Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

‘More of what, in particular?’

‘We didn’t exactly hold on to the evidence.’

Merrily waited. Bernie Dunmore took a precautionary sip of brandy.

‘What she left in the church’ – George spoke tightly, as if his throat was closing up – ‘back of one of the misericords. Well, you don’t keep… articles like that.’

‘Perhaps I’m somewhat naive,’ the Bishop said.

‘Corey House in Broad Street, Bernard? The decorators?’

‘Architectural Interior Designers and Restorers, I believe they call themselves now.’

‘Decorators,’ George said. ‘The son, Callum, he went to finish off a wall for her at The Weir House. Had some very peculiar requests made of him. His father’s on the town council, and he had a word with me. They’re newcomers, but they’re a decent family. Thought I should know.’

‘What were the requests?’ Merrily asked. But George shook his head in a shuddery kind of way.

‘And there’s the parties. The young people. The singing.’

‘What kind of singing?’

‘I only use that word out of politeness,’ George said. ‘Sounds like a tribe of tom-cats.’

‘You’ve heard it?’

‘Just the once. I was advised to walk down The Linney and have a listen. There was something resembling a song, but I couldn’t distinguish the words. I think it was her and some other people.’

‘Possibly the ones who gathered under the Hanging Tower after the girl’s death?’

‘Aye. The neighbours… they look the other way. Some of the local boys are less tolerant, ’specially when they come out the pubs.’

‘Was it… one of these local boys who was stabbed that time?’ Merrily asked.

George took a long breath, said nothing.

‘But nobody was charged, right? Perhaps somebody was persuaded not to make a complaint?’

‘Probably wasn’t serious,’ George said quietly.

‘As a leading member of the Police Authority,’ Merrily said, ‘I suppose it’s a bit difficult for you.’

The Mayor’s eyes flared with anger, like coals far back in an old kitchen range. Merrily came back quickly, before he could clam up again.

‘Did you know that Mrs Pepper had been seen with Robbie Walsh not long before he died?’

‘Well, of course I knew. She was seen all over the town with him – in the church, the path by the yews as leads down to the back entrance of the Bull, the old alleyways…’

‘Do you know what brought them together?’

‘No. But then, I’ve not had what you’d call lengthy conversations with her. Wisest not to.’

‘Do you have any idea at all why she does… the things she does?’

George didn’t reply. He began scratching at the back of his hand as if he’d been stung.

‘You’ve evidently been covering up for her, George,’ Bernie said. ‘For quite some time, it sounds like. For, ah, Susannah’s sake. And Stephen’s, naturally.’

The Mayor went to the French windows and pulled a cord to draw the velvet curtains. Stood with his back to the dusty pink folds, as if he was keeping something out.

‘And the good of the town, of course,’ Bernie said slyly.

‘She’s a sick woman, she’s…’ George Lackland reached up and pulled the curtains together at the top, where one had slipped off its glider, and Merrily thought she heard him say ‘evil’ but couldn’t be sure. He turned around. ‘Pressure of wondering what she’s gonner do next is getting to me a bit, have to say that. Top and bottom of it is, I wish she’d never come, and I wish she was gone.’

‘I might be slightly off course here,’ the Bishop said, ‘but it seems to me that all your problems might conceivably be part of the same one. Do you think?’

George Lackland didn’t reply.

‘And you can’t involve the council, George, and you can’t involve the police. Therefore, I suppose that’s why we’re here.’

‘Maybe I just wanted to talk to somebody who knew the town and could see the picture,’ the Mayor said. ‘Even if they thought there wasn’t anything they could do. At least they’d understand a few things.’

‘Some things are not easily understood.’

‘Likely I used the wrong word. I’m not an educated man, as you know. But there’s areas of… areas of experience where education don’t help that much.’

The curtains were swaying a little in a draught from somewhere. George Lackland watched them with a faint smile.

‘I remember a young chap thought he was up for a bit of easy money – just spend a couple of hours on his own in the Hanging Tower.’

‘Oh now, George, that was a long, long time—’

‘Never seen a man more scared, from that day to this. Comes running across the old inner bailey, stumbling and tripping – didn’t think his pals could see him, and they didn’t like to rub it in at the time.’

‘What?’

‘Didn’t want you trying to escape, Bernard, so we took a few bottles of pale ale into the old Magdalene Chapel and kept very quiet. Sobering, though, in the end. We all thought you were faking it, at first.’

Merrily smiled. The Bishop saw her and scowled.

‘Bastards.’ He finished his brandy. ‘All right, George, suppose someone was to look into it. All of it. Discreetly. Someone sympathetic but, ah… knowledgeable in all the necessary areas. And, of course… utterly reliable.’

‘Then I would be most grateful to that person,’ George Lackland said, ‘and provide what assistance I could.’

Down by the fake logs, Merrily froze.

THE ROAD TO Hereford was due south, more than twenty moon-washed miles. For the first three or four, neither of them said a word. Merrily’s black eye was pulsing. Her new sunglasses lay on the dash. Somewhere behind its facia, the old Volvo was ticking like a time bomb.

Eventually, the Bishop coughed.

‘Mother-in-law from hell, eh? Well… stepmother-in-law.’

Merrily glanced to her left: moonlight bathing the Bishop’s brow. At the Little Chef at Wooferton, the lights had gone out.

‘What have you done, Bernie?’

‘I think the word “evil” passed old George’s lips at one point, but I’m afraid he had his back to me at the time.’

‘And that justifies it, does it?’

‘We have nothing to justify, Merrily.’

‘Not yet.’

‘It’s all quite legitimate.’

‘So you’ll send an official memo to the Deliverance Panel first thing in the morning, saying you’re personally authorizing me to investigate a cluster of deaths and their possible connection with a woman who’s causing considerable embarrassment to the Mayor of Ludlow.’

‘We can deal with that,’ the Bishop said. ‘And surely… you want to, don’t you?’

‘I think I’d want to know why I’m doing whatever I’m supposed to be doing. I mean, let’s establish, first of all, what your long-time friend the Mayor is after. For instance, when he was close to advocating exorcism, which woman do you think he was talking about, the dead one or…?’

That duality again. It had been there from the start: Why did God let her take him? Why did God let that woman take our boy?

‘Look, I had no idea,’ the Bishop said. ‘I didn’t know there was any connection between George and this woman. Until that chap who makes calendars brought her up, I’d never even heard of her.’

‘Because bloody George is using his position to hush it all up! He’s already had Andy Mumford warned off. Plus, a guy who was stabbed in the street has probably been given a bung to keep quiet about it.’

‘You don’t know that—’

‘Ha! I mean, sure, I can see the Mayor’s problem – she’s landed like an alien being from a world he can’t even comprehend – but there’s no way I want to appear to be working on behalf of someone who works the system like good old George.’