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non-human…’ He fondled Ethel’s ears. ‘… presences.’
    Mr Khan and Ethel waited, both golden-eyed in the lamplight. Merrily sat and thought for a moment.
    ‘A surprising number of people do come to believe something is sharing their homes.’
    ‘The dead? Or something else?’
    ‘In many cases, it’s simply a question of things getting moved around. Disarranged. Possibly linked with the extreme emotions – or hormones – of living people.’
    ‘Poltergeists.’
    ‘It’s word we’re stuck with, I’m afraid.’
    ‘And you can deal with that?’
    ‘Pest control? We do what we can. With…’ She raised her eyes briefly to the beams. ‘… whatever help we can get.’
    It never got easier explaining to people what probably was not meant to be understood. Assuring them that they weren’t alone. Weren’t mentally ill. Unless, of course, they were.
    ‘I recall…’ Raji Khan was stroking Ethel now, long and luxuriant motions, one hand after the other. ‘… when we met at Wychehill you were considering holding a service. A Requiem for the dead. Which you thought I might like to attend.’
    ‘Seemed logical at the time. Your… venue was being accused of putting too many dangerous drivers on the local roads, and that was getting mixed up with the other problems. A death’s an awful catalyst. A Requiem – we believe – can calm a situation. Bring people together. I thought maybe you wouldn’t be against that.’
    ‘It would have been a very public occasion.’
    ‘Intentionally so, but that’s not—’
    ‘My cousin’s difficulty, you see,’ Mr Khan said, ‘is something that he and his family would very much prefer to be kept
out
of the public domain. And not only because of his faith.’
    ‘You’re both Muslim?’
    He was, she recalled, a Sufi, a follower of the more mystic side of Islam. He opened his hands, leaving Ethel balanced for a moment before dropping to the flags.
    ‘In which case,’ Merrily said, ‘wouldn’t your cousin talk to his imam? Wherever he is.’
    ‘Worcester.’
    At least an hour’s drive. Hereford didn’t have a mosque, or many Muslims for that matter. The ones here in the north usually went to Kidderminster.
    ‘And here we come to the problem, the reason for my visit,’ Mr Khan said. ‘It was actually my cousin’s imam who suggested he might discuss the situation with
you.
’
    ‘Erm… why?’
    Mr Khan drank some Earl Grey then set his mug down.
    ‘He didn’t want to touch it, Mrs Watkins. Wouldn’t go near.’

 
    7
    Not one of ours
    ‘H AVE I ALARMED you?’
    The dapper Khan was leaning back in his chair, his head tilted oddly, like a puppet’s, a wing of black hair over one eye.
    ‘I— No.’
    Yes.
    ‘It is, I suppose, a political barrier rather than a spiritual one.’
    ‘Mr Khan, that’s even more frightening.’
    He laughed.
    There were supposed to be over two hundred Muslims in and around Hereford. Which, compared with almost every city east of the county, was minimal. In theory, the C of E was still almost uniquely dominant in this part of the country, more Anglican churchgoers per head of population in Herefordshire than any other English county, according to census figures. No mosque. You occasionally saw a woman in a face-hugging scarf, though rarely a burka. Merrily didn’t know any imams.
    She drank some Earl Grey: too sweet, too scented, never liked it much. Raji Khan sighed.
    ‘It is a cause of the greatest sorrow to me, Mrs Watkins, the way the merest mention of Islam provokes apprehension. My cousin wanted to be a suicide bomber but failed the intelligence test. So had to become an orthopaedic surgeon.’
    He looked concerned to the point of stricken. A lightbulb was buzzing somewhere. Merrily glanced from lamp to lamp then back to Raji Khan.
    ‘You see… you’re afraid even to laugh, Mrs Watkins.’
    ‘Was that an Islamic joke?’
    ‘A Sufi joke. We’re famous for them.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘But let’s put