The Prayer of the Night Shepherd

bed, points down the valley, over Berrows’s ground. “See it, see it?” ’

‘See what?’

‘Her don’t know. He won’t say. And Zelda don’t see nothing. Moonlit fields, that’s all. Couple nights later, wakes her up again. “You hear that? You hear that?” Her can’t year nothing, ’cept for Sebbie bleating like a ewe in labour. This is confidential, Danny.’

Sure it was. Fellers like Gwilym doing the rounds, farm to farm, was the reason this valley leaked like a smashed sump.

‘So what’s this gotter do with me?’ Danny said, patient as he could manage with a bad head. ‘If Dacre’s losin’ it, he’s losin’ it.’

‘And then Sebbie’s going, “It’s coming out of Berrows’s ground… Berrows’s ground.” ’

Danny’s hand tightened on the cordless. He said casually, ‘Good to know the bastard recognizes the boundary now.’

‘He says, “It’s Berrows. Berrows and that bitch.” ’

‘Zelda tell you this herself?’

‘Zelda’s pretty scared, Danny. Her asks Sebbie about it next morning, over breakfast, bugger hits the roof. Sweeps the bloody cups off the table, everything smashed. Thought he was gonner hit her. White with rage.’

‘He’s always bloody white, Gwilym, it’s the skin he’s got.’

‘So, like, Zelda says to me, “Can you ask Jeremy Berrows ’bout this? I can’t never talk to him.” ’

‘Which is why you’re askin’ me,’ Danny said.

‘En’t real sure what I’m asking, Danny. You’re the nearest he’s got to a friend — do any of this make sense?’

Danny thought about it.

‘No,’ he said after a bit. ‘Do me one favour, Gwilym, don’t spread this around. Gimme a chance to find out what I can. Or am I too late already?’

‘You knows me, boy.’

‘Aye,’ Danny said. That was the bloody trouble.

‘What was that about?’ Greta said when he’d clicked off.

‘Feller Gwilym knows with a David Brown tractor for sale. I said I’d pass the word on to Gomer.’

‘In other words, keep your nose out, Greta,’ Greta said.

Danny stared into the reddening wood-stove.

16 Responding to Images

Frannie Bliss, of Hereford CID, called back on Monday afternoon, just as the light was fading.

‘Not a career criminal, Merrily, I can tell you that much.’

‘Didn’t really think he would be.’ Merrily brought the cordless and a mug of tea to the kitchen table. ‘I just thought, with mention of all the clubs… drugs?’

‘Certainly not a recognized dealer and if he was dealing he doesn’t sound bright enough that we wouldn’t know. Doesn’t sound like he could run very fast, either, if we were after him.’

‘Sorry.’ She pulled over the ashtray, fed up now. ‘Shouldn’t have asked you.’

And wouldn’t even have considered an approach to any other copper, but by now she and the Mersey exile Bliss knew too many of each other’s flaws for him to sell her down the Wye.

As for the ethics, it went like this: she was following through on something that might help Dexter Harris with his medical condition. She had nothing to tell Bliss that might get Dexter nicked. She hadn’t even told him why she wanted to know if Hereford Division had ever heard of Dexter, and he hadn’t asked her.

‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I’ve known a few disabled villains over the years. Only difference is they tend to have less conscience. Feeling the world owes them. A wheelchair ramp at the town hall is often considered insufficient recompense.’

Merrily found a grin. ‘It’s so reassuring to talk to a man for whom the pit of human depravity can have no floor.’

‘Ah, you’re following your nose. You’re a priest. How can you know if a gut feeling isn’t a tip-off from God?’

‘That’s very empathetic, Francis.’

‘Yeh, well…’ Bliss was a Catholic from what was probably still the most Catholic city in England. He knew all the questions priests asked themselves with little hope of a convincing answer.

‘So, how are… things?’ Merrily said.

‘Kirsty? We’re not out the woods yet, but we’re having what you might call a trial reconciliation. It’s a start. The Job: I’m not on any shortlist for DCI as yet, but the word is that the main man in Worcester who, as you know, does not love me like a brother, may be on the top-detectives’ transfer list, with an eye on Thames Valley. So that could be goodish news.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘And how’s the healing coming along?’ Bliss said.

‘Sorry?’

‘One of the DCs, his wife’s had persistent back trouble. Done the rounds of osteopaths and chiropractors, getting nowhere with it. He reckoned somebody had told his missus they ought to come and talk to the vicar of Ledwardine.’

She stared blankly out of the window at the black, spidery apple trees. This could not be happening.

‘Might I have touched on a sore point, by chance?’ Bliss said.

Merrily sighed at length, lit a cigarette, then told him about the Sunday nights, Ann-Marie and Jeavons. The whole sub-Messianic mess.

‘About fifteen years ago,’ Bliss said, ‘when I was a young plod, there was a noise-nuisance complaint at this chapel up near Formby. I go in, and there’s one of these evangelical fellers clutching some poor bastard’s head in his hands and shaking it from side to side, screaming to heaven for some action. Whole place in uproar. Well… no disrespect intended, Merrily, but that doesn’t sound like your thing.’

‘Last night, my usual congregation had doubled. Doubled, Frannie. Two wheelchairs in the aisle. Desperate people, and the health service in perpetual crisis. But… me? What am I?’

‘What did you do?’

She blew out smoke and coughed. ‘What usually happens on the Sunday-night thing is we drag out some pews and arrange ourselves into a rough circle. Too many last night for that. No spiritual calm, no intimate atmosphere — only this… overpowering sense of… need. I just had to stand there in front of them all, in my jeans, feeling like a useless pillock, doing my best to explain that the Diocese was currently taking steps to create a proper healing network.’

‘Are they?’

‘God knows. We did some prayers, but no wheelchairs were abandoned. There was a general feeling like at the pictures once when I was a kid and the projector broke down before the cavalry arrived. Never felt so inadequate — let down the Church, the Women’s Ministry, the people for whom this might have been a last hope. Afterwards, this very nice little woman comes up, says how mortified she is about all these outsiders invading our lovely quiet time. What do you say?’

‘Bit of a shite situation, Merrily. I’m really sorry. However, this Dexter Harris, with the asthma…?’

‘His auntie cleans the church midweek. I’d guess she feels responsible because other people don’t find him terribly lovable. What can I do? I could just pray for him, or I could try and do what Jeavons does and look for an underlying something, a hidden source. Let God in the back way.’