He spilled a single blob of milk, frowned and ran a dishcloth over it.

‘I know what “exorcist” used to mean. Deliverance is a bit more… And consultant? ’

‘That just means I don’t get involved personally unless I’m invited to. On the basis that these… slightly iffy things are usually best handled by the guy on the ground. Which would be you, Mr Spicer.’

‘Call me Syd.’ He opened a cutlery drawer, extracted two spoons. ‘You ever done an exorcism?’

‘Minor exorcism, mainly – Requiem Eucharist for the unquiet dead, variations on that. Never had to stop a small child abusing herself with a crucifix, never been sprayed with green bile. Although, naturally, I live in hope.’

You got this all the time. A recent survey had shown that more people in Britain believed in ghosts than in God. Whereas parish priests still tended to believe in some kind of God but often had a problem with ghosts. Even more of a problem with exorcism, last refuge of anachronistic misfits in the desperately modern C of E.

Spicer didn’t smile. Behind him, on the Rayburn, the kettle hissed.

‘So what qualifies for a minor exorcism?’

‘Usually, an unhappy atmosphere that doesn’t respond to concentrated prayer. Would you like me to lend you a book? That’d take care of the consultant bit.’

‘I think I need the personal service.’ He sat down opposite her. ‘I’m just… not sure, frankly, about where you…’

Merrily sighed. That other familiar barbed hurdle.

‘My spiritual director is a bloke called Huw Owen. Runs deliverance training courses in the Brecon Beacons?’

‘Yeah, I know the area.’

His small, passive eyes said, too well. Curious.