Phil Rickman - The Smile of a Ghost

When the phone went again, not five minutes after Mum had left, Jane didn’t even have the heart to do the spoof-answering-machine bit.

‘Ledwardine Vicarage.’

‘Is that Mrs Watkins?’

‘She’s… not available. This is Jane Watkins.’

‘It’s Gail Mumford here. Andy Mumford’s wife.’

‘Oh, yeah, I know.’

‘She isn’t with my husband again, is she?’

Jane smiled. It was like Mum and Mumford were having some kind of torrid affair.

‘I can honestly say she isn’t.’

‘You haven’t heard from him, have you?’

‘I…’ Jane had picked up some serious strain in this woman’s voice. ‘No, I’m pretty sure we haven’t. He’s out somewhere?’

‘He’s been out all day, I think. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. When he was with the police, at least you— Look, I don’t know how old you are—’

‘Old enough,’ Jane said. ‘Look, Mum’s had to go over to Ludlow. I don’t think she’s expecting to see Andy there, but I’ll give her a call, and if…’

Jane noticed Mum’s mobile, left behind on the sermon pad. Bugger.

‘… If I get to speak to her, and she knows anything, I’ll get back to you. Will you be up for a bit?’

‘Of course I’ll be up.’

‘OK. And, of course, if we hear from Andy meanwhile—’

‘If you hear from him, you tell him he might not have a wife here when he gets back,’ Mrs Mumford said.

MERRILY LEFT THE Volvo outside the health-food shop at the bottom of the row, just up Corve Street from St Leonard’s chapel, and walked up to Lodelowe, its small window misted crimson from a lamp burning in the recesses. It made her think of shrines.

The alleyway next to the shop door was unlit and made her think of the Plascarreg Estate, and that made her want not to enter the alley.

The night was mild, almost warm. She peered into the shop window, over the painted plaster models of timber-framed houses, a stack of tourist pamphlets: Haunted Ludlow . No movement in there, and – she backed off and looked up towards the centre of town – no movement on the street, either, apart from shifting shadows and the glimmer of street lamps and the waning moon in old windows and the traffic lights near the crest of the hill. Always an eeriness about traffic lights in the dead of night, when there was minimal traffic, as though the lights must be a warning of something else that had always travelled these streets, silent and invisible.

She stumbled over the kerb as a ribbon of female laughter unravelled from somewhere not too close. She thought of women and girls binge-drinking in packs, beating people up. Was this a twenty-first-century phenomenon, or was it happening just the same when this town was young, in the days of Merrie England, when street violence was part of the merrie system? And therefore the apparent growth of civilization was all illusion – God seeing right through it, looking down with weary cynicism, the oil running low in his lamp of eternal love.

Night thoughts. Merrily stepped back as a light was put on, and all the bricks in the alley came to life.

‘Mary?’

‘I’m here.’

She stepped into the alley. Jon Scole was standing at the bottom of some steps, under an iron-framed coach lamp, his leather waistcoat undone over a black T-shirt, a bunch of keys hanging from his belt, like a jailer’s keys.

‘Hey, listen, I’m sorry, Mary, I did try to ring you back.’

‘Damn.’ Patting the pockets of her fleece. ‘Came out without the phone.’

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘she’s gone now.’

‘Where?’

‘You better come in.’ He stepped back for her to go up the stairs, which were concrete, a kind of fire escape.

‘Is she hurt?’

‘Not much, I don’t think. Sick, though.’

‘Sick?’

‘Go on up.’

Climbing the steep steps, Merrily realized how tired she was. A long day, or was that yesterday?

The door at the top was ajar. It was an old door, patched and stained, the light inside mauve-tinted. She went through, directly into the room over the shop, a room that shouted temporary. Strip lights were hanging crookedly from a bumpy ceiling shouldered by old beams smeared with new plaster. The furniture was second-hand rather than old – the kind of stuff Lackland Modern Furnishings might have sold twenty-five years ago. There was a wide-screen TV and a stereo with silver speaker cabinets, and a flat-screen computer that looked expensive.

The room smelled of curry.

‘Bit of a mess,’ Jon Scole said. ‘Haven’t had time to tart it up yet. Can I get you a drink? Red wine? White wine?’

‘Jon, it’s after midnight, I’m a bit knackered.’

‘Sorry.’ His flaxen hair was slicked back, and his beard looked damp, as though he’d held his face under a tap to sober himself up. ‘I’m not thinking. She does your head in. Look, at least sit down. Cup of coffee, yeah?’

‘No, really…’ She lowered herself to the edge of a red, upholstered chair with wooden arms. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

‘It’s like I said, she comes banging at the shop door. I’d not been in long, been down the pub with some tourists after the ghost-walk. She’s like, “They’re after me.” ’

‘Who were they?’

‘Just girls… women. See, she’s safe, more or less, if she stays up the posh end of town. Anywhere else, pushing her luck. She’s not popular in some quarters. It’s like, rich slag doesn’t give a shit for the poor young people she’s forcing out.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning the land over there, below the castle, that this guy was gonna build on and she bought off him?’

‘I thought people were delighted about that.’

‘ Some people were delighted – the neighbours who’ve got all the old houses near hers, the ones as were faced with losing their view and getting kids on bikes, and lawnmowers and radios and idiots cleaning the fuckin’ car on a Sunday morning – they were delighted, the Ludlow bourgeoisie. But, you see, there’s a ruling now from the council that if you’re building new housing you’ve got to include a percentage of affordable homes.’

‘I get it.’

‘’Course, this guy Dickins, the feller planning to build down here, he’d agreed to double the low-cost quota. He’d’ve wormed out of it if he’d got planning permission, but he gets the benefit of the doubt, unlike the bitch who’s denied young people their only chance of having an affordable house in a decent part of town. So that’s why they went after her, I reckon. Get tanked up and then it’s like, Let’s wait for the rich bitch. Rage and booze, Mary.’

Jon Scole went and stood by the window. It overlooked Corve Street, a red-brick Georgian dwelling opposite, under a street lamp: the unattainable, unless you’d sold your house in London.

‘What did they do to her, Jon?’

‘Mucked her up a bit. Mauled her about. She wouldn’t go into details.’

‘It’s a police matter.’

‘She don’t want the publicity. If I rang the cops, she’d never speak to me again. Anyway— Bloody hell’ – he squatted at her feet and looked up into her bruised eye – ‘what happened to you?’

‘I have a dangerous job,’ Merrily said. ‘Where’s she gone?’

‘So that’s why you were wearing them sexy shades.’

‘How long was she here?’

‘Went in the bathroom to clean herself up, and that was when I phoned you. I see you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

‘You told her I was coming?’

‘She wasn’t gonna wait. Just hung on till it had gone quiet and then she was off. About quarter of an hour ago. You got a boyfriend, Mary?’