergy was supposed to stay in the Victorian era, Mum and Lol walking out together, with a chaperone.

This would be one of the areas of his life that Lol would prefer to be kept out of Q magazine.

‘Who sent it?’

‘I don’t think that’s supposed to be obvious, Jane. That’s possibly why it isn’t signed.’

‘But there’s an element of threat. I mean, I realize it’s probably just some semi-literate tosser…’

Lol came down from the stepladder, ducking under the beam that divided the room. The beam was dark brown oak, well woodwormed – a big chocolate flake. The hurricane lamp swayed, shadows rolled. Jane wanted to crumple up the paper, but on the other hand…

‘Can I keep it?’

‘What for?’

‘Might be an opportunity to compare the writing. Like with the parish noticeboard? The cards in the shop window? Or even the prayer board in the church. I mean, it’s always useful to know who your friends aren’t. Anyway’ – she folded the paper – ‘nothing really to worry about. I don’t think Mum’s worried. I mean, the Bishop knows.’

Jane picked up a paint rag and dabbed up some blotches from the flagged floor, recalling the first time she’d seen Lol, when he was looking after Lucy Devenish’s old shop, Ledwardine Lore. Lol peering out between racks of apple-shaped candles in the orchard-scented air. Like a mouse. He’d been really messed up back then.

Jane had been fifteen, just a kid. Now she was facing A levels and a driving test, and she wasn’t a virgin, and Lol and Mum were some kind of tentative, nervous item.

And Lucy Devenish was dead.

Hard to accept that, even now. No matter what colours the crooked walls and sloping ceilings were repainted, this was Lucy’s house and always would be. When you stood in the hall you could imagine you still saw her old poncho hanging over the post at the foot of the stairs. If it was really dark when you came in, you could imagine Lucy herself there, wearing the poncho, her arms lifting it like batwings.

The people from London who’d agreed to buy the house when it first came on the market last year had given back word after their five-year-old asthmatic kid had asked who the old woman was on the landing.

Scary. Lucy hadn’t been scary, not really. Formidable, certainly. Maybe a little witchy, in the best, most traditional sense, and…

… OK, she had been a little scary. But she’d liked Lol and supported him when he needed it, and she’d been some kind of mentor to Jane, and…

… And this was OK. Lol finally getting the house – this was meant. Everything finally was going to be OK for Lol and for Mum, who’d been a widow for long enough. Yeah, in one way it was ridiculous, Lol living in this little house and Mum across the road in the huge vicarage, with seven bedrooms, but it was an arrangement that would work, for the time being.

And it would have Lucy’s blessing. Lucy who, though dead, still somehow spoke for Ledwardine.

Jane allowed herself a shiver. Lol carried the roller and paint tray into the kitchen and put them in the sink.

‘How about you get the chips?’

‘Lol, you wimp.’

‘Wallet’s on the mantelpiece.’

Jane found it and took out a tenner.

‘Mushy peas?’

‘Why not? Just don’t say they’re for me.’

Jane shoved the tenner down a back pocket of her jeans, along with the vice-rage note, and shrugged on her fleece.

‘You’ll be all right on your own for a few minutes, then? You and Lucy?’

Lol said, ‘Sometimes – did I tell you? – sometimes I try out a new song on her. If she likes it, she joins in. A bit croaky and out of tune, of course, but you can’t—’

Jane threw the paint rag at him.

3

Pebbles

NEXT MORNING, WHEN Jane had left for school, Merrily phoned Huw Owen. She hadn’t slept well, was feeling frayed and edgy, sitting in the scullery in the kid’s old pink fleece. Outside the window, the day was crazed with April chemistry: white sunlight soaking through holes in the foaming cloud.

‘So when did this happen, lass?’

Huw had been up north on what he liked to call a retreat, working with a gang of hard-nosed clerics in the badlands of south Manchester. She wasn’t yet ready to hear his horror stories.

‘Think it happened when I wasn’t looking. Can’t say you didn’t warn me – if you don’t pick a team, somebody picks one for you. Just that my guys didn’t want to be picked.’

He was silent. She could hear the kindling detonating his living-room fire. Pictured his feet in peeling trainers on the hearth, the volatile sunlight in his old hippy’s shaggy hair. She was getting the feeling that his Manchester time had left him energized rather than wearied.

Precarious psychiatric state. Bitch.

‘I feel pathetic,’ she said, ‘ringing you with this stuff. I just wondered if you’d – you know – heard anything.’

Huw had been born in rural Wales but brought up in Yorkshire, returning to the Beacons in middle age as a parish priest and a personal trainer in the practice of exorcism. Where nobody can hear you scream. Merrily heard the creak of his chair as he stretched, thinking.

‘Callaghan-Clarke. Wasn’t she one of the bints who did a circle-dance round the tombs of the old bishops in Hereford Cathedral to celebrate the ordination of women?’

‘If she was, she’s calmed down now.’

‘The calming power of naked ambition. Get their feet under the table, next thing they want’s a bigger table. Where exactly does she stand in your… Deliverance circle?’

‘Given herself a title: Diocesan Deliverance Coordinator. We voted on it. Every case we get from now on has to be submitted to the group before any action’s taken. We voted on that, too. Three in favour, one bemused abstention.’

‘Bugger,’ Huw said.

‘Quite.’

‘A little focus group. It’s just what you need, isn’t it?’

‘We light candles and concentrate. I’m not kidding.’

She told him about Martin Longbeach, and Huw laughed – the noise milk would make if you could hear it curdling.

Merrily looked up at the wall clock: nearly nine a.m., and a difficult funeral to organize – an elderly woman who’d moved to the village no more than a fortnight ago to live with her daughter and son-in-law, themselves comparative newcomers. And Andy Mumford was due here around ten. It was looking like another day when she wouldn’t see much of Lol.

‘Back-up’s one thing,’ Huw said. ‘You need a witness sometimes, no question, and somebody to watch your back. But an ill-matched committee operating in an area where nothing, at the best of times, is ever a bloody certainty…’

‘We all accept the need for a psychiatrist…’

‘There are good shrinks,’ Huw said, ‘and there are dangerous shrinks.’

‘You come across Nigel Saltash before?’

‘Never.’

‘Me neither.’ Merrily gazed out of the window at the unmown lawn, vividly green against the grey sky with its seeping sun. ‘He’s a regular churchgoer, however.’

Huw laughed again. ‘You know your problem, lass? Had your picture in the papers once too often, and you take a very nice picture. They don’t like that. And they weren’t happy at all when you were cosying up to the pagans against Ellis.’

‘Oh, Huw, Ellis was the kind of humourless, dangerous, fundamentalist bigot who brings the Church into—’

‘Ellis was part of the Church,’ Huw said. ‘Whereas pagans are pagans. Any road, I’m just planting the thought.’

‘Who doesn’t like it? Not the Bishop?’

‘Dunmore’s a time-server. He wouldn’t even be consulted. Think higher.’

‘Huh?’ She was thrown.

‘You want a list of all the embittered, back-stabbing bastards who hate the whole concept of Deliverance? Hey, God forbid that priests should meddle in metaphysics. Somebody’s happen saying, we need to keep an eye on that little Watkins in Hereford… could be getting carried away… too much, too soon. Needs a steadying hand…’

‘Hang on. Let me get this right. You think Callaghan-Clarke may have been nudged into place as a… an instrument of restraint?’

Merrily heard Huw sniff. She was thinking of what Siân had said about his precarious psychiatric state. Would it help to tell him about that? She stared out into the garden, at the pale buds on the apple trees.

‘And the bottom line,’ she said, ‘is that nothing much gets done, right?’

‘ “But how can we be certain?” ’ Huw doing this delicate, disapproving, posh voice. ‘ “We could so easily look ridiculous, couldn’t we?” And this lad with the candles sounds like window dressing. Bumbling New Ager. Whimsical, but essentially nice and harmless.’

‘Making us seem a little woolly?’

‘That’s a good word, aye.’

‘Let me get this right. You actually think—?’

‘Leave it with me,’ Huw said. ‘I’ll ask around, see what I can find out.’

Merrily made a call about the funeral. Hereford Crem: two p.m., Monday. She’d go and see the family over the weekend. It was always a problem when you didn’t know either the dead person or the bereaved: gently quizzing them about their mum, looking for the one little jewelled detail that would make it meaningful before you slid her through the curtains and the next one came through – another priest, another set of mourners. A line of sad trains on the last platform.

Andy Mumford turned up ten minutes early.

On the phone last night he’d sounded agitated. When he walked in, she was shocked.

He was wearing a fawn-coloured zipper jacket over a yellow polo shirt. She’d never seen him without a suit before, and he looked all wrong. He’d always seemed comfortably plump; now he was sagging and his farmer’s face was less ruddy than red.

‘You had breakfast, Andy? I can do toast—’

‘No, no…’ He waved a hand, said he’d have tea. Weak. No sugar.

So she’d been right: he’d retired from the police.

‘When?’

‘Three weeks back.’ Mumford pulled a chair from under the pine refectory table. ‘Three weeks and two days. CID boys bought me a digital camera.’

‘Oh.’

‘Now I’ll have to get a computer.’ He sat down with his legs apart, hands bunched together between his knees. ‘Like having your leg off.’

‘Sorry…?’

‘People thought I was looking forward to it. Like you look forward to having your leg off. Wake up in the morning and you think it’s still there, and then you realize.’

It was why his clothes didn’t fit; he’d lost the kind of weight you could never quite put back. Poor Andy. She’d seen a lot of him over the past two years, most recently as bag-carrier to Frannie Bliss, the DI. Bag-carrier and local encyclopaedia: an essential role.

‘You’ll get another job?’ Merrily filled the kettle. ‘Security adviser somewhere, or…?’

‘To be honest, Mrs Watkins, I’d rather not be a night-watchman at some battery-chicken plant.’ Mumford looked down at his hands. ‘Might get some chickens of my own, mind. Beehives. Dunno yet. However—’ He looked up at her. ‘How’re you?’

‘I’m all right.’

She smiled. Along the Welsh Border it was some kind of etiquette that you took ten or fifteen minutes to get around to what you’d come about. You tossed pebbles into the pond and, at some stage, the issue would float quietly to the surface. Must have been fascinating to listen to Mumford interrogating a suspect.

‘Your mother don’t live round yere, Mrs Watkins?’

‘Cheltenham. She has a lot of friends there now. We don’t see each other that often.’

‘But you did have some relations yereabouts?’

‘My grandad had a farm and an orchard near Mansell Lacy when I was a kid. All gone now.’

Mumford nodded. ‘My folks moved north into south Shropshire, after my dad retired from the Force. Ludlow. They had a little newsagent’s and sweetshop for a while, then it got too much for them.’

‘Nice place. Historic.’

‘Pretty historic themselves, now, my mam and dad. They’ll expect me to do more for them, now I’m retired.’

‘No brothers… sisters?’