by John Nicholl
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? It’s Grav. I was after Phil, but you’ll do.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I was having a chat with Phil earlier about the Galbraith girls. I think they need to be medically examined. 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. I don’t know where Phil’s coming from on this one. 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, but I really don’t think she knows anything at all.’
‘Keep trying. 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 gets to me urgently.’
‘Just so I’m clear, you want to be interrupted?’
‘That’s what I said, 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?’
‘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 Mailers, 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 stony 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. I’ll let his solicitor know we’re about to kick off.’
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, Gravel judged that the time was right to drive home his potential advantage. He smashed an open palm onto the table, 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. 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, Gravel asked his final question. ‘Where is Anthony Mailer?’
The doctor folded his 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.’
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 lunchtime. It’s your round.’
‘I should be back well before then. Galbraith should be a formality. He’ll be remanded and on his way to Swansea nick by eleven at the latest.’
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 dishevelled 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 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?
Gravel paid only passing interest when 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 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 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 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 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.’
Gravel leant forward, straining his ears. Where the fuck was this going?
Jones continued, ‘However, in this case there are very exceptional considerations.’
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. Th
e man was a fucking idiot.
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.’
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?’
Jones glared at him with accusing eyes. Infrequently, unwise defendants publicly challenged his authority, but never the police.
He fixed 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.’
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 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.
Gravel walked into the nearest pub, ordered a brandy, and threw it down, 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. 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.’
‘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, 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. 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 Gravel’s impassioned plea. She decided she’d heard enough, and put down the phone just as 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 gradually 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 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 steps, 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 electric glare, and then took a step forward and slowly opened them, squinting into the glaringly white space.
At first Cynthia didn’t see the young boy hanging on the wall to the left of the door, or the instruments of torture, or the metal meat hook suspended from the ceiling. On first impressions it was a strange, cold, clinical space, and despite the putrid smell of human waste, she felt strangely reassured by the room’s initial scientific, lab-like appearance. Perhaps people were wrong after all. Maybe her husband was simply misunderstood rather than criminal.
She took another step forward with a newfound confidence and slowly scanned the room with blinking eyes. When she saw the emaciated young boy for the first time, she just stood and stared, desperately wanting to believe that the horror before her was a product of her imagination rather than grim reality. Cynthia walked towards Anthony and touched him gently on his right cheek. He was real. This wasn’t work. It wasn’t science. Her husband was a monster. There was no denying the awfulness of what he’d done.
Cynthia placed her hand ever so softly on Anthony’s bare chest, and held it there. Was she imagining things? Was she in denial? No, there was a heartbeat. A faint but definitive heartbeat. Thank God, he was alive. The boy was definitely alive.
In a hormone-fuelled frenzy, she urgently struggled to free him from his metal shackles until her manicured nails were broken and her fingertips bled. But her efforts were hopeless. She fell at his feet and wept. No amount of endeavour on her part would suffice, however hard she tried. And even if she did finally manage to get him down, which appeared a lost cause, she wouldn’t be able to carry him to the door, let alone drag him up the steps. She just didn’t have the physical strength.
Cynthia jumped to her feet. She needed help. She had to summon help.
She turned away from Anthony without looking back, never looking back, and rushed for the steps. Why on earth hadn’t she told the inspector what she knew when she had the opportunity? She should have told him. It seemed so obvious. Why didn’t she tell him?
Cynthia heard her husband’s mocking voice in her head. Stupid girl, stupid girl! Why can’t you get anything right?
She entered the kitchen, but stopped suddenly and listened intently, hoping her ears were deceiving her. The key in the lock, the front door opening, the door being slammed shut. Footsteps on the hall tiles. He was back. Oh no, he was back! She could run. She could hide. She could try to placate him. Don’t panic, Cynthia, don’t panic.
She took repeated deep breaths and pictured the young boy hanging from the bloody black steel shackles in that terrible place, the hell her husband had created. There would be no retreat. There would be
no running, not this time. Not this time!
Cynthia listened as the doctor’s footsteps got closer. And then he appeared, tensing and relaxing his muscles, loosening his powerful shoulders, and forming his hands into formidable weapons. He stared at her, then at the displaced dresser, and then at her again. The bitch had opened the door. Unbelievable! She’d actually opened the door.
He took a step towards her, shouting, louder, louder, louder, until she surmised the room itself may be trembling. ‘What the hell have you done, you sanctimonious bitch?’
Cynthia edged along the worktop, inch by inch, inch by cautious inch. Nearly there, nearly there, come on, Cynthia, nearly there.
And then she moved quickly, like a sprinter off the blocks, and urgently grasped a nine-inch filleting knife from a wooden knife block on the shiny black granite work surface. She moved gradually towards the cellar entrance in a sideways motion, whilst holding the knife out in front of her with both hands clutched tightly around its shaft.
Galbraith narrowed his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, growled like a ferocious beast, and suddenly rushed towards her, striking her with a glancing blow to the side of her head as she thrust at him ineffectually with the blade. Cynthia stumbled backwards, lost her footing, and hit the doorframe before falling forwards and slumping to the floor.
The doctor approached her, raised his right leg high behind him, and kicked her hard in the side, six inches below her armpit, before stepping over her prone body and advancing towards the first of the cellar steps.
Cynthia gasped for breath, somehow raised her dazed and shaken body onto all fours despite two cracked ribs, focused on the doctor’s broad muscular back with blurred eyes, crawled forwards rapidly until she reached him, lifted her right arm, and plunged the knife deep into the back of his left thigh with as much force as her bruised body could muster, striking the bone with the tip of its razor-sharp blade.
The doctor screamed like a demented howler monkey, as much from the shock that Cynthia would dare to do such a thing, as from the searing pain. He kicked out mule style with his uninjured leg, landing a heavy blow on the top of her head with the heel of his shoe, as she grabbed at his legs in a further attempt to impede his progress.