by John Nicholl
Molly rubbed the top of Anthony’s head and smiled. ‘Right then, on you get. Your friends are already on the bus. I’ll see you later. Try and have a good day.’ She walked closely behind him, patted him on the back as he got on, and waved energetically until the vehicle eventually disappeared into the distance.
Molly hurried back into the cottage, grateful for the comparative warmth that met her at the front door. She paused momentarily in the hall, considering picking up the phone, but quickly decided on another hot drink before making the call. She switched the kettle on, placed a herbal teabag and a large spoonful of local honey in a favoured mug, poured in the boiling water, and stirred vigorously, causing a small amount of the scalding liquid to spill onto the worktop. Molly swore loudly. Housework could wait.
She turned on Radio 2 and sat at the kitchen table, thinking the music and chatter may help her relax. But she quickly concluded that she was simply putting off the inevitable. She approached the sink, added a few drops of cooling tap water to her tea, and drained her mug, savouring the intense sweetness at the bottom. In her mother’s wise words, it was time to bite the bullet.
Molly picked up the phone, dialled her husband’s direct office number, and waited whilst tugging repeatedly at her mousy hair with her free hand. How should she begin the conversation? Perhaps an assertive approach was best. Or maybe not. Perhaps persuasion rather than coercion was advisable. At the end of the day, whichever approach she adopted, Mike would be surprised she’d rung at all.
She was seriously considering placing the phone back on its receiver and ringing again later in the day to allow sufficient time for another discussion with her mother, when she heard her husband’s infuriatingly chirpy phone voice at the other end of the line. ‘Hello. Mike Mailer speaking.’
‘Hello, Mike. It’s Molly. We need to talk.’
‘What is it? Is there something wrong? Has something happened to one of the kids?’
‘Relax, Mike. It’s nothing like that, no need to panic. But, we do need to talk about the children.’
‘You had me worried for a minute. I’m a bit busy at the moment, to be honest. Can I give you a ring after work?’
Molly screwed up her face. ’Oh, be fair, when was the last time I rang you at the bank? I’d really like you to make time to talk now. They’re your children as well as mine. Or have you forgotten that small fact?’
Mike tightened his grip on the phone. ‘Give me a second. I’ll close the door.’
‘You do that.’
‘Hello, Mo. What’s this about, love?’
‘Love? I think that ship well and truly sailed when you moved in with that tart.’
‘Now look, I really haven’t got time for this shit now. If you’ve got something meaningful to say, please spit it out.’
Molly paused, swallowing her words. Try to stay calm, don’t get personal, tell him you still care about him. Wasn’t that what her mother had advised?
‘Molly? Are you still there?’
‘Hold on, can we start again? I really don’t want to argue. We’ve done enough of that for one lifetime. I’m not going to pretend I’m not still seriously pissed off with you, but the children need to come first.’
‘Fair enough, you’re right. What’s this all about, love?’
She chose to ignore the platitude this time. Where on earth should she start?
‘Molly? I’ve got work to get on with. Are you going to tell me what this is about or what?’
‘Yes, of course I am. That’s why I rang. Things haven’t been easy since you left. It’s hit the kids hard. They miss you, particularly Tony. Siân goes her own way. I hardly see her these days, to be honest. But, Anthony, it’s like he’s mourning a death.’
‘What do you want from me?’
There was a moment’s silence. Should she tell him? How would he react? Yes, why not? What was there to lose? ‘I miss you. Despite everything you’ve done, I still love you, God help me.’
‘I’m sorry. How many times do I have to say it? If I could turn the clock back, I would. Honestly I would. But I can’t, can I?’
‘What do you take me for? You’re still living with that fucking woman. End it, move out, and maybe we can talk about the future.’
‘Thanks, Mo. That’s good to hear.’
‘Don’t think it’s going to be easy. If you’re serious about this, I need action, not more empty words. I don’t think you understand just how bad things are here. You’re not here to see it, day in, day out, like I am. I need help. We need help as a family.’
‘I hear what you’re saying.’
Molly took a deep breath. It was now or never. ‘I’ve spoken to Dr Procter about Anthony. I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘Really? Can she give him something?’
‘Give him something? It’s not nearly that easy. The doctor’s arranged for us to see someone at the child guidance clinic. That means you, me and the children. The appointment letter arrived this morning.’
Mike cursed silently under his breath. ‘Are you sure the doctor wants to see us all, love?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Very sure! I couldn’t be more sure. That’s how it works. You need to pick us up at ten o’clock on Friday morning. If you’re serious about us getting back together at some point in the future, you will do this for me.’
Mike sighed. Washing his dirty laundry in front of a pseudo-scientific stranger was not his idea of fun. But at the end of the day, if there was a chance of reconciliation, he couldn’t afford to jeopardise the opportunity.
‘Fair enough, I’ll be there on time, guaranteed.’
‘I don’t want to be late. This is important.’
‘I said I’d be there on time, and I will be. Now leave it there, please.’
Molly put the phone down and walked towards the lounge, deep in thought. She’d got her own way as expected. That was true. But for some reason it felt a rather hollow victory.
She sat on the settee facing the lounge window and the garden beyond, and wiped a tear from her cheek. Mike was a waste of space, but he should be her waste of space. She wanted him back, there was no denying it. But it wasn’t going to be easy to trust him again. If he actually left the tart, instead of just talking about it, that would be an excellent start.
She smiled fleetingly. Life could be better. It could be a lot better, but at least Anthony was going to get the support he needed.
7
Galbraith sat at his desk, frantically turning the pages of his personal diary: Tuesday 14 January. The 14 January, oh, for fuck’s sake, another child protection case conference. Why the hell did the system dedicate so much time and effort to such a tedious task? What were the misguided fools thinking? That was one question he couldn’t answer, but what he did know was that it was a tragic waste of his valuable time. Where the hell was that invitation letter?
He opened a desk drawer and foraged through the contents. Where the hell had he put it? Ah, yes, yes, his in-tray, it was still in his in-tray.
The doctor unfolded the notification letter and accompanying papers, and spread them out on his desk in front of him. He took his reading glasses from an inside pocket of his dark grey pinstripe jacket and perused the contents. Four-year-old twin sisters, alleged sexual abuse, no unequivocal medical evidence supporting the girls’ video statements, an ineffectual mother targeted and befriended by a predatory paedophile employed as a secondary school music teacher prior to his arrest, the mother supporting the alleged abuser. No surprises there, he’d chosen well. It all seemed straight forward enough, nothing unusual. What was the alleged perpetrator’s name? Gary Davies. Gary Davies? The name rang a bell for some reason.
He closed his eyes, searching his busy mind. Ah yes, Davies. He was a member of the ring. An inconsequential member, certainly, but still a member. That counted for something. He’d seen him at various gatherings over the years.
Galbraith took a well-thumbed notebook from his briefcase and referred back to the letter
. Who was in the chair? Mel Nicholson, senior child protection social work manager?
He opened his notebook and referred to his handwritten notes. Nicholson? Nicholson? Ah yes, he’d met the interfering busybody on a course a few years back. He was one of those idiotic egalitarian, save-the-world, black-and-white, good-and-evil merchants.
The doctor turned the page and continued reading. Nicholson had moved to Devon to work for the NSPCC a couple of years back. He’d obviously returned to Wales. Probably promoted. That was worthy of note.
And who else was attending? The usual miserable plebs, no doubt. More misguided simpletons dedicated to an utterly pointless endeavour.
He examined the list of attendees. Detective Inspector Roy Thomas. Wasn’t his bitch wife expecting the last time he’d spoken to him? R-S-T… yes, there he was: Roy Thomas. He was correct, of course, no surprise there. The little brat should be about three months old by now.
Galbraith checked the clock and stiffened. He should have allowed himself more time. His organisation wasn’t what it was. Time to make a move.
The doctor placed the notebook back in his briefcase and locked it, before putting the key in the inside pocket of his jacket for safekeeping. As he walked towards reception his head was aching, the pressure was building, but he repeatedly reminded himself that he had to maintain the deception if his plan were to become reality. It was becoming harder. Every day it was harder.
Galbraith smiled humourlessly at his secretary. ‘I’m attending a child protection case conference at the social services resource centre in Caerystwyth this morning, my dear girl. I will leave the clinic in your very capable hands. Dr Higgins will be here this afternoon to help me with the backlog. She’s a good doctor, and I’m sure you’ll like her. I will see you in the morning. Have a good day.’
The doctor parked his car half on and half off the curb, and rushed towards the entrance to the resource centre to intercept Mel Nicholson, who was about to enter the building. ‘Mel, is that really you, my dear boy? Marvellous to see you again. Devon, wasn’t it? NSPCC, if I recall correctly?’
Nicholson shook the doctor’s hand firmly. ‘Good to see you, Doc. Plymouth, I was based in Plymouth.’
‘Good to have you back on board, old man. Their loss our gain, so to speak. Promotion?’
‘Yeah, I’m heading up child protection services for the local authority. It’s good to be back in Wales.’
‘Quite right. Quite right.’ He pushed up a jacket sleeve and checked his gold wristwatch. ‘Better make a move, old man. I didn’t have an opportunity to read the papers, pressure of work and all that. Any idea who’s in the chair?’
‘That’ll be me.’
‘It’s a terrible world, dear boy, a terrible world. But, I’m sure you’ll do a marvellous job.’
Galbraith entered the conference room in the style of a film star navigating the red carpet, a wave here, a smile there. He approached DI Thomas and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations, old boy! Boy or girl?’
The inspector beamed. ‘A boy, Gareth, after the rugby player, but please don’t tell the wife.’
The doctor laughed exuberantly. ‘Our secret, old boy!’ He raised an open hand in the air. ‘Oh, I can see our chairman wants to make a start. I’d better take my seat before I’m reprimanded.’
Nicholson, as he was generally known, opened the meeting by introducing himself, and asking the attendees to do likewise. He explained that the purpose of the meeting was to decide if the children were at risk, and if they were, to agree a multi-agency child protection plan. Before requesting individual contributions, he reminded Davies that he was still subject to police caution. Anything he said could be used in evidence.
At the mention of the police, Davies shuffled uneasily in his seat and glanced furtively in Galbraith’s direction, repeatedly attempting to meet his eyes. The doctor looked away on every occasion. What the hell did the idiot think he was doing? He would help him, of course he would. That was expected of him as a fellow ring member. But now was not the time. There’d be ample opportunity when he met the moronic bitch mother, and provided therapy to her hideous daughters.
Nicholson facilitated the conference with an efficiency born of experience. Within the hour, the girls’ names had been included on the ‘at risk’ register. It had been agreed that they would return to the care of their mother, on the condition that they had no further contact with Davies. A comprehensive risk assessment would be undertaken by childcare social workers, and Dr Galbraith would provide appropriate therapy.
The doctor stifled a laugh. If the cretins thought the girls were adequately protected, they were kidding themselves.
Galbraith approached Davies in the car park as he strode, head bowed, towards his estate car. He introduced himself flamboyantly, as if meeting Davies for the first time, shook hands, and handed him a business card with words of reassurance written on the back in blue ink. He gave Davies a knowing nod, and quickly turned away to approach the mother, who was standing a few yards behind them, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Galbraith addressed her quietly, in soft reassuring tones. ‘Hello, my dear, try not to worry, these conferences don’t always get it right. The reasons children say such things can be far more complex than the average person appreciates. They may have seen something inappropriate on television, or be recounting nightmares for example. And, to be honest, it’s not unusual for well-meaning but misguided social workers to put ideas in children’s heads. They sometimes ask leading questions, as do the police. It can be all too easy to jump to the wrong conclusions. That may well be the case with regard to your daughters. Bring the girls to see me at my home at half past four this afternoon. If errors have been made, as I suspect they have, I’ll have you all back together before you know it. I’ve given Mr Davies my card with the address and contact details.’
The mother looked at the ground as she spoke, only raising her eyes for an instant before quickly refocusing on the tarmac. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I just couldn’t believe Gary had done the awful things they said he had. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time. I just want the girls home with us. We both do, don’t we, Gary?’
Davies nodded his eager agreement.
Galbraith took her hand in his, squeezed it gently, and then shook it. ‘They will be, my dear lady. They will be. Now, I must get on. We will sort out this unfortunate misunderstanding before you know it.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I look forward to seeing you this afternoon.’
8
Jane Pritchard arrived early for her shift on Wednesday 15 January, and eventually tracked down DI Simpson in the police canteen, where he was engaged in mundane, morale-sapping conversation with a junior colleague. She bought herself a cup of predictably unappetising tea, and slowly approached his table. ‘Hello, sir. Have you got five minutes? I’ve completed the enquiries you required.’
‘Take a seat, Jane. Do you know DS Halfpenny?’
‘We were at the training college together.’
‘You all right, Jane?’
‘Yes, not bad, thanks, Joe.’
Simpson took a sip of his hot coffee and frowned. ‘If you head off and get on with the Wilson robbery, Joe, I’ll catch up with you later in the day.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘What’s the news, Jane?’
‘I’ve spoken to everyone concerned, and it seems a white room has featured in at least three investigations over the years.’
‘You’ve got the details, I presume?’
‘Yeah, there was a young lad of six in August 1984. Similar story really. He alleged he was taken to a white room by an uncle.’
‘Any mention of a doctor?’
She shook her head. ’No, and the case didn’t go anywhere. No forensic evidence, and the child’s account contained significant inconsistencies. A child psychiatrist put the allegations down to nightmares at the time, and that was the end of it. But given what we know now?’
‘You may we
ll be right. Any idea who the psychiatrist was?’
‘No, sorry, sir, but I’m sure I can dig out the file and find out.’
‘Don’t worry about it, it’s not of any consequence. What’s next?’
‘There was a boy of five in June 1987, and a boy of four in May 89.’
‘Different families?’
‘Yeah.’
‘All boys?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Anything that helps us?’
‘Not really. Nothing that identifies the location. The men were suspected of sexual offences, and the kids’ names were placed on the child protection register. But, same old story, insufficient evidence for prosecutions, as far as the CPS were concerned.’
‘I think we’re going to have to revisit this lot. I don’t believe in coincidences. Were all three children local?’
‘Yeah, they all live within a five-mile radius of Caerystwyth.’
‘I’m guessing the white room’s probably in the same area. Sorry, Jane, I’m just thinking out loud. Anything you haven’t told me?’
‘The six-year-old mentioned being filmed.’
‘Ah, that makes sense.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Any mention of a doctor?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘I want you to write a full report and get it to me as soon as possible. There’s got to be something in it.’
‘I’ll get it done today.’
Simpson shook his head. ‘What’s wrong with these people?’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you said you may speak to Dewi’s father at some point?’
‘You can leave it with me, Constable. Get that paperwork to me as quickly as possible.’
9