White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller

by John Nicholl

  Dr Galbraith broke into a broad smile, but kept his eyes firmly focussed on the road rather than turn to face his companion. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this moment, Gary. A long time. The job’s nearly done, but now isn’t the time to take your eye off the ball. You need to stay focussed. Do you hear me?’ He banged the dashboard hard with the palm of one hand to emphasise his point. ‘There’s more work to do. Once we’ve got the little bastard safely in his new home, then you can relax. Not before!’

  Davies began whimpering like a young puppy separated from its mother, but didn't say anything in response.

  The doctor gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to hit out… The man was fucking pathetic. ‘Come on now, Gary. You've done well, man. Try not to worry. You'll be able to head home as soon as we get the little bastard safely back to the house.’

  Davies felt slightly better for a time. But mere words were never going to be enough.

  There was very little traffic on the streets at that time of the morning, and they made good progress despite occasional patches of perilous black ice which the doctor chose to ignore. Davies hadn't spoken since leaving the cottage, but he now asked if he could put the radio on. He felt ridiculously, disproportionately pleased when Dr Galbraith acceded.

  Davies broke his silence for a second time as Dr Galbraith turned into Eden Road, this time by urgent necessity. His voice broke with trepidation as he hissed, 'There's a fucking police car behind us.’

  Waves of vicious stabbing pain fired through the doctor’s head like recurrent bolts of electricity, and cymbals crashed in his mind as if trying to drown out his thoughts. He clawed at his scalp with one hand… Come on, man. Focus, Focus. Davies was incapable of holding things together. That was blatantly obvious. The man was a slug, a rodent, an intellectual sub-human. He had to rescue the situation himself. No one else was going to do it.

  The panda car was driven by a young probationary constable only eighteen-months into his journey from comparative innocence to experience, after leaving a polytechnic degree course prematurely to join the local force. It had been a quiet night, and PC 143 Kieran Harris was looking for almost anything to do to break the potentially mind numbing monotony of early hours rural policing. He contacted his control room on the car’s two way radio, requested a police national computer check on the van’s index number, and pondered whether or not to stop the vehicle in order to examine the driver’s documents before receiving a response.

  He toyed with the idea of allowing the driver to continue his journey unencumbered, but he was still at the stage of his career when exercising his legal authority remained something of a novelty. He flicked on the blue lights, and signalled to overtake without giving the matter any further thought.

  As the police car pulled alongside the Transit van, both Dr Galbraith and Davies were frantically pulling off their surgical gloves and tearing at their paper overalls. Dr Galbraith had just thrown his over the back of the seat into the rear, when PC Harris parked the police car directly in front of the van.

  Dr Galbraith braked hard, pulled up next to the curb, retrieved the syringe, attached the needle and rapidly prepared the injection. ‘If the pleb goes anywhere near the back of the van, get out and keep him talking. Distract him, and leave the rest to me. Do not fuck this up for me, Gary. Any slip up’s, and death will be the least of your worries.’

  Davies was nodding yes, but his eyes were screaming no… He meant it. The maniac meant it. Perhaps being arrested wasn't such a bad option in the circumstances. At least it would be over. He’d be alive. Maybe he could warn the pig in some way? That would go down well down in court. But hold on, what if Galbraith still managed to stick him with the needle?

  PC Harris turned off the engine, put his cap on, and approached the van’s driver’s side door just as the doctor was winding his window down to receive him.

  ‘Evening, Constable, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Name, please?’

  The doctor replied, ‘Wayne Fisher,’ without turning his head to face the officer.

  ‘What’s the purpose of your journey, Mr Fisher?’

  ‘That’s not really your business, is it Constable?’

  ‘Driver’s licence, insurance, and MOT certificate, please.’

  Dr Galbraith tightened his grip of the steering wheel. ‘I keep my documents at my home.’

  ‘Control room to PC 143, come in, please.’

  The young constable took a step forward, leant against the van door, and placed his head partially through the open window. ‘I need to speak to my control room, please stay in the van.’

  ‘PC 143 to base, go ahead please.’

  ‘The registered keeper is a Wayne Fisher. He's known, but not currently wanted. The van is not reported stolen. I repeat, not reported stolen.’

  PC Harris placed the radio back in the top pocket of his navy tunic, and took out a pen and a small beige booklet of forms. ‘I’m going to issue you with a HORT1, Mr Fisher. It requires you to produce your documents at a police station of your choice within five days. Failing to produce them within that timescale is an offence under the Road Traffic Act.’

  The doctor took the newly completed form from the officer’s outstretched hand. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Constable?’

  ‘You can go on your way, Mr Fisher. But, don’t forget those documents.’

  Dr Galbraith and his quivering collaborator sat in stunned silence as they watched the young officer drive away. The doctor concluded that fate had intervened to enable him to continue his important work. Davies, in contrast, was conflicted. And part of him was relieved… But on the other hand, a cell may have been preferable to an on-going relationship with the doctor.

  Dr Galbraith drove on and parked directly outside his impressive three storey home… The convenience seemed to outweigh any potential risk given the early hour and the police car’s recent departure.

  Davies pulled Anthony's unconscious body from the rear of the van by his feet, lifted him onto one shoulder, walked up the granite steps, and waited by the front door while the doctor scrambled into the back of the van collecting the gloves, pieces of overall and everything else they’d taken with them. Dr Galbraith lowered himself onto the road with the bag in one hand and the front door key in the other.

  Cynthia Galbraith had been abruptly awoken by the commotion, and was peering out from behind her bedroom curtains as Dr Galbraith unlocked the front door, enabling Davies to carry Anthony into the Georgian house… Wasn't that a boy the man was carrying? Why would they be bringing a child into the house? Perhaps he’d been involved in an accident? She really should go downstairs to help, shouldn't she? No, if he was hurt he was in good hands. And her husband certainly wouldn't welcome her interference.

  Cynthia returned to bed and lay perfectly still, listening intently for any clues that may explain why a young boy with short cropped hair and wearing pyjamas, had been carried into her house by a man she didn't know in the early hours of the morning. Her confusion intensified still further when she heard the unmistakable sound of the Welsh dresser being pushed aside in the kitchen… Was the boy something to do with her husband’s work? Surely he must be. What other explanation was there?

  She lay there, unable to sleep, and began to sob quietly into her pillow, muffling the sound, and trying to ignore the increasingly insidious thoughts invading her troubled mind.

  Dr Galbraith was in jubilant mood as he skipped down the grey concrete steps and into his spacious white basement. Davies followed, a lot less enthusiastically, with the doctor's constant encouragement ringing in his ears: ‘Come on, come on, man. Bring him in. Bring the little bastard in. Throw him to the floor.’

  Davies followed instructions and paced the floor, anxiously awaiting his next instruction. Dr Galbraith stripped off his blood stained garments and discarded them by the sink, before scrubbing his soiled hands and nails clean as best he could. Once satisfied with his efforts he refocused on Anthony, who
was breathing shallowly, but hadn't moved an inch. The doctor administered a second dose of the sedative drug to ensure that his captive didn't wake prematurely, and kicked him hard in the ribs to confirm he remained unconscious. Anthony’s entire body visibly shook with the force of the blow, but he didn't respond.

  Dr Galbraith casually tossed the syringe to the floor and instructed Davies to put it in the sports bag along with his soiled clothing for subsequent disposal. Davies sought reassurance with fawning respect born of fear while clearing up, and hoped the doctor wouldn't decide he too formed part of the evidence requiring destruction.

  Davies was worrying unnecessarily, at least for the moment. Doctor Galbraith had concluded that despite his undoubted limitations, Davies had his uses… The protocol established following the previous little bastard’s death required a good deal of physical effort. Why not make continued use of the moron?

  Within twenty-minutes Anthony's senseless body hung from the same steel shackles that had once secured the cellars previous victim. As Dr Galbraith set up Anthony's feeding tube, he became acutely aware that he was totally exhausted after the night's labours… He badly needed sleep.

  Dr Galbraith turned to Davies with a look of sincere regret. ‘I'm sorry to say that the little bastard is going to have to wait until tomorrow, Gary. He’s going to need time to come around from the anaesthetic. What use is an unconscious child, eh? What do you say, old man? No use at all. The little bastard should be wide a wake by morning. You can come over at eleven, when I’ve had some time to entertain our guest alone. I’m sure you won’t deny me that particular pleasure. You’ll have your opportunity, don't concern yourself in that regard. We’re in this together, Gary.’ He paused, looking at Anthony, admiring his work, and then suddenly looked away. ‘We still have essential tasks to address before you go home, old man. Bring the bag.’

  As Davies followed the doctor out of the cellar and into the comparative normality of the family kitchen, he was struggling with the violent severity of his new master’s crimes, as Sherwood had before him… Having a bit of fun was one thing, but things had gone too far. Should he say something? It wasn't too late, was it? The boy was still alive, after all. He hadn't seen anything. How could he have? Surely they could let him go and get away with it?

  He paused, pondering whether or not to act on his misgivings… But hang on a minute, he had to be cautious. How would the doctor react if he suggested freeing the boy after all his efforts? He’d very probably go absolutely berserk.

  Davies shook his head thoughtfully… It really wasn't worth the risk.

  He put Anthony's situation out of his mind and focused on drinking the hot, sweet instant coffee and eating the warm buttered toast the doctor had provided.

  Dr Galbraith suddenly slammed down his empty coffee cup with a bang that shattered the pervasive silence. ‘It’s time to get back to work, Davies.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  The doctor strode towards the double-glazed double door that lead from the kitchen to the conservatory and garden beyond. ‘Right, Gary, my boy, bring that bag. I'll fetch some paraffin and matches.’

  Davies followed Dr Galbraith into the shadowy walled garden at the rear of the property, glad that the night was finally close to an end. The doctor checked his watch and concluded that it was still early enough to burn the evidence of their crimes without the undue risk of curtain-twitching prying eyes looking on quizzically from other nearby dwellings. He told Davies to empty the bag into a large battered metal refuge bin located in one corner of an immaculate manicured lawn out of sight of other adjacent houses, and poured half the bottle of accelerant over the contents. He struck a match and threw it into the bin, causing flames to instantly burst into seemingly enthusiastic life. He picked up the sports bag, fed it to the fire, and watched mesmerised for several minutes as the flames leapt and danced, before finally reducing to an intense orange glow that fed acrid black smoke into the early morning air.

  Dr Galbraith turned way from the spectacle, suddenly aware that Davies was still standing close behind him. ‘You’ll no doubt be glad to hear that we’re done for tonight, Gary. You can get on home. I’ll contact you again if and when I need you. Await my call. Oh, and one last thing: make certain, absolutely certain that you put all your clothes in the washing machine as soon as you arrive home. You fucking stink, man! Burn the shoes. Now go. Do you hear me, Gary? Go.’

  ‘I thought you said I should come over in the morning?’

  ‘Are you experiencing hearing problems, Davies? I’ve just said I’ll contact you if and when I need you. I do not appreciate having to repeat myself.’

  Gary Davies nodded his confused agreement. He looked quizzically and asked, ‘What about the glass cutters?’

  ‘Leave them to me, Gary. I want you gone. And make damn sure you're not seen as you leave.’

  As Davies walked away, the doctor jolted him back by the right shoulder. ‘Keep tonight's events entirely secret. Do you hear me, man? Secret! Remember, you are as guilty as I am.’ He prodded him aggressively in the chest. ‘If you ever bring the police to my door, you will pay an extremely heavy price. That I can guarantee you.’

  Davies hurried back through the now familiar house, and obediently checked the street with nervous darting eyes in the style of a young child following the green cross code for the first time… All was quiet. No one stirred. The outside world seemed oblivious to his existence.

  Once alone, Dr Galbraith hurried directly to his bedroom and set his alarm for 10:00 a.m. before getting into bed… Sleep was a necessary inconvenience interrupting his work, but essential if he were to perform at his very best.

  As he drifted off, he pictured himself burying the glass cutters under a favoured rose bush and gleefully anticipated waking Anthony from his chemically induced slumber.

  Dr Galbraith was awoken by the shrill tone of his alarm clock as planned on Sunday 9, February and leapt from bed with the energy and exuberance of a much younger man. He salivated at the thought of what the day would bring… It was going to be an important day. A momentous day! Soon he’d introduce the little bastard to his new home.

  He visited the bathroom, forwent his regular physical exercise routine, pulled on some casual clothes and rushed down to the cellar, keenly anticipating what would inevitably follow.

  The doctor entered the cellar brimming with burgeoning enthusiasm, and approached Anthony, fully expecting to savour the terror in his eyes. But instead, he stopped and stared at his captive… He should be awake. Why wasn't he awake? Why the hell wasn't the little bastard awake?

  Dr Galbraith slapped Anthony hard in the face, but nothing, not a flicker of life. He rushed to the sink, filled a mug with bitterly cold water, and hurled it in the boy’s face. ‘Wake up, you little bastard. Wake the fuck up!’

  The doctor grasped at his head as the cymbals in his mind became crashing, ear-splitting, explosions of sound that he momentarily feared may shatter his skull… Why wasn't he awake? The little bastard should be awake?

  Dr Galbraith began to weep and a steady stream of salty tears ran down his morose face… It was suffering that most excited him. What use was an insentient child?

  He shook his head violently, desperately attempting to silence the reverberating pounding pressure hammering every inch of his brain… Focus, man, focus! No need to panic. No need to panic. It was too soon for that.

  He collected his thoughts, and approached the wall-mounted glass fronted medical cabinet at the far side of the room. He returned to his victim’s side, and hurriedly administered an opioid antagonist… It should do the job. Surely it would do the job?

  He fell to his knees… It wasn’t working. It had never failed before. Why the hell wasn't it working?

  Dr Galbraith slumped to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, and curled up in a ball with his hands clutched tightly over his ears. He began screaming: louder and louder and louder, until his throat ached… It was the lowest point of his entire life.
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br />   Chapter 29

  Never again! She’d said it before, but this time she meant it. It hurt to move, it hurt to breath. There was an unpleasant lingering acidic taste of last night’s vomit in her mouth, and her throat felt as if she’d drunk a barbed-wire cocktail. It was like having the flu, but self-inflicted. One thing was certain: she’d get no sympathy whatsoever from her mother if and when she spotted the tell-tale signs of a very heavy night.

  Siân Mailer tried the side door, hoping to sneak into the cottage undetected, and lock herself in the downstairs bathroom for a quick shower before retreating to her teenage bedroom to sleep off her hangover… It was locked? Why was it locked? Her mum usually opened it first thing to let the cat out?

  She made her way back around to the front of the cottage, shielding her eyes from the bright sun rays piercing the grey clouds, and knocked reticently on the door… No reply. What a stroke of luck, her mum must have gone out.

  Siân bent down stiffly to search for the house key under the black rubber door mat… It wasn't there. That was strange, Mum usually left a key these days.

  She pushed the door hard with the palm of one hand in frustration, fully expecting it to remain shut, but instead it flew open.

  Siân paused momentarily before entering the hall, and wandered if her mother would suddenly appear from one direction or another with a predictably disapproving expression on her face? Siân shouted, ‘Mum,’ at the top of her voice, but received no reply… It looked as if she had the house to herself. Why not make the most of it? Maybe a shower would make her feel a little better? It couldn’t make her feel any worse, that was certain.

  She headed for the downstairs bathroom, stopping briefly in the kitchen to switch on the radio and swallow two dispersible aspirins en-route. Siân was singing along to a melodic Culture Club hit as she opened the bathroom door, but she was suddenly silenced when she saw the windowless frame. Her initial surprise quickly turned to concern, and then to fear.