White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller

by John Nicholl

  The inspector smiled nonetheless, and continued. ‘You will no doubt be pleased to hear that there have been a number of potentially positive developments in the case. That said, Anthony Mailer is still missing. Finding him, hopefully finding him alive, remains our first priority. This is very important work, people. A child's life is at stake. We haven't got time to piss about, so listen carefully. You all need to be crystal clear what your duties are.’

  The DI pointed to a map of the area he’d prepared in advance of the meeting. He tapped his forefinger repeatedly on a large black X marked close to the centre of the map in bold indelible felt pen. ‘This is the exact location of the Mailer’s cottage. The crime scene, if you like.’ He tapped the map again. ‘This first circle, the red one, indicates the area we searched yesterday. I'm sure that you are all very well aware that nothing of significance was found. That makes it all the more important that we search again today. We will keep looking until we find something. This work is not glamorous or exciting, but it is essential. We are going through a well-established methodical process that gets results. Remember that.’

  He turned his attention back to the map on the wall behind him. ‘This bigger circle, the blue one, marks the boundary of the additional area that those of you allocated the task will search today. To be clear, we are going to search the area we searched yesterday again, and then extend the search to the area within the blue line. Familiarise yourselves with the map before you leave. Sergeant Thomas here will be responsible for supervising the search officers on the ground. If we don't find anything today, we will do the same thing again tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that until we do. You will be glad to know that I have arranged transport for you lucky people.’ He grinned in response to the sarcastic cheer and waited impatiently for the search officers to peruse the map and leave. The process was taking too long, however, and he gestured to the uniform sergeant.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Take that fucking map, Sergeant, and piss off somewhere else to look at it. I need to get on.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Right, you lot will be making further house to house enquiries. DS Rankin here will give you your specific orders once I’ve concluded the briefing. Young PC Harris obtained some useful evidence yesterday, let's hope we can do the same today. If a probationer can do it anyone can.’ He paused for the inevitable laughter. ‘Clive, if you do what needs to be done here, I'll speak to you later in the day. Remember everybody, if you discover anything potentially significant, anything at all, report it to DS Rankin who will in turn talk to me. Right, that's me done. Any questions? No, then piss off and find Anthony Mailer.’

  DS Rankin looked at him with a perplexed expression on his face. ‘Can I speak to you in private, boss?’

  DI Gravel nodded. ‘Let's go to my office, Clive. The rest of you get yourselves a quick coffee in the canteen. It's going to be a long day.’

  ‘Don’t bother sitting down, Clive. This’ll only take a minute.’

  ‘What about Fisher, boss? I've sorted the warrant.’

  As the DI outlined the previous evening's events, Rankin shook his head incredulously… He’d been in the job long enough to know that investigations could change directions quickly, but this seemed to be a case of one investigation getting in the way of another with potentially serious consequences. ‘I know it’s a long shot, Grav, but what if Fisher's got the boy? If we delay and it goes pear shaped, where the hell does that leave us?’

  ‘I'm not happy with the situation either, to be honest, Clive. But, there’s fuck all I can do about it. I'll know more when I've seen the chief super. Now piss off and get on with those house to house enquiries.’

  ‘Okay, boss, I’ll give you a shout if we come up with anything useful.’

  DI Gravel got on with some paperwork and kept his eye on the clock. At 8:15 a.m. precisely he picked up the phone. ‘Trevor, it’s Grav. Have you given any further though to last night’s discussion?’

  ‘I haven’t revised my position, Grav.’

  ‘I’ll see you outside the super’s office in ten-minutes.’

  The two experienced detective inspectors stood outside their head of department's door like apprehensive school boys awaiting their head teacher. DI Gravel knocked reticently, and waited respectfully for the chief super's response.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Graham Chapman had arrived in work unusually early. He had his in-law's staying for a week's holiday from Devon, and had used work as a transparent excuse to escape the house. He knew his wife would make him pay at some later date, but he told himself it was probably worth it. He smiled when he heard the knock on the door… It was a good day to be in work. ‘Come in and take a seat, boys. I'm assuming this has got to be important or you'd have made an appointment. No worries, what can I do for you both?’

  The two men glanced in each others direction, waiting for the other to reveal his cards.

  ‘Come on, boys, for Pete's sake. What’s the delay? Trevor, you make a start.’

  DI Simpson began outlining the salient facts and the potentially conflicting priorities of the two overlapping investigations. But, before he had the chance to say very much at all, the chief super intervened, as he often did. It was uncanny. His efficiency and total dedication to his role meant that almost nothing that happened in the division was ever a surprise to him. ‘Trevor, let me stop you there. I'm already fully conversant with the facts. I've read the relevant paper work and seen the computer records. Let me summarise. Interrupt me if I get anything wrong.’ All three men knew that wasn't going to happen. ‘Firstly, the paedophile ring is a top priority investigation that's going to be high profile: in the papers, on TV, that sort of thing. There’s inevitably going to be a great deal of unwelcome media interest from the gutter press. You know what the parasites are like. If there’s a potential criticism to make, they’ll make it. We have to get it right, and be seen to get it right. We have enough solid evidence to arrest and charge five suspects as of now. I believe that’s how the CPS put it, Trevor?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘The situation may well improve as thing's progress. Or at least, let’s hope so. You seem to be well on top of it. We can't jeopardise the enquiry, there's far too much to lose. The chief constable would not be a happy man. All arrests need to be carefully co-ordinated so as not to give any potential for the destruction of evidence or interference with witnesses. I shouldn't need to tell you that. It's bloody obvious.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Secondly, we have the missing seven-year old lad and the attempted murder of his mother. It goes without saying, another high priority case. A child’s life may well be on the line. I see your dilemma, Grav. But, this business with Fisher, it's speculative at best. The witness is old with poor eyesight, it was dark, and she’d taken a sleeping tablet. Not exactly the most reliable witness, I’m sure you'd agree. Any half decent defence barrister would tear it apart. You know that. On the other hand, we know that Fisher's van was seen in Eden Road the same night. Fisher has been named by one child as part of the ring investigation, all be it her description was less than accurate, and there's nothing to corroborate her allegations. It’s far from certain. As of now there isn't enough to arrest him as part of the first wave. That situation could change, of course, as the investigation progresses. But we can’t base our plans on possibilities.’

  DI Gravel shook his head discontentedly, but the chief super wasn't finished.

  ‘Don't lose the will to live just yet, Grav. There may be a way around this if we use some imagination. I realise Galbraith lives in Eden Road and that both men are implicated to varying degrees in the ring. Could be significant, but probably not. As of now there’s nothing to suggest either man has, or ever had, Anthony Mailer. At this stage we don't know the identity of the second man in Fisher’s van, but I’m sure you’ll both agree that Fisher and Galbraith seem highly unlikely bed-fellows. That said, it's a remote possibili
ty we can’t afford to ignore. What I suggest is this: Dr Galbraith will be arrested along with the other primary suspects at a time to be agreed by tomorrow's planning meeting. I propose that the time will be early on Thursday morning.’ He checked his desk diary. ‘That’ll be the thirteenth. Each arrest team will be accompanied by trained search offices, with dogs where available. We'll go through each house with a fine tooth comb. That takes care of Galbraith. Now for Fisher! As I've already made clear, there isn't enough on Fisher to justify arresting him as part of the first wave. I don't want the bastard arrested and then released without charge. That doesn't help anyone. Agreed?’

  The two inspectors nodded their agreement as the chief superintendent continued his soliloquy. ‘Fisher does, however, have a long history of dishonesty offences that is well known to you both. I'm sure there has to be some outstanding matters that would give reasonable grounds for paying him a visit. Searching his property and any vehicles he may own would be entirely justified. Get it done today, Grav. Even if you find nothing to charge him with, you can at least have a good look around and establish what he was doing in Eden Road at that time of the morning. Make no mention of any allegations relating to children at this stage. Do you understand where I’m coming from?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Before we finish, boys, this conversation didn’t happen. Understand?’

  Both men said nodded in unison.

  ‘Off you go, boys. Best if you both go to tomorrow's meeting. Keep me informed of all developments. Like it or not, the next few days could decide our professional futures. Close the door on your way out.’

  ‘What do you make of that, Grav?’

  ‘Could be a lot worse, Trevor. How the fuck does he do it? He knows what I’m thinking before I do sometimes.’

  ‘Beats me, Grav? I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Cheers, Trevor.’

  ‘Clive, I’m back in the office. Fisher’s back on. We're looking for stolen goods.’

  ‘Receiving? what the…’

  ‘I know, Clive. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. Be back here at ten, and we'll pay our Mr Fisher a visit.’

  ‘Morning, boss, have we got time for a hot drink before we go. It’s bloody freezing out there?’

  ‘I don't see why not, Clive. I’ll put the kettle on. You’ve got the warrant I presume?’

  Rankin tapped a jacket pocket and nodded.

  DI Gravel poured the boiling water and added milk and sugar. ‘There you go, Clive, my boy, get it down. We need to make a move in five-minutes. No developments I don't know about, I presume?’

  ‘Nothing as yet, boss. Maybe we'll have more luck this morning?’

  The DI finished his coffee, placed the mug down on his desktop, and stood up to leave. ‘Let's hope so, Clive. Let’s hope so.’

  The inspector took a bunch of keys from a desk drawer and threw them to Rankin. ‘I’m knackered, Clive. You can do the driving.’

  Clive Rankin manoeuvred the unmarked police car through the large grey painted wooden gates that lead into Wayne Fisher's shambolic scrap yard about twenty-minutes later. There were mangled vehicles of every kind piled high on either side of the enclosure, and a large black and rust corrugated iron building which served as an office and workshop at the far end, where metal was weighed and cash changed hands. Fisher’s white Ford Transit van was parked directly in front of the structure.

  Fisher identified the car as a police vehicle long before recognising the two officers in the front seats. He swore loudly, but was ultimately resigned to what he saw as a regrettable occupational hazard… Regular visits from the police were inconvenient, but an unavoidable part of the job.

  He looked around his yard and grinned… As it happened, on this occasion, unusually for him, he had no stolen goods on the premises other than various virtually indistinguishable pieces of scrap metal that would be almost impossible to identify. There was very little, if anything, to worry about.

  Fisher confidently approached the police car just as Gravel and Rankin were stepping out and closing the doors. ‘Mr Gravel, Mr Rankin, lovely to see you both again. What can I do for you two fine gentlemen?’

  The inspector glared at him accusingly. ‘You can stop taking the piss, Fisher. I am not in the mood.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that, Mr Gravel. I’m always happy to help the police.’

  The DI turned to Rankin. ‘If he’s trying to wind me up, he’s doing a fucking good job of it.’ He strode towards Fisher and poked him hard in the chest, causing the Irishman to lose his balance and stumble backwards. ‘We’ve received information that you have stolen items on the premises, Wayne. Anything you want to tell us before we have a look around. Wasting my time will not do you any favours.’

  Fisher got back to his feet and brushed himself off. ‘Stolen goods? No, nothing like that, Mr Gravel. I'm a good boy these days.’

  ‘We'd love to stay here all day and listen to you're fucking jokes, Wayne, but we've got work to do.’ He stepped forward, placed his face an inch or two from Fisher’s, and stared into his eyes. ‘Several churches in the area have had the lead stripped from their roofs in recent days, Wayne. That makes me extremely unhappy. I fully intend to nail any bastard who played any part in it. We’ll look around the yard; when we've done that we'll look at your office, and when we've done that we'll have a good look at your van. If there's anything to find, we'll find it. Anything you want to tell us, Wayne? Now would be a good time.’

  All of a sudden Wayne Fisher wasn't feeling quite so confident… Constables searched, sergeants possibly, but detective inspectors didn't get their hands dirty. They had people to do that for them. What the hell was going on?

  He felt his heart pounding in his chest… What were they really there for? This wasn't about scrap metal. Why the hell did Galbraith need use of the van?

  Gravel and Rankin spent almost two-hours searching without finding anything to suggest that Anthony Mailer, or any other child for that matter, had ever been anywhere near the scrap yard. Both men had, however, noticed that Fisher became edgy, nervous even, when they examined the Ford Transit. They looked at every inch of the vehicle but found nothing at all, which seemed significant in itself. The outside was its usual rust-bucket dirty mess, but the inside was absolutely immaculate. Someone had clearly taken a great deal of care to clean it. Fisher had no idea why Dr Galbraith had insisted he repeatedly clean the van's interior as he supervised, and he hadn't asked… It was best not to know the answer to some questions.

  ‘Right, Wayne, we're going to impound the van so that the SOCO boys can have a good look at it.’

  Fisher’s stomach was doing somersaults… He really didn't need this level of police attention. ‘Oh, come on, Mr Gravel. You haven't found a thing, have you? I had fuck all to do with the church jobs. I need the van to make a living, for fucks sake.’

  ‘What were you doing in Eden Road in the early hours of Sunday morning, Wayne? I’d think very carefully before answering, if I were you. I'm not in the mood to take any more of your shit.’

  Fisher was very close to tears… What the hell could he say to that? He had to come up with something. ‘There's got to be some mistake, Mr Gravel. I had a couple of drinks, watched television, and crashed into bed for the night. I didn’t leave the house.’

  The inspector laughed dismissively. ‘Oh come on, even you can do better than that, surely? You were stopped by a police officer, Wayne. He made a record of your index number. You were ordered to produce your fucking documents. Now try again!’

  Fisher’s face appeared to drain of blood… How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? He could confirm he was driving? He could invent some crap explaining where he’d been? He could try to blag it. That was one possibility. But, what the hell was Galbraith doing? The man was a total psycho. He could potentially implicate himself in something he wanted no part of. It was a no win situation. ‘Look, Mr Gravel, I don't need this kind of hassle. I’ve got the docum
ents in the office. You're welcome to see them whenever you want to. I can get them now if that helps.’

  ‘What were you doing in Eden Road, Wayne?’

  ‘I need the van for the job, Mr Gravel. Give me a break, please.’

  ‘I'll ask you again, Fisher. What were you doing in Eden Road? You can tell us here or at the station. It’s your choice.’

  Fisher began trembling as his earlier bravado melted away like an ice cube in the hot summer sun… Receiving, theft or a bit of burglary were one thing, but this had to be something more serious. A lot more serious.Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. Say nothing. That was the only option left open to him. Say nothing.

  ‘I’m waiting, Wayne. Stop pissing me about. I am losing patience fast, you thieving bastard.’

  Silence.

  ‘There was another man in the van with you, Wayne. Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you're talking about.’

  ‘There was a man in the passenger seat when you were stopped, Wayne. He was seen by an officer. Who was he?’

  Silence.

  DI Gravel turned and walked away for fear of striking his suspect. ‘Enough! Cuff him, Clive. Let's get the bastard arrested and in the car. We’ll have a final look around this shit-hole, and search the house on the way to the station. Radio through to the SOCO boys and get that fucking van collected.’

  DS Rankin drove while DI Gravel sat in the back repeatedly asking Wayne Fisher the same two unanswered questions: ‘What were you doing in Eden Road?’ And, ‘Who else was in the van?’

  Fisher sat tight-lipped, and didn't speak at any point of the journey… It seemed the sensible approach.

  The inspector was all too painfully aware that his was a fishing expedition with very little bait… Unless they got a lucky break the mornings’s work was going to achieve fuck all that would help find Anthony Mailer or bring his mother's attacker to justice. It was possible, even probable, that they were wasting their time. It was time they just didn't have to waste.