The Smile of a Ghost Read Online Free Page A

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