‘So how are you, now, Frannie?’ ‘Better than David Hambling.’ Merrily thought about this. ‘He’s dead, right?’ ‘All right, considerably better,’ Bliss said. ‘How did you know he was dead?’ ‘I just… know the way you approach things.’ She’d gone out without her mobile again, had to wait until she was home to call him back. Answering service. She could wait. She’d done some ironing and sketched out Sunday’s sermon on the general theme of bereavement. Sermon. Never a favourite word. One dictionary definition employed the verb harangue. How long would a haranguing vicar last these days? Little female pulpit punk screaming hellfire. They’d take you away. See… already talking to herself. And bloody well forgotten that, with Martin Longbeach in the pulpit, she didn’t even need a sermon. God, she was losing it. Stress. Quite glad when Bliss had called back just before seven p.m. ‘How much you know about Cusop, then, Merrily?’ Sophie had been right, his speech was a little slurry, Mersey mud reclaiming its own.
