Free The Good Priest by Gillian Galbraith Page B

station. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.’

CHAPTER SIX
    Less than a week later the priest stood queuing in the Clydesdale Bank, waiting his turn to be served. The Kinross branch was housed in a cream-coloured Georgian building on the High Street. The bank was set apart from its neighbouring shops; what was once a large garden tarmacked to transform it into a car park. From the outside it remained untouched, retaining its classical proportions Roman Doric doorpiece and astragalled windows, but its original architect would not have recognised its modernised interior. The entire ground floor had been turned into a banking hall, and a lowered ceiling hid the cornices and ceiling-roses that had once ornamented three separate rooms. Elegance had been sacrificed to utility and the deity now worshipped within was Pecunia.
    The sole bank-teller’s attention was focused on a difficult customer. A squat woman, she was wearing a short leather jacket, tight black skirt with red fishnet tights and patent leather boots ornamented by gold spurs. Both her elbows rested on the counter, supporting her heavily made-up face, and one wide hip jutted out, as if she had settled in for a good chinwag. She was talking and laughing noisily, oblivious to the six people behind her. As soon as her latest anecdote had come to an end, she would straighten up as if she was about to leave, and the rest of the queue would relax, getting ready to move forwards. Then another query would occur to her and she wouldsettle down on her elbows once more. After this had happened a couple of times, glances began to be exchanged between those behind her, and the boldest amongst them, the local undertaker, cleared his throat theatrically, attempting to draw her attention to the other customers who were waiting. It had no effect. An elderly woman, catching Father Vincent’s eye, made a few loud tutting sounds for her benefit. This too had no effect. However, as if in response to these signs of impatience, the anxious, bespectacled face of the manageress appeared at a vacant teller’s position. She smiled at the restive throat-clearer to let him know that she would attend to him now.
    When Father Vincent reached the head of the queue, the lady in the high-heeled boots turned to depart, still talking, apparently blithely unaware of the hostility that she had engendered amongst a group of strangers. As she passed by one of them, a lanky youth with his hair tied back in a ponytail, cheeks flushed with anger, he said, in a loud whisper, ‘Rich bitch!’
    â€˜Is my little pony in a hurry? Guilty as charged, Rick, I’m delighted to admit.’ She cackled throatily, adding in a louder voice as she slipped out of the door, ‘Loser!’
    Further incensed, the youth abandoned his place in the queue and strode after her.
    As the priest handed over his faded money bag to the assistant, she beamed broadly at him as if to acknowledge his long wait, and thank him for his good-mannered patience. She was a member of his parish, and sometimes stood in for the regular organist.
    â€˜Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Is this the collection money?’
    â€˜That lad looked as if he’d explode. Who is he?’
    â€˜Don’t know. His dad’s got the new antique shop in Milnathort. The woman used to be his dad’s bidie-in for a wee while, I think.’
    â€˜Really? Yes, it’s the collection money,’ he replied. ‘Would you put it in the usual account for me, please, Patricia?’
    â€˜Certainly will.’
    Her fair-haired head was bowed as she counted the coins, her hands moving skilfully from pile to pile. Looking up at him for a second, she said: ‘Good that they caught that fellow, eh, Father?’
    â€˜Caught who? That boy?’ he answered, preoccupied, his eyes resting on an advertisement for a loan. Most of it was taken up by a large photograph which showed a small, palm-fringed