Jason dropped the sour look and tried again for the cutesy smile, head down, floppy hair, big eyes. ‘Look, Auntie Kat.’
Suddenly she felt a million years old. Auntie Kat sounded like she should be baking him cakes; instead she wanted to slap the stupid grin off his face.
‘I hear what you’re saying, honestly I do.’
‘Really?’ Could he be more patronising?
‘But it’s just a bit of dope, weed, or whatever you want to call it. Nothing stronger. I promise. Listen, scouts honour.’
She looked at him. Liar. It may be dope just now but she would bet money he’d go further. She was tempted to force him to turn out his pockets but stopped herself. He was old enough to take responsibility for himself, plus he was a law student and should know more than enough about the legality of drugs. Plus, she wasn’t his fucking mother. She made to leave. ‘At least text your mum now and again.’
‘Yeah, yeah, no worries. It’s all cool.’
She looked at him, took in the relaxed stance, the handsome face with its ready smirk, and she realised that for now he hadn’t a care in the world.
Experience told her that would change.
‘Anyway, I’m off – mind you call your mammy. It’ll save me coming looking for you.’
‘Cool. You going out yourself?’
She said nothing. There wasn’t a hope in hell she would tell him she’d been set up by her friend Carol. A friend of Carol’s was helping to organise a charity fundraiser later that night and Carol had suggested Wheeler hook up with him. An intellectual blind date – they were going to the fundraising lecture. Christ, what was she thinking? Still, she was near enough the venue. Half of Glasgow would be there, including her friend Imogen. It was hardly going to be intimate. She was meeting him at the Garden Bar for a quick drink first and if they didn’t loathe each other on sight, they might make a late dinner after the lecture. At least there would be wine. She left Jason to go back to his pals and wandered out of the lane and along Byres Road. The bohemian feel to the West End, the constant thrum of rain and the buzz from the traffic gave the place an upbeat energy. The students walked alone, in pairs or in groups, all working their own look. Either casual in jeans, all-black ensembles or tweed jackets and Mumford and Sons hair. There were even a few punks. Chatter and laughter escaped from the pubs and cafés. There was a festive feel to the area, good times and nothing much to worry about. Jason and his pals had it easy, she thought – it was a different story for the kids at Watervale.
She crossed at the lights and headed up towards Ashton Lane. The rain had turned to sleet. There were three men waiting outside the Garden Bar. She glanced at them – one looked to be in his early twenties, another was closer to sixty. The third man was in his late thirties; she assumed it was him. Taller than her, broad shoulders, jeans, leather jacket. Strong features. Good-looking in an understated way, not pretty-boy. From a distance at least. She approached him, he smiled, held out his hand. ‘Kat Wheeler? You’re just as Carol described you. Paul Buchan, pleased to meet you. Shall we go inside for a drink?’
So far so good.
Chapter 18
The heavy sleet meant that Robertson needed to reach forward and switch on the windscreen wipers. He had parked in the shadows across from the car park and sat in his car watching the road. He began rotating his wedding ring, first one way then back, as if the metal were somehow burning his skin. He pulled it off and dropped it into the glove compartment. He waited until he saw his wife Margaret’s old Volvo approach and turn into the car park. He saw her get out of the car, lock it and walk, head down against the sleet, towards the building. She paused to pull down the brim of her hat and pull the belt of her raincoat tight before disappearing into the building. When he was sure that she was safely inside, Robertson put the car into gear, edged it out of the layby and drove off in the opposite direction.
*
Inside the hall, Margaret Robertson chose one of the wooden seats in the second-to-last row. Heard the scrape of the legs against the rough of the wooden floor. It was a cold night out and just as bitter in the empty hall, so cold that she could see her breath mist in front of her. She pulled her coat around her and settled herself. On the wall to her right a framed Bible verse reminded her of what she already knew, that women were not permitted to speak during meetings; instead they had to have their own meetings, where they could speak freely to one another. 1 Corinthians 14:34–5: Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.
The other men, women and children would arrive soon. She fingered her Bible, kneaded the worn leather cover with her hands. Waited. After a few minutes the others began to arrive. First came Mrs Harris, her red velvet beret damp with rain, her sensible heels clicking on the wooden floor. She was followed by her daughter-in-law Jennifer, her bobbed hair swinging out from under a blue beret, her advanced pregnancy obvious. The others arrived in ones and twos, all nodding hellos and complaints about the cold weather. The actual meeting would not begin for another five minutes.
Mrs Harris sat in the row in front of Margaret, settled herself then waited for Jennifer to do the same. Only then did they turn to Margaret. ‘I read about the latest murder in the Chronicle. Dreadful. The poor man – he worked up at that school, didn’t he? The school for . . .’
Margaret kept her eyes on her Bible. ‘That’s right, Watervale Academy.’
Mrs Harris tutt-tutted loudly. ‘Awful business altogether.’
‘Awful,’ Jennifer echoed, unfastening her coat and patting her bump.
Margaret’s eyes darted to the bump before quickly looking away.
Mrs Harris leaned towards Margaret. ‘Your Ian will be kept busy with the murder. I expect all the police will. Do I remember your Ian doing outreach at that type of school sometime last year or the year before?’
Margaret nodded. ‘He did visit some of the schools, and we had a couple of children who said they’d be interested in coming to a few Bible classes, but most of them weren’t in the least bit interested. Not even in Sunday School.’
‘Still, if he can get even a few along, it would make a big difference to their lives. It’s a godless world and we have to do our best to help them. It’s our duty.’
‘I know.’
‘A few more souls saved and you can’t put a price on that, can you?’
Margaret kneaded her Bible, knuckles white, nails bitten to the quick.
Mrs Harris tutted again. ‘Awful that the poor man died like that after spending a lifetime trying to help those children.’
Margaret looked at the floor, wished the meeting would begin. ‘He wasn’t at the school at the time. He was in his house. It might not be related to the school at all.’
‘But still, those types of children.’ Jennifer adjusted her beret and patted her hair. ‘Scary, I’d call them.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Godless. They are lost souls.’ She patted her bump, cooed, ‘But you’ll be okay.’
Margaret stared ahead. Sat in silence for the remaining minutes.
Then the meeting began.
About halfway through the sharing, Margaret did something that she had never done before. She opened her Bible, cleared her throat and read aloud. ‘Matthew eighteen, verses twenty-one and twenty-two: Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.”’
She closed her eyes, prayed that the Lord would forgive her for doubting her husband. Prayed that He would take the doubt and suspicion that plagued her and return her to His fold. She kept her eyes closed as some of the men shared, nodded in silent agreement with whatever concern was raised. Finally, when it was over, she opened her eyes.
Mrs Harris stood at her elbow, disapproval etched on her face. ‘I wonder why you didn’t wait for the women’s meeting, Margaret, when you could have spoken out?’
Margaret stared at the floor.