by John Nicholl
‘No, I was talking to June only yesterday, as it happens. It’s all over, but his wife won’t have him back.’ He laughed again and added, ‘Silly sod, June’s gutted,’ before turning away and pouring the drunk another pint of strong German lager.
‘So he’s definitely back living with June?’
‘Yeah, definitely, she said as much herself.’
The doctor said his goodbyes and started for home. It was a minor victory, but a victory nonetheless. Things were looking up at last.
That evening, Galbraith sat in his study sanctuary reviewing his progress, or rather the lack of it. In all, Mike Mailer’s living arrangements apart, it was disappointing. He had to acknowledge that reality. No wonder his damned head was aching so badly. It was to his credit that he could function at all. He’d ruled things out, but nothing in, and that simply wasn’t good enough. He had to do something proactive to progress matters. Invading the Mailers’ home was an option. He’d already accepted that, but it was perilous. Was it too perilous despite the pleb father being off the scene? Surely such an approach should be a last resort to be kept in reserve if all else failed.
The doctor perused Anthony’s file for the umpteenth time, searching desperately for much-needed inspiration. Rugby training! What about rugby training? Hadn’t the bitch mother said that the boy went to rugby training on Fridays?
Galbraith checked his notes… six thirty on Fridays, but he hadn’t been for a while. Was it still worth considering? The bitch was encouraging him to attend. She’d made that perfectly clear.
The pounding in his head eased slightly, and he sat back in his seat with his eyes closed, attempting to unwind. The possibility had to be worth exploring.
The doctor stood and paced the floor. He’d done well. Of course he had. He deserved a reward. He took a video from a desk drawer, unzipped his trousers, and switched on the VCR.
26
Galbraith watched from the anonymity of the van as three boys of about Anthony’s age, dressed in brightly coloured sports clothes, approached the Mailers’ front door at 6:16 p.m. on Friday 7 February. Molly answered the door and immediately disappeared back into the cottage, whilst the boys, who had declined her invite to wait in the warm, stood and shivered on the doorstep.
The doctor stared at each boy in turn, looking them up and down, and considering their potential as future projects. But he quickly ruled it out as the pressure in his head began building. What the hell was wrong with him? He had to focus on one project at a time if unforeseen mistakes were to be avoided.
He forced himself to stare at the door and nothing else. Come out, you little bastard. Out you come. Out you come.
Molly placed an open hand on each of Anthony’s shoulders and tried not to let her increasing frustration show on her face. ‘Come on now, Tony, your friends are waiting for you. You’ve got your kit on. I’ve cleaned your boots for you. Go on now, you’ll enjoy yourself once you’re there.’
‘I’ll go next week.’
‘The longer you leave it before starting back, the harder it’s going to be. Dad will be really proud of you if you go tonight.’
‘Will he?’
‘Yes, of course he will. Off you go now. I’ll have your supper waiting for you as soon as you arrive back home.’
Anthony made his way towards the front door as if he were approaching the gallows, but his mood raised immediately on joining his friends outside in the semi-darkness. Molly sighed with relief as she watched the four boys walk down the path towards the pavement, and finally closed the door once they left her sight.
Galbraith left the van and followed the boys at a discreet distance with his head bowed low to avoid his face being seen by any potential onlookers or passers-by, until they eventually reached the sports field about fifteen minutes later. Several other lads were already playing touch rugby under the bright electric glare of the floodlights, and the four new arrivals joined in the impromptu game without waiting to be invited. Two men in casual clothes, who the doctor assumed to be overattentive fathers, and a third man in a red tracksuit, who turned out to be the youth coach, were talking animatedly on the touchline near to the twenty-two line. Galbraith walked around the edge of the gradually hardening pitch, and stood on the opposite side of the field with his woolly hat pulled low to cover as much of his face as possible.
The man in the tracksuit ended his conversation, jogged easily onto the pitch, and blew a shrill whistle loudly three times. Past experience had taught the boys to react quickly when summoned, and they immediately gathered around the coach in a semicircle, eagerly awaiting his instructions. The coach picked up the oval ball and began shouting, while repeatedly throwing it high into the air and catching it casually with one hand. ‘Where were you last week, Mailer, you dickhead?’
Anthony grimaced as all the other boys burst out laughing. They were well used to the coach’s unconventional methods, and relieved not to be in the firing line themselves. The two fathers standing on the touchline appeared to find the coach’s actions as hilarious as the boys had and guffawed loudly. The coach was a popular, well-respected, retired first-class rugby player, who had once played for Wales against the old enemy England in the annual five nations’ tournament, giving him a status just a fraction below God in the eyes of the locals.
Galbraith watched the training session attentively until the coach brought it to a timely end an hour later. The boys left the field chatting and laughing en masse, to begin their respective journeys home, with Galbraith shadowing Anthony’s every step. Anthony and his companions were aware of the man walking some distance behind them, but gave him little, if any, thought. Anthony glanced back at one point and thought he recognised the man from somewhere, but he couldn’t think where.
The doctor watched intently, and waited for an opportunity that didn’t materialise. Anthony wasn’t left alone at any stage of his journey, and was predictably met on arrival home by his mother, who opened the cottage door before he had the opportunity to knock.
Galbraith retreated to the anonymity of the van and started the tired engine. As he manoeuvred into the quiet street to head for Eden Road, he cursed Anthony’s friends, he cursed Molly Mailer, and he cursed the repetitive diesel throb of the engine, which appeared to mock the pounding in his mind.
27
Galbraith yelled, ‘Coffee,’ at the top of his voice, and slammed his study door shut with such force that the sound reverberated throughout the large Georgian town house. Cynthia made her husband’s drink as fast as humanly possible, but as she carried it through the house, her shaking hand caused a small amount of the sweet black liquid to spill over the top of the china cup, and into the saucer. What to do? Should she return to the kitchen and wash the saucer, or pour the coffee from the saucer back into the cup? She had to make a decision. Keeping him waiting was never a good idea.
Cynthia poured the coffee from the saucer into the cup and wiped the saucer clean with the sleeve of her powder-blue cashmere cardigan as she walked. She knocked reticently on the study door and waited for her husband’s next command. When he screamed, ‘Don’t come in, leave it outside the door,’ she placed the cup and saucer carefully on the hall tiles, moved it an inch or two, and then back again, before quickly retreating upstairs to change. It was important to look her best.
Galbraith sat at his desk, sipping his fine Columbian coffee, and carefully considering his next move. It was time for decisive action, high-risk or not.
The doctor sucked the air deep into his lungs and focused his mind. He would snatch Anthony from his home. That was a given, but when? And how? He had to get it right first time, and he had to prepare accordingly. There were things to sort out. And he’d need help, of course. That was a certainty. But such things could be achieved quickly, couldn’t they? Yes, yes, of course they could. Why wait? He’d only need a day to prepare. The early hours of Sunday morning would be as good a time as any.
He took a notepad from a drawer and poised the gold nib of
his fountain pen over the handmade paper for a few seconds, pondering the best approach before eventually elucidating his thoughts in writing. He’d need to find a suitable access point out of sight to potentially prying eyes, and break in silently.
The doctor felt as if a vice were gripping his head, squeezing, squeezing, tighter and tighter, attempting to crush his skull. The bitch mother would summon help if given the opportunity. Silence was a prerequisite for success.
He’d need to find the boy’s bedroom quickly and render him unconscious before he made even the slightest sound. But how best to do it? An injection of ketamine, possibly. It was fast-acting and could be administered through pyjamas and the like. Yes, that made sense. The van would provide a suitable means of transportation, that was obvious, but should he carry the boy from the cottage to the vehicle unaided? What the hell was he thinking? He was the brains not the brawn.
He shook his head repeatedly. Why not contact Gary Davies in the morning? Davies was something of an unknown quantity, certainly. He wasn’t the old reliable Sherwood, which was somewhat regrettable given the particular circumstances. But he’d have to do. Like it or not, he’d have to do.
The doctor tapped his fountain pen on the desk and frowned. What would they need to accomplish the plan? It made sense to comprise a list, didn’t it? Yes, yes, a list was essential to ultimate success. There were practical things they couldn’t do without.
He nodded his head confirming his conclusion, and began writing:
two disposable paper overalls with hoods;
two pairs of surgical gloves;
an implement for cutting glass;
a high-powered rubber torch;
a syringe and needle;
and three vials of ketamine.
He placed his pen down on the desk and examined the results of his ruminations. Anything else? There had to be something else. Ah, yes, he’d need to ensure there was adequate diesel in the van beforehand. No problem at all; that was easily done. He’d covered all the angles, hadn’t he? How could the plan fail?
Galbraith closed his eyes, visualised the process from beginning to end, and smiled. Surely he’d thought of everything? Yes, yes, of course he had. The plan was nothing if not inspired.
He pushed his notes casually to one side and relaxed. Soon his fantasies would become a much-anticipated reality.
28
Gary Davies left the phone ring for several minutes on Saturday 8 February, before finally accepting that the early morning caller wasn’t inclined to give up easily. He threw back the bedclothes and swore gratuitously, before making his way downstairs and picking up the phone in his partner’s shabby, ill-kept lounge. ‘What the fuck do you want at this time of the morning?’
‘Davies? Is that you?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘It’s Dr Galbraith.’
‘Oh, Doctor, I’m sorry, I had no idea…’
‘What the hell are you trying to say, man?’
‘I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to you since the day of the case conference. I wanted to thank you for all you did. I can’t stress enough how much your help was appreciated.’
‘It’s not your thanks I require, man. You owe your freedom to me. Do you hear me, Gary? You owe me. You would be wise to remember that.’
‘There’s no need for that. If there’s anything I can do to repay you, all you have to do is ask.’
‘Those had better not be empty words. I require your assistance with a small task I have planned.’
‘Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it if I can.’
‘If you can? I hope you’re not trying to worm your way out of assisting me? That would not be a good idea.’
‘Not at all, Doctor! Just say the word.’
‘Are you whimpering?’
‘Please, Doctor, just tell me what you want me to do.’
‘Get a grip, man! Have you got a pen and paper?’
‘Give me a second.’
‘Davies? Are you ready, man?’
‘Yes, please go ahead.’
‘Right, buy a rubber torch, a suitable tool for cutting glass and two pairs of disposable overalls with hoods, later today. Make certain they are all of good quality, and pay cash. Do you hear me, Gary? Cash! Be at my house at two o’clock this morning. That’s two o’clock, not five to, not five past, two o’clock. Make damn sure you’ve got everything. You still have my address, I presume?’
‘Yes, Doctor, but why?’
‘You sound somewhat anxious, old man. There’s no need for that. If you do as you’re told, you have nothing whatsoever to worry about. I’ll see you at two sharp. Make damn sure you’re wearing soft-soled shoes. Nothing that makes even the slightest sound on walking.’
Gary Davies knocked reticently on the Galbraiths’ imposing black front door at 1:57 a.m. on Sunday 9 February. A big part of him was hoping he wouldn’t receive an answer, but the doctor opened the door on the fourth knock, and shepherded him into the hall with an exuberant hand gesture after checking the street for potential witnesses.
‘Did you see anyone on your way in?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘For fuck’s sake Davies, get a grip, man.’
Davies glanced behind him. ‘No, no, I didn’t see anybody.’
‘That’s a good omen. I assume you’ve got everything.’
Davies held up the black and white sports bag he was clutching tightly in one hand and replied, ‘Yes, as per your instructions. Can I ask what they’re for?’
‘All in good time, old man. All in good time.’
Galbraith confirmed the contents of the bag, indicated his approval, and steered his accomplice towards the kitchen.
The doctor sat at the kitchen table and gestured to Davies to take a seat next to him. Davies sat immediately like an obedient puppy, and managed a thin smile as he waited for the doctor to fill the increasingly unnerving silence. He watched apprehensively as Galbraith opened a cardboard file on the table in front of him, but his inquisitiveness suddenly overrode his reticence. ‘What’s this about? Why am I here?’
Galbraith grimaced angrily and growled, ‘Be patient man,’ before turning the pages, and explaining every aspect of his scheme in simple language, that he thought even a man of inferior intellect such as Davies could comprehend.
Davies listened intently, becoming increasingly anxious with each new detail the doctor chose to share. He had no qualms about assaulting children; there was no problem there. But it sounded risky. What if they were caught in the act? The chances of detection and arrest seemed high, and abducting a child carried a lengthy potential prison sentence.
Davies desperately wanted to say, no. He wanted to shout, no. But, he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word. He looked down at the table, avoiding the doctor’s gaze, and mumbled, ‘It sounds risky to be honest, Doctor.’
Galbraith closed his eyes for a moment’s silent reflection. Was that implied criticism? Was the pleb being critical? Would he dare?
The doctor jumped to his feet, and began shouting manically, spraying a myriad tiny globules of saliva onto Davies’ horrified face. ‘You are going to do exactly what I tell you to do, you ungrateful low life. Do you hear me? Everything I tell you. You owe me, Davies. You would be well-advised to remember that.’
Davies saw a reptile-like coldness in the doctor’s eyes that left him trembling. He pulled away from the table, almost losing his balance in the process, and blurted out the words he was certain Dr Galbraith wanted to hear, ‘Okay, no problem. It’s a crazy idea, but I’ll do it.’
The doctor visibly relaxed, sat back down in his seat, and smiled contentedly. ‘That’s good to hear. You’ve made a wise decision.’
Davies’ relief was almost tangible. ‘When it’s done, we’re quits, right?’
The doctor looked him in the eye and nodded assuredly. In reality, he had no intention of honouring the agreement.
Doctor Galbraith marshalled his increasingly rel
uctant co-conspirator down the concrete steps and into the cellar a few minutes later. Davies couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The secret entrance, the heavy steel security door, the glaringly white room with its torture equipment and video apparatus—like a scene from a horror movie.
There were numerous questions Gary Davies would have loved to ask, but he instinctively knew that any such inquiries would be extremely unwelcome and potentially detrimental to his safety.
Galbraith saw the uncertainty in Davies’ eyes and laughed. ‘Your assistance is appreciated, Gary. All will become clear, my dear boy. All will become clear. But, there is insufficient time for that now.’ He checked his wristwatch and scowled. ‘We’re running late, old man. We need to get on.’
Galbraith instructed Davies to don an overall and a pair of thin latex gloves before doing likewise, and rechecking the various implements against his list. Everything was ready.
Davies followed the doctor back up the cellar’s steps, through the family kitchen, down the long hall and out of the front door into the cold, dank, Welsh winter night. Galbraith unlocked the van and jumped into the driver’s seat, keen to avoid the icy drizzle that seemed to emanate from every direction at once. They were running slightly late despite his earlier prompting, and he drove rapidly despite the fast-deteriorating driving conditions. The journey took place in almost total silence, but the nearer they got to the Mailers’ address, the more animated the doctor became. He hadn’t spoken, but his eyes appeared to bulge, multiple beads of sweat formed on his forehead despite the winter chill, and his whole body began to twitch violently every few seconds, as if he were experiencing severe drug withdrawal. Davies began to think that the psychiatrist may himself be insane. Was he mad or bad? It was hard to tell. Maybe a bit of both.
It took the two men about fifteen minutes or so to drive the eleven miles through the dark February streets to the Mailers’ home. They arrived at their destination just as the wintry drizzle began to freeze and form thin sheets of ice in the many puddles. Galbraith switched off the engine two hundred yards or more from their destination, and glided the remainder of the way, avoiding any unnecessary noise that may wake the Mailer family, or draw the attention of potential witnesses in neighbouring houses. He judged it rather well, and the van came to a natural halt almost directly alongside the cottage’s front path. He urgently applied the handbrake, and turned to look directly at Davies. If only Sherwood were still alive and assisting him in place of this unknown quantity, a man who he barely knew and didn’t trust. But, such thoughts were utterly pointless. Richard Sherwood was dead. It was time to get on with the night’s work.