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.

‘It would have been more fitting. Sometimes, Margaret, we have to fight our ego, not give in to it.’

Margaret swallowed.

Jennifer kept her voice light. ‘Is Ian picking you up tonight?’

‘No, he’s working.’ Margaret’s fingers worried at the leather again.

Mrs Harris leant in close to Margaret, patted her shoulder stiffly, rested her hand for a minute. ‘A wonderful man you have there, Margaret. See now that you look after him well. You are a very lucky girl. What else would you have done at your age?’

Margaret hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but the words tripped over themselves: ‘I need to speak with an elder.’

Mrs Harris drew her hand back and frowned. ‘I’m not surprised, after your show tonight. I think maybe you should go and speak with someone about your attitude. Maybe one of the women?’

Margaret shook her head.

‘Then you’d better make arrangements to have a meeting with an elder. Perhaps Ian could come with you? That might be more,’ she paused, ‘appropriate.’

‘No, it’s not about what happened tonight . . . I mean Ian won’t be there. I need to speak with someone alone.’

‘You want a meeting with an elder, without your husband being present?’

Margaret nodded and bit her bottom lip. ‘It’s a private matter.’

Mrs Harris and Jennifer stared at her. At last Jennifer spoke. ‘Go see Elder Morrison.’

Outside, Mrs Harris turned to her daughter-in-law. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I’m guessing that there might be problems in their marriage. Five years married and no children. Even at her age, she could have hoped for a couple of kids.’

‘You don’t think . . .?’

‘What?’

‘That she’s thinking about a divorce? I mean, all this secrecy about seeing an elder and it being a private matter. What on earth could she say in private that she couldn’t say in front of Ian? Unless it’s about Ian.’

Jennifer kept her voice low. ‘Margaret always wanted kids, no reason she shouldn’t be able to have them and yet here they are, all this time and nothing.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Doesn’t it seem odd to you?’

Mrs Harris looked back through the open door. Margaret Robertson was sitting with the Bible open on her lap. Her mouth was moving, her eyes closed. ‘That girl’s the odd one – Ian Robertson’s a lovely man.’

Inside, Margaret hunched over the verse, the words already memorised, as if, by saying them, she might make them become concrete in the room. And things would be fine again between her and her husband.

‘Luke six, verses thirty-six and thirty-seven: “Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful. Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.”’ She breathed deeply and began again, giving special emphasis to the phrase ‘forgive and you will be forgiven’.

Finally, when the caretaker stood in the doorway and flicked the lights on and off, she closed the Bible, stood and made her way out into the freezing cold evening.

Chapter 19

The lecture theatre was filling up. Wheeler sat in the front row, looked across the room, saw Imogen, waved to her and waited while her friend made her way towards her. Imogen squeezed into the seat beside her.

‘Is your new date not coming?’ Imogen scanned the crowd. ‘I thought Carol said you were meeting him for a drink earlier on this evening?’

‘God, do you two tell each other everything?’

‘Pretty much – we’re colleagues, remember. Unlike you and your chums at the station, we’ve loads of time to gossip instead of working. So, did you meet him?’

‘I did meet him for a quick drink.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s a friend of his who’s giving the talk, so he’s gone off to have a quick good-luck chat beforehand.’

‘Lecture.’

‘Aye, well, whatever.’

‘It going okay then? He’s not a nutter, a psycho or a miso?’

‘A what?’

‘Misogynist.’

‘It’s early days yet. I only met him an hour ago. His name’s Paul and he’s a psychologist.’ Wheeler was aware of the seats filling up; the theatre was busy. ‘He seemed okay.’

‘Just okay?’

‘Well, not an obvious nutter but as I said, it’s early days.’

‘Damned by faint praise.’ Imogen sounded disappointed.

‘Okay, you old romantic, it was like he was on his best behaviour. He seemed a bit reserved.’

‘You want to see him on his worst behaviour on a first date?’

‘Uh huh, if it’s him being congruent,’ Wheeler nodded, ‘otherwise it’s just an act put on to impress me.’

‘Fair enough, although some folk would be happy if a guy was out to impress them,’ she paused. ‘There’s someone standing in the doorway staring at you. That him?’

Wheeler looked up, smiled and waited as Paul Buchan made his way towards them.

‘Good body,’ muttered Imogen, ‘nice shoulders, long legs.’

‘You’re gay, remember?’

Imogen smiled. ‘But not blind, so what’s your point caller?’

Buchan reached them as the lights dimmed. ‘Took a minute to order us a bottle of Pinot Grigio for the end of the lecture. It’ll be hellish to get served when everyone’s streaming out at the same time.’

‘Nice one.’ Imogen sat back in her seat.

Wheeler smiled and hastily introduced them before the lights flickered, telling them that the lecture was about to begin.

A few seconds later a man walked to the front of the theatre. He was small and wiry, his dark hair swept back from a tanned face and brown eyes glittered with intensity. He cleared his throat before beginning. ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you all for coming out on such a cold and miserable night. My name is Dr Matthew Barnes and I’m from the Keenan Institute.’ He glanced around the audience as if hoping someone would recognise the name. No one stirred, so he continued, ‘The Institute came into being last year and it will be, I hope, a place of sanctuary for troubled young people who have suffered neglect or abuse in some form in their young lives. At present we only have one facility, based in London, but given time, we hope to expand and have centres across the UK. As you may know, the local prison, Barlinnie, is overcrowded. This is a situation that is echoed across the UK and Europe. But I don’t believe it has to be this way. I believe that many of the inmates have had a poor start to life; they were born at a distinct disadvantage. I am talking about severe neglect. I believe that we, as a nation, have created a society that is exclusive, in that we systematically exclude those who are the most vulnerable and most in need of our help. Children and young people are often left to cope alone – they are not parented properly nor are they supported. Often they grow up feral, having to fend for themselves. This in turn makes it difficult for them to find a place for themselves in society. They have no choice but to move outside of its perimeters, often turning to drugs, prostitution and crime. In time these children become homeless, or are incarcerated and then the spiral of crime continues.’