by John Nicholl
She turned on her heels, fled back up the steps a great deal quicker than she’d descended a minute or two earlier, and tried her best to convince herself that she’d made the correct choice. Like it or not, there was no avoiding the fact. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
‘Fisher? It’s Dr Galbraith; I was working. What the hell do you want, man?’
Wayne Fisher was beginning to wonder if contacting Galbraith was such a good idea after all. ‘I’m at the police station. I’ve been nicked on suspicion of receiving.’
‘What the hell has that got to do with me, man?’
‘They’ve taken the van. They’ve never done that before. Something’s up. They’re asking questions I can’t answer.’
Pressure and sound exploded inside the doctor’s skull. His world was unravelling. The little bastard was still unconscious, and now this. He should have insisted on crushing the damn thing. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? ‘Keep my name out of it, Fisher, or I will kill you. Do you hear me?’ He slammed down the phone, cracking the red plastic receiver.
Wayne Fisher’s legs weakened and his head began to swim. It was no empty threat. The man was dangerous. There was no way he was telling the pigs anything at all.
Galbraith returned to the cellar and sat on the white-tiled floor with his legs crossed and his head bowed low. Why hadn’t he punched the bitch? It would have alleviated the pressure to a degree, wouldn’t it? Yes, of course it would. And he needed all the help he could get. He’d rectify his omission at some point later in the day, but that particular pleasure would have to wait. There were important decisions to make. Decisions that couldn’t be delayed further.
The doctor noticed his eyes moisten as he relived recent events in his mind. He’d dedicated a great deal of time and effort to the boy’s abduction and incarceration. He’d prepared comprehensive plans outlining his exact intentions. Now, he had to accept the awful reality that those much-cherished plans may never become reality. It was almost too much to bear.
Galbraith rose to his feet and began pacing the floor, wringing his hands, and tearing intermittently at his short black hair. If the police were sniffing around as Fisher claimed, inaction was not an option. He had to be proactive. He had to retain control. He could wait for however long it took for the boy to regain consciousness. That was one possibility with obvious advantages. But was it sensible, if the police were getting closer? Time could well be running out.
He shook his head aggressively. Perhaps it was worth waiting two, or maybe three more days maximum. Maybe that would prove sufficient to facilitate some sport. Maybe, or maybe not, all he could do was hope. Or, he could cut his losses, kill the boy now, and destroy the evidence. That was the sensible option, wasn’t it?
Galbraith clutched at his head as the pressure built and distorted his otherwise handsome features. It made sense to keep the little bastard alive for another forty-eight hours, but not a second longer. Yes, yes, that was logical. That made sense. Forty-eight hours conscious or unconscious, then he had to die.
38
‘Trevor, it’s Grav. How you doing?’
‘Not bad, thanks. What can I do for you, mate?’
‘Any developments your end?’
‘Yeah, the interviews are going pretty well, as it happens. There’s some useful new evidence corroborating previous allegations and establishing further offences. There may well be enough for additional charges, probably additional arrests. I’ll have to review the tapes properly and sound out the CPS before coming to any final conclusions, but it’s looking pretty good. Galbraith’s well and truly in the frame. He should be going down for a very long time, all being well.’
‘All being well?’
‘We’ll have more than enough to charge him, but getting a conviction may be a different matter. He’s got a good reputation, he’s one devious bastard, and all the witnesses are young kids. We’ve got no idea how they’ll stand up to cross-examination, and that’s if they give evidence at all.’
‘Yeah, I see what you’re saying, Trevor. I’d nail the cunt to a tree by his balls if it were up to me. Anything new on Fisher?’
‘Fisher’s going to have to wait a while. We just haven’t got enough on him as things stand. Any joy your end?’
Grav grimaced. ‘Fuck all. We found nothing of interest at the yard or the house, and he kept his mouth well and truly shut despite a lot of pressure, if you know what I mean. I blame those detective shows on the telly. It seems every criminal’s a fucking lawyer these days. Didn’t say a word.’
‘I’ve had a lot of dealings with Fisher over the years. He was banged up for a three-year stretch for burglary on one happy occasion. He’s usually an easy option merchant. Anything for an easy life; no comment’s just not his style.’
‘He’s shit-scared of something or someone. We gave him a seriously hard time, but he just sat there in total silence for almost two hours. None of his usual bullshit. Not a fucking word.’
‘What about the van?’
Grav smiled thinly. ‘The SOCO boys had a good look at it this afternoon. The inside was fucking immaculate. Like new, they said. No signs of life. Not even a single fingerprint anywhere, except for mine and Rankin’s. Fuck all! Our Mr Fisher’s been up to something, but I’ve got nothing on him.’
‘You win some, you lose some.’
‘Fisher’s time will come.’
‘Let’s hope so. How’s the Mailer investigation going otherwise? Are you any nearer finding the boy?’
Gravel scratched his stubbled chin. ‘It’s going nowhere at the moment. I’m thinking Fisher being out and about that night was purely coincidental. Like you said, there are a lot of white vans in circulation.’
‘It was always a long shot. You already knew that.’
‘You’re not wrong, Trevor. If we find the boy alive, it’ll be a fucking miracle.’
39
After several hours of drug-induced slumber, with only brief periods of confused dreamlike consciousness, the anaesthetic was at last wearing off. Molly was suddenly aware of her surroundings, but unsure if the terrifying pictures in her head were memories of real events or nightmare constructs of her subconscious mind.
Molly opened her bruised and swollen eyes and saw Mike’s and Siân’s familiar faces smiling down at her. She tried to reciprocate, but the effort was simply too painful. She could see that Mike was weeping, and felt his warm tears fall on her face as he leant over to gently kiss her head. ‘Hello, Mo, it’s good to have you back with us, love. It was touch and go for a while.’
Molly’s eyes flitted urgently around the ward. Tony! Where was Tony? If only she could ask. If only she could shout his name.
She tried repeatedly to speak, but no words came. Mike guessed what she was trying to say, but feared the burden reality would place on her may be too great for either of them to bear. He placed his ear close to her mouth hoping he was mistaken, but her faint garbled whisper was unmistakable, ‘A-n-t-h-o-n-y?’
Mike stood upright, and looked at Siân with a look of utter desperation on his face. What was he supposed to say now? How was he supposed to tell Mo something he knew would break her heart? It would be reasonable to ignore the implied question in the circumstances, wouldn’t it?
After a moment’s agonising silence, the best he could do was to say, ‘Just concentrate on getting well for now, love. We can talk later, when you’re feeling better.’
Molly’s eyes burned with anxious fury. What was the ineffectual prat trying to hide? There was definitely something. What if her dreams were memories? Anthony! Where was Anthony?
She began to wail pitifully, and then reached up despite her pain, despite her injuries, despite the ominous tightness in her chest, and grabbed Mike firmly by the front of his shirt with both hands. She pulled him close and hissed one, barely decipherable word, ‘T-r-u-t-h!’
Molly released her grip and crashed back onto the bed, exhausted by her exertions, as Mike staggered backwards
, stunned by the intensity of her reaction. She wanted answers. She needed answers. But he wasn’t going to be the one to provide them.
‘Say something, Dad.’
Mike stared at his daughter without responding, and suddenly darted for the door, just as Sister Thomas was entering the ward from the opposite direction. ‘Slow down, Mr Mailer. This is a hospital ward, not a running track.’
Mike pushed past her, head down, eyes focused on the linoleum, and continued running.
Williams went after him, and was soon joined by Siân, who was disappointed but not overly surprised by her father’s actions. ‘Stop, Mr Mailer, where are you going? Your family needs you here.’
But Mike didn’t stop running until he reached the car park, where he sat on a cold wet curb and lit a cigarette, inhaling the toxic chemical soup deep into his lungs. He loved Mo dearly, so why had he let her down again? And just when she most needed him. What the hell? He’d give it twenty minutes and go back to the ward. With a bit of luck, Bethan or Siân would have told her the grim reality of the situation by then.
Siân gripped her mother’s hand and gazed pleadingly at the police officer, who was fast approaching the bed. Molly looked at one and then the other, meeting their eyes in turn. The police were there. It wasn’t a dream. She’d been attacked in her bedroom. A man had attacked her. A man with blue eyes. But what about Tony? Oh, God, what about Tony? She had to know the truth. Why weren’t they telling her the truth? Surely, any reality couldn’t be as bad as her own vivid imagination.
Williams moved a chair closer to Molly, and smiled a half-smile which quickly left her face. Here goes. ‘Mrs Mailer, we have talked before, but you were barely conscious. Do you remember anything about our conversation?’
Molly shook her head slowly and frowned.
This was going to be truly awful for the poor woman to hear. What if it were one of her own kids? It just didn’t bear thinking about. She forced another quickly vanishing smile and began, ‘It’s good to see you back with us, Mrs Mailer. My name’s Constable Williams, Bethan Williams, but please call me Bethan. I’m sure you want to know exactly what’s going on.’
Molly nodded once and grimaced.
‘There’s no easy way to tell you this. You were attacked in your home. You were in your bedroom at the time. Siân found you there and dialled nine-nine-nine. Can you remember anything that could help us catch the man who did this? Anything at all?’
Molly felt panic-stricken. The images in her mind were real. They were definitely real. Where was Anthony? Why wasn’t anyone talking about Anthony?
Molly tried desperately to speak, but the officer only heard mumbled, distorted, incomprehensible sounds, more white noise than language.
Williams looked quizzically at Siân for clarification, but she shook her head ruefully. Molly’s mouth had become increasingly swollen and bloody as she strained to communicate, and Siân couldn’t understand her either.
Williams nodded. It was time to use her imagination. ‘All right, Mrs Mailer, I promise you I will tell you all I can, but please give me a minute.’
She hurried from the ward, and soon returned carrying a large notepad and a black marker pen purchased from the hospital’s tiny WRVS shop. She looked Molly in the eye and held her gaze. ‘I can’t understand what you’re trying to say to me. Do you think you could write it down?’
Molly nodded, rested the pad on one hand, and held the marker pen tightly in the other. Her hand shook wildly as she wrote the words she’d frantically tried to vocalise minutes earlier: WHERE IS ANTHONY?
Bethan Williams spoke slowly, trying desperately to prevent her voice breaking with emotion, ‘There is no easy way to tell you that we don’t know where your son is. I am so very sorry. I have children myself, and can only begin to imagine how truly terrible that must be to hear. But, we have officers looking for him, and we are confident we will find him soon.’ She really shouldn’t have said that. It may or may not be true. He may already be dead.
Molly began writing again on the second page: HAS SOMEONE TAKEN HIM?
The PC looked directly at Molly, rather than give in to the strong temptation to look away. It was time for total honesty. The poor woman deserved to know the truth, however distressing the facts. ‘I know this isn’t going to be easy for you to hear, but you’re entitled to the truth.’ She paused. How should she put it? What did it matter? There was no sugar-coating this particular pill. ‘It is possible, but far from certain, that the person, or persons, who attacked you also abducted your son.’
Molly swallowed hard as she fought the impulse to vomit.
The officer placed a reassuring hand on her left shoulder and tried to force a sympathetic smile that failed to materialise. ‘Did you see or hear anything that could help us? Can you remember anything at all about the man who attacked you? How he looked, how he smelt, how he sounded, the words he used, any distinguishing marks? Anything?’
Molly hesitated. The memories seemed so real. But, surely her mind must be playing tricks on her.
After a moment’s quiet contemplation she scribbled, I remember his eyes, just his eyes.
‘What about his eyes?’
Molly nodded and wrote, Piercing blue, striking. I’m sure I’ve seen those eyes before.
‘Who was it? Who attacked you?’
She thought for a brief moment, fearing she may potentially misdirect the investigation, but then decided to trust her instincts. She turned to the third page of the pad and urgently wrote DR DAVID GALBRAITH in large bold capitals. She handed it to the officer with an outstretched hand, and watched her reaction carefully. She wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t shaking her head. Perhaps it wasn’t so ridiculous after all. Or was she a good actor, and trying to humour her? Yes, that was probably it.
‘You named the same man earlier, but I needed to be certain you knew what you were saying. You were pretty drowsy at the time. I know it’s going to be difficult, but please try to get some rest. I’m going to contact the officer in charge of the investigation immediately, and let him know exactly what you’ve told me. No doubt he’ll want you to make a full statement as soon as possible.’
Molly turned to the fourth page of the notepad and wrote quickly in huge bold capital letters filling the entire page, FIND MY SON!
40
Trevor Simpson was working his way through seemingly endless piles of paper, in an admirable, but ultimately hopeless attempt to keep his mind off the afternoon’s multi-agency child protection planning meeting. He pushed the papers to one side and checked the clock. At least the waiting would soon be over. The case was dominating every aspect of his life. How could the bastards do what they did to children? How could the child protection officers do what they did as a full-time job? No wonder some of them liked a drink. No wonder their black humour was a little close to the edge. No wonder Pam was puking after interviewing the victims. And she’d refused to be taken off the case. That was dedication. Maybe he should have made it an order.
Simpson dialled Mel Nicholson’s direct number and waited impatiently for an answer. Nicholson was reading through some lengthy childcare files, and pleased to be distracted. The outcomes of the morning’s interviews and the intense activity that would inevitably follow the afternoon’s meeting were weighing heavily on his mind, and he was glad to hear the inspector’s familiar voice on the other end of the line when he picked up the phone. ‘Mel, it’s Trevor. How’s it going in social services world? Ready for this afternoon?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘I can pick you up on the way, if that helps, mate. It might be an idea for us to have a chat about the case en route.’
Nicholson cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, I can’t see why not, but I need to be there about ten minutes early, if that’s all right with you?’
‘No problem.’
‘How are the interviews going?’
‘Better than expected, as it happens. We’ll talk later. I’ll pick you up at about twenty pa
st one.’
‘Thanks, I’ll see you then.’
Nicholson placed the phone back on its receiver and sat back in his chair with his eyes tight shut, trying to relax. He pictured a warm sun-drenched Barbadian beach with clear blue translucent water lapping on its green and sandy shore. But it didn’t last. Nicholson sighed, resigned to the inevitable, as his brief fantasy faded and reality dawned once more. Maybe after the case was over he could take his family there for a couple of weeks. He’d always wanted to.
He smiled. Why not make the fantasy reality?
But the smile evaporated from his face as quickly as it appeared. Money, that was why not. His salary just didn’t suffice. It would be camping in Northern France again. Like it or lump it.
Nicholson chuckled to himself, and retrieved a file from the steel cabinet in a corner of his office. Back to work. The afternoon’s meeting was almost certainly the most important of his career. A lot rested on its outcome. The futures of a great many children would be shaped by the success or failure of the actions agreed. He had to cope with the pressure. He had to get it right.
Nicholson scratched his nose and attempted to refocus on his paperwork with wavering enthusiasm. Why did additional piles of files and forms appear on his desk almost every time he left the room?
He decided to give it another half hour before leaving to chair a child protection case conference at South Wales General. Ideally, it would have been nice to spend the morning preparing for the afternoon’s meeting, but his workload just didn’t allow him that luxury. He put his head down and got on with it.
41
DI Simpson shook his warrant card in the face of the excessively officious attendant at the entrance to the social services headquarters’ car park, and drove in without waiting to be asked. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Nicholson parking his ancient, racing-green hatchback in his reserved space nearby. The social work manager had been hoping he had five minutes or so to grab a quick cup of coffee and a sandwich before his lift arrived, but he accepted defeat when he saw Trevor Simpson’s head poking through the driver’s side front window, and heard his gruff voice calling his name, ‘Mel! Get a move on, mate. You’re going to have to get in the back. You know Grav, don’t you?’