White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller

by John Nicholl

  Mrs Galbraith?

  Silence.

  ‘We have very good reason to believe that Anthony is in extremely serious danger. We are talking about a child’s life, Mrs Galbraith. Can you help us find him?’

  Silence.

  ‘Look at me, Mrs Galbraith. Open your eyes please, Mrs Galbraith.’

  Cynthia opened her eyes and stared into space.

  ‘I am going to ask you again, Mrs Galbraith. Was Anthony Mailer at your home?'

  Silence.

  ‘What is it you're afraid of, Mrs Galbraith? If you know anything, anything at all, you must tell me.’

  Cynthia closed her eyes again, acutely aware of the accusing shadow of her husband hanging over her like an omnipresent malevolent spirit… Maybe she should tell the nice officer what she’d seen? She wanted to, she really wanted to. Perhaps she should follow her instincts? It would feel so good to help.

  She opened her mouth and was about to speak, but then she reconsidered… What would her husband say if she did the wrong thing again? What would he do to her? Surely if he had the boy it must be for extremely good reasons. He was an important man with an important professional role. Perhaps it was better to say nothing, rather than say or do the wrong thing yet again?

  ‘Do you know anything at all, Mrs Galbraith? Can you help us find Anthony?’

  Cynthia met the officers pleading gaze for a fleeting moment, and shook her head vigourously.

  DC Thomas persevered for another twenty-minutes or so before reluctantly accepting defeat… If Cynthia Galbraith knew anything, which seemed decidedly unlikely, she wasn't going to tell her about it. What was it DI Gravel had said? If she didn't want to be directing traffic for the rest of her fucking career, she had better get Cynthia to talk. Or at least, that was the gist of it. He always did have such a nice way with words. Maybe it was worth running Cynthia home? One last throw of the dice. Witnesses sometimes found it easier to talk when sitting next to, rather than opposite the interviewer. It was less formal, less intimidating. A car journey would be ideal. Eye contact could sometimes get in the way of productive conversation rather than facilitate effective communication. It had to be worth a try. There was everything to gain and nothing to lose.

  DC Thomas smiled, and placed a reassuring hand on Cynthia’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to make a phone call to find out if my colleagues have finished searching your house. I’ll take you home as soon as I can. Is that all right with you, Cynthia?’

  Cynthia nodded.

  DC Thomas took a red Parker pen from her black leather police issue handbag. ‘What's your home number?’

  Chapter 49

  DI Gravel looked up and raised his hand in silent acknowledgement as DS Rankin entered his office, before returning to his call. ‘So you didn't find anything at all?’

  ‘Like I said, sir, just the dog…’

  ‘I know all about the dog, Constable. But a dog picking up a scent isn't evidence. I can't put a fucking dog in the witness box, can I?’

  ‘No, sir!’

  ‘And you looked in the attic?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we even had the dog up there at one point.’

  The inspector exhaled loudly. ‘Enough said, Pam. If the boy was there, he’s been moved on. I need you to find out if Galbraith own’s any other properties. Something could be in his wife’s name? Give the council a ring. If I don’t hear from you within the next hour I’ll assume you haven't come up with anything useful.’

  ‘Okay, sir, I’ll get on with it.’

  ‘You do that, Pam. Oh, Pam, one more thing before you go.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’m going to send the SOCO boys over once you lot have finished, to see if they can find any traces of blood anywhere. How long before you finish the search?’

  ‘It shouldn't be more than another half-hour, sir. They're just putting thing’s back together now.’

  ‘Thanks, Pam.’

  He placed the phone back on its receiver, and immediately picked it up again, listening for a dial tone. ‘Give me a minute, Clive, I’ve got a couple more calls to make.’

  DS Rankin smiled. ‘The duty solicitor’s arrived, boss, some snotty kid straight out of college.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that. Give me a second.’

  He dialled and waited.

  ‘Children’s resource centre.’

  ‘Is that you, Mel, I was after Phil, but you’ll do.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Grav?’

  ‘I was having a chat with Phil earlier about the Galbraith girls. I think they need to be medically examined, Mel. Galbraith’s one evil bastard, and he’s had unrestricted access to those girls all their lives, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, Grav. I don’t know where Phil’s coming from on this one, to be honest. I’ll have a chat with the maternal grandparents later today and arrange something for the morning, if that’s all right with you? The girls have been through enough for one day.’

  ‘Thanks, Mel, it’s appreciated. Is Myra Thomas still with you?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s still with Mrs Galbraith as far as I know. Do you want a word with her?’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a second, Clive. nearly done.’

  ‘Hello, sir?’

  ‘Any joy, Myra?’

  ‘I haven't given up as yet, sir, but I really don't think she knows anything at all.’

  ‘Keep trying, Detective. Ask her if Galbraith has access to any other properties: offices, houses, garages, even a caravan. That sort of thing. I’ve got Pam talking to the council along the same lines. Ring me at the station immediately if you come up with anything. I’m going to be interviewing Galbraith for the next couple of hours. If the answer’s yes, make sure the message get’s to me urgently.’

  ‘Just so I’m clear, sir, you want to be interrupted?’

  ‘That’s what I said, Myra. Now get on with it.’

  The inspector put the phone down and sighed. ‘We’re getting nowhere fast, Clive. I think we’ll have one last go at Galbraith before calling it a day.’

  ‘What have you got in mind, boss?’

  ‘We’ve got more than enough to charge the cunt with his ring activities: indecent assaults, gross indecency, even a couple of rapes, yes?’

  ‘That’s the way I see it.’

  ‘But when it comes to the Mailer’s, we’ve got fuck all, correct?’

  ‘Seems so.’

  ‘Let’s refocus on what we can prove for now: gradually revealing the evidence against him until he finally realises his ramblings are falling on stoney ground. He may be ready to offer us something as the pressure increases and the grim reality actually dawns on him. Having the solicitor here may actually act in our favour in that respect. ’

  ‘Let’s hope so, boss. I’ll let his solicitor know we’re about to kick off.’

  Dr Galbraith gave dismissive responses to the two officers increasingly probing questions for the first half-hour or more, as his young lawyer uttered occasional words of advice and caution. As the evidence mounted, however, the doctor’s contrived urbanity melted away to a degree, and he began to twitch and jerk and blink and sweat, as the increasingly distressed solicitor looked on slack jawed and open mouthed.

  After an hour or more, DI Gravel judged that the time was right to drive home his potential advantage. He smashed an open palm onto the tabletop, stood, and pointed at the doctor with an accusing digit, as the young solicitor fought an internal battle to avoid becoming visibly emotional. ‘This is your final opportunity to cooperate, Galbraith. You are going to prison. It’s just a question of how long for and what happens when you get there. You would be well advised to consider your answer to my next question very carefully. I’m sure your solicitor would agree.’

  As the young solicitor nodded, DI Gravel asked his final question. ‘Where is Anthony Mailer, Galbraith?’

  The doctor folded h
is arms nonchalantly and gazed down at the table. ‘How many times do I have to say this? I have repeatedly made my position perfectly clear. I have no intention whatsoever of entering into some informal agreement with you, or anybody else for that matter. I totally refute the ludicrous allegations against me, and will continue to do so to the very best of my ability. I’ve said it before, and I will state it again: I had nothing whatsoever to do with Anthony Mailer’s disappearance.’

  ‘Have it your way, Doctor. This interview is at an end. Let’s get him charged, Clive.’

  Chapter 50

  ‘It’s a quarter to, boss. Better make a move. Galbraith’s up first.’

  ‘Thanks, Clive, is my tie straight?’

  ‘Spot on, boss. I’ll meet you for a quick pint at lunch time. It’s your round.’

  ‘I should be back well before then, Clive. Galbraith should be a formality. He’ll be remanded and on his way to Swansea nick by eleven at the latest.’

  DI Gravel strode confidently into the local magistrates’ court just in time to see the doctor entering the dock and facing three local Justices of the Peace. He looked somewhat disheveled and unshaven, quite different from the image of professional respectability he usually contrived to present to the world.

  The inspector entered the witness box, picked up the King James Bible, swore the oath, and presented the basic facts of the case. He had never felt more relaxed in his entire life… The courtroom was familiar, the facts appeared to speak for themselves, Galbraith was a danger to the public, that seemed blatantly obvious. He’d be remanded in custody to await trial at Crown Court in Swansea or Cardiff. What other reasonable conclusion was there?

  DI Gravel paid only passing interest when Dr Galbraith's previously inept solicitor applied for bail, citing the doctor's previously good character, social standing and elevated professional status… Surely the magistrates weren't going to fall for that crock of shit, not given the odious nature of the charges.

  The inspector was even more surprised when the three magistrates retired to consider the application… What the fuck was there to think about?

  What DI Gravel didn't know was that two of the three magistrates knew the doctor. Or to be more accurate, one actually knew him: his true nature, what he was and what he did; and the other thought she knew him, but didn’t.

  Reverend Jones, the chairman of the bench, was a retired vicar in his early seventies, who shared Dr Galbraith's criminal interests and was an active member of the local paedophile community. Mrs Mary Price, in contrast, was a history teacher at one of the town's two comprehensive schools. She was a well meaning but somewhat naïve individual, who had had some minor dealings with the doctor as a result of her work… She had listened intently to the allegations, but couldn't bring herself to accept that a fine man like Dr Galbraith, such a charming, important man who always had time to chat and ask about her family, had done anything wrong, despite the alleged evidence the police claimed to have uncovered.

  When the three magistrates returned to the courtroom, everyone, with the exception of Dr Galbraith, who was staring intensely at the reverend with expectant eyes, fully anticipated that he would be imprisoned while awaiting trial. The room fell silent as Reverend Jones began to speak in a quiet, monotone voice that DI Gravel strained to hear despite his excellent hearing.

  ‘We have carefully considered the nature of the charges. The case will be referred to the Crown Court for trial. Regrettably, I have no real choice in that regard. In such cases, it is usual to remand the defendant in custody in the interests of public safety.’

  DI Gravel leant forward, straining his ears… Where the fuck was this going?

  Reverend Jones continued. ‘However, in this case there are very exceptional considerations.’

  DI Gravel moved to the very edge of his seat… Exceptional? What the fuck was he talking about?

  ‘Dr Galbraith is a man of the most excellent character. A highly respected individual of impeccable status, who fulfils an essential role in our local community. He has served us selflessly for many years. Countless disturbed children and their unfortunate families have a great deal to thank him for. Bail is therefore granted with the condition that he report to the police on a weekly basis.’

  The inspector shook his head slowly… The man was a fucking idiot.

  Reverend Jones looked directly at the doctor. ‘Dr Galbraith, I am obliged to tell you that you must not approach any of the witnesses, although in your case I am sure such conditions are entirely unnecessary.’

  DI Gravel couldn't quite believe what he’d just heard… Over the years he’d witnessed some crazy decisions, but this took the biscuit.

  He jumped up from his seat and threw both arms in the air. ‘What the fuck have you just done?’

  Reverend Jones glared at him with accusing eyes… Infrequently unwise defendants publicly challenged his authority, but never the police.

  He fixed DI Gravel with a steely glower and snarled, ‘Be very careful, Inspector. Remember whom you are addressing. One more word out of you, and I will hold you in contempt.’

  DI Gravel bit the inside of his lower lip hard, and retreated towards the exit whilst mumbling crude obscenities under his breath… The decision was made, and there was fuck all he could do about it.

  He chose to ignore Dr Galbraith's supercilious smirk and jovial request for a lift home as he departed.

  The inspector hurried from the court building, and out into the busy market day street, bustling with keen winter bargain shoppers… He needed a drink. He badly needed a drink.

  DI Gravel walked into the nearest pub, ordered a brandy, and threw it down urgently, followed by another, which he consumed in similar fashion. He placed his empty glass on the bar and hurried from the pub in the direction of Caerystwyth Post Office… He needed a phone box.

  Fuck it! Someone was using the thing. But at least it was working. Should he wait? No, he didn't have the time to spare.

  He rapped hard on the glass with the knuckles of one hand until the irate caller turned towards him and gave him the V sign. DI Gravel pulled the door open and glared at the teenage lad, whose bravado immediately evaporated. ‘Police. Out!’

  What the hell was the number? He contacted directory enquiries, hurriedly fished out some additional coins from a trouser pocket, dialled and waited… Answer, come on, answer the fucking thing.

  Cynthia approached the phone apprehensively… Please don't be him. Please don’t be him.

  She picked up the receiver and tentatively whispered, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Galbraith, is that you?’

  Silence.

  ‘Cynthia, it’s Detective Inspector Gravel, we met at your home the other morning.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Cynthia, I’m not in the habit of doing this, but the circumstances are exceptional.’

  She tightened her grip on the phone. ‘Does my husband know you're calling?’

  ‘No, Cynthia, he doesn’t, and that’s a good thing. He’s just finished in court. He’s facing some extremely serious charges. But, he was given bail.’

  ‘Bail?’

  ‘That means he’s free to return home, Cynthia. Please listen to me carefully. You haven't got much time. You need to understand that your husband is a very dangerous man. He’s been charged with truly awful crimes against children. Please get out of there while you still have the opportunity. Why not go to your parents place? Your daughters are already there. You need to…'

  Cynthia didn't hear the rest of DI Gravel’s impassioned plea. She decided she’d heard enough, and put down the phone just as Dr Galbraith was entering a taxi and giving the driver his home address.

  Cynthia sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, and stared at the Welsh dresser for almost five-minutes before eventually deciding to act. She took the security door key from a drawer with trembling fingers, and placed her shoulder against the side of the dresser, using all her limited weight and strength to gradual
ly push it aside. She stood facing the partially unencumbered door, panting hard, willing herself to move, and then she suddenly stepped forward, gripped the door handle and opened it. She stared at the foreboding concrete steps, and hesitated for a few seconds… She could still run. It was still an option, wasn't it? It wasn't too late. But what if the boy was in there and needed her help? No, not this time; there was no going back, not this time.

  Cynthia took her first tentative step, paused briefly on the stairs contemplating retreat despite her newfound determination, and then descended quickly to the bottom without allowing herself sufficient time to change her mind. She held the key to the lock, dropped it to the floor, picked it up and tried again… Her hands were shaking too much. It wouldn't open. They were shaking too much.

  She held the key to the lock with her right hand while steadying it with the left… It was working. It was actually working.

  There was a loud metallic click as she finally turned the key in the lock… That’s it, Cynthia. That’s it! She’d done it. It was open. It was actually open.

  A small part of her wished that the door had remained locked, but it hadn’t, and she pushed it open, slowly, inch by inch, and peered into the darkness with nervous darting eyes… It was dark, far too dark to see. Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing? Maybe she should turn and run?

  She shook her head determinedly… No, not this time; there’d be no running this time.

  Cynthia put her hand through the doorframe and fumbled for a light switch… Yes, there it was. There it was.

  She flicked the switch on at her third attempt, causing a blindingly bright fluorescent light to burst into life. Cynthia shut her eyes tightly, shielding them from the sudden intense electric glare, and then took a step forward and slowly opened them, squinting into the glaringly white space.