Gomer glanced at Merrily. She moved to follow him, but Cullen put out a restraining hand. ‘Not for you, Reverend. You’ve got your God to keep your spirits up. Spare me a minute?’

‘A minute?’

‘Pity you’re out of the uniform… still, it’s the inherent holiness that counts. All it is, we’ve got a poor feller in a state of some distress, and it’ll take more than special tea to cope with him, you know what I’m saying.’

Merrily frowned, thinking, inevitably, of the first time she’d met Eileen Cullen, across town at Hereford General, which used to be a lunatic asylum and for one night had seemed in danger of reverting back.

‘Ah no,’ said Cullen, ‘you only get one of those in a lifetime. This isn’t even a patient. More like your man, Gomer, here — with the wife. And I don’t know what side of the fence he’s on, but I’d say he’s very much a religious feller and would benefit from spiritual support.’

‘For an atheist, you’ve got a lot of faith in priests.’

‘No, I’ve got faith in women priests, which is not much at all to do with them being priests.’

‘What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?’

Cullen put her hands on her narrow hips. ‘Well, y’are here, love, so where’s the point in debating that one?’

The corridor had cracked walls and dim economy lighting.

‘I’d be truly happy about leaving this dump behind,’ Cullen said, ‘if I didn’t feel sure the bloody suits were building us a whole new nightmare.’

‘What’s his name, this bloke?’

‘Mr Weal.’

‘First name?’

‘We don’t know. He’s not a man who’s particularly forthcoming.’