‘Terrific. He seen Paul Hutton?’ The hospital chaplain.

‘Maybe.’ Cullen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But you’re on the spot and he isn’t. What I thought was… you could perhaps say a prayer or two. He’s Welsh, by the way.’

‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’

‘Well, he might be Chapel or something. They’ve got their own ways. You’ll need to play it by ear on that.’

‘You mean in case he refuses to speak to me in English?’

‘Not Welsh like that. He’s from Radnorshire. About half a mile over the border, if that.’

‘Gosh. Almost normal, then.’

‘Hmm.’ Cullen smiled. Merrily followed her into a better lit area with compact, four-bed wards on either side, mainly elderly women in them. A small boy shuffled in a doorway, looking bored and aggressively crunching crisps.

‘So what’s the matter with Mrs Weal?’

‘Stroke.’

‘Bad one?’

‘You might say that. Oh, and when you’ve said a wee prayer with him you could take him for a coffee.’

‘Eileen-’

‘It’s surely the Christian thing to do,’ Cullen said lightly.

They came to the end of the passage, where there was a closed door on their right. Cullen pushed it open and stepped back. She didn’t come in with Merrily.

She was out of there fast, pulling the door shut behind her. She leaned against the partition wall. Her lips made the words, nothing audible came out.

She’s dead.

Cullen shrugged. ‘Seen one before, have you not?’

‘You could’ve explained.’

‘Could’ve sworn I did. Sorry.’

‘And the rest of it?’

‘Ah.’

‘Quite.’ What she’d seen replayed itself in blurred images, like a robbery captured on a security video: the bedclothes turned down, the white cotton nightdress slipped from the shoulders of the corpse. The man beside the bed, leaning over his wife — heavy like a bear, some ungainly predator. He hadn’t turned around as Merrily entered, nor when she backed out.