She looked at her hands, saw the rawness, heard the frustration in her voice. ‘You don’t understand; he won’t talk about any of this. He just blanks me.’

‘Then you must be patient, wait until he needs to talk. It cannot be all about your needs; the Lord warns us of our desires.’

She blurted it out. ‘I think he’s having an affair.’

Morrison steepled his fingers, pointed them heavenward, sat back in his seat and scowled, ‘Because?’

‘He doesn’t seem to need intimacy; he won’t even touch me.’

‘Again. It’s about your needs.’

Margaret sat in silence, listened to the storm rage outside.

‘Do you love him?’

‘I don’t know,’ her voice small, defensive. ‘He won’t ever say it to me and now I don’t know if I do love him still. I certainly don’t trust him.’

‘Then why on earth did you marry the poor man?’ It was more an accusation than a question.

‘I don’t know. It was different then – he was different. I think he really wanted to get married but . . .’

‘But?’ he prompted.

‘But now I think he’s seeing someone else. He goes out, won’t tell me where he’s going, he comes home late, goes straight into the shower and then goes to sleep.’

Elder Morrison pursed his lips. ‘Then let’s look for guidance.’ He reached across for his Bible, flicked through it for a second, selected the text and read in a sonorous voice, ‘Ephesians five, verses twenty-two to twenty-five. “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord . . . For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church . . . ”’

Margaret nodded her head, whispered, ‘I know all this . . . but . . .’ She began to cry.

‘Then why are you doubting him? Does he beat you?’

She shook her head.

‘Keep you short of housekeeping?’

‘I have a job.’

‘Abuse you in any fashion?’

‘I told you, he never touches me.’

Elder Morrison rose. ‘Patience is what is required, Mrs Robertson, rather than these continual, perplexing demands. Give it another few months – if nothing has changed, then we can talk again, but it’s my opinion that you need to look at yourself and not to your husband.’

She stood and walked to the door.

He followed her, paused in the doorway. ‘In the meantime, try to see things from your husband’s perspective. Try to understand that he’s doing his best, in all areas. Marriage is more than the demands of the flesh.’

She stared at him, tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘I will pray for you.’ He turned and began bolting the doorway. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Robertson.’

Outside, Margaret stumbled to the car as the storm raged overhead. The clouds had gathered above her and seemed to follow her as she drove away from the hall, turning the car reluctantly towards home.

Chapter 33

The room smelled of sex. The sheets were damp and crumpled and the silver room-service tray lay discarded on the floor, the bottles of wine empty, the napkins stained, plates cleared.

Sometimes one just wasn’t enough. Jay Haddington chuckled to himself as he lay naked on the bed of his London hotel room. He was rolling his third spliff when he remembered to dial his office answering machine and pick up his messages. He lit the end of his spliff and closed his eyes, inhaled and kept the smoke there until the message had ended.

‘Mr Haddington? Detective Constable Alexander Boyd from Carmyle Police Station trying to contact you. Would you mind calling us back on . . .’

Haddington nodded at the phone, took another drag and nodded again. The voice asking him to call the police station was far away, too far for him to reach. He listened to the message again, wondered vaguely what it was about and was still holding the phone when his twenty-year-old girlfriend came out of the shower, leaned across and took his spliff, took a long drag, then listened to the message.

‘Jay, you need to speak to them.’

‘Now?’ he giggled, bit his lip in remorse when he saw that she wasn’t laughing. ‘After this one’s finished?’

She took it from his hand. ‘Not afterwards, you’ll barely be able to speak. Do it now – it could be important.’

She scribbled down the number then tapped it into his mobile, handed the phone back to him. He got through on the second ring. Asked to speak to DC Boyd and was put right through.

‘DC Boyd.’

‘Hi, my name’s . . . Jay . . . Haddington. I’m returning your phone call.’

Boyd heard the spaces between the words and recognised that he was talking to a stoned man. Decided to ignore it – instead he explained why he was calling. Jay Haddington told him everything he needed to know. No, he hadn’t known Andy Doyle before that evening at the charity event. Nevertheless he was very impressed with both Mr Doyle and his lovely girlfriend Stella. He had been particularly pleased by Mr Doyle’s decision to invest in his new play. And of course Stella’s kind offer of playing a small part in return for the investment.

‘No, Mr James Gilmore doesn’t ring any bells either . . . he was in attendance that evening too? . . . Sorry . . . is he in the business? Oh, I see, murdered, how awful . . . no I’m sure I never met him . . .’ and so the conversation continued until Boyd thanked Mr Jay Haddington for his time and hung up.

Haddington lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

‘You okay babe?’ His girlfriend stroked his arm, put the spliff back into his mouth, let him draw on it, ‘only you look kind of upset.’

‘A murder in Glasgow – seems the guy was at the charity do last month.’

‘And?’

‘And from the way the police constable mentioned Andy Doyle, I believe they think he may be involved.’

The two of them sat closer. ‘Is he a criminal?’

Haddington drew on the spliff before answering, ‘All I know is that he’s an investor.’

His girlfriend did the mime, covering her ears with each hand, then her mouth and finally her eyes. Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.

Chapter 34

Wheeler stood in front of Stewart’s desk. Waited. Ross stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

‘Ivan Saunders was admitted to Accident and Emergency at the Royal Infirmary an hour ago,’ Stewart told them.

Ross frowned, ‘Isn’t he the PI who works out of a crappy office across from Central Station?’

‘Exactly the one.’

They waited.

‘His head was split open because he sniffed around the Watervale scheme asking about James Gilmore.’

‘Why was he asking?’ By the time Wheeler finished asking the question, she had the answer. ‘The old lady?’

Stewart drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘The wee toerag was employed by Mrs Gilmore to investigate her son’s murder. Seems she doesn’t rate our chances of finding her son’s killer.’

‘Charming,’ said Wheeler. ‘Does she know she’s messing up the investigation?’

‘I mentioned it to her when I called but I’m sending a uniform out to see her, to tell her in the gentlest way possible to keep out of this until our investigation is complete.’

‘No more hiring PIs,’ said Ross.

‘Meantime Mrs Gilmore has been contacted by the Chronicle.’

‘Grim?’

‘Grim,’ Stewart said, ‘offering a sympathetic interview from the grieving mother’s point of view.’

‘The grieving mother who doesn’t rate the police,’ said Wheeler. ‘I can just imagine how the article would read.’

‘So, that’s the update. Oh, one more thing: I’m thinking of bringing in some outside help,’ Stewart smiled. ‘I want our department to be seen to be accessing every resource available to us.’

‘You don’t think we’re working fast enough?’ said Ross. ‘It’s been all of five minutes since we found the body.’