White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller

by John Nicholl

  ‘The director wants me to manage it?’

  Nicholson laughed to lighten the obvious tension. ‘He does, Phillip. Fuck knows why? I tried to talk him out of it, but there you go.’ He paused for a response that didn’t materialise. ‘Are you still there, Phil? Are you up for it?’

  Beringer ran a hand through his sparse greying hair… He wouldn't be attending any more courses for a while. Saying no wasn't really an option. Not if he was serious about a future promotion and a better pension. ‘Why not, Mel, it’s not as if I've got anything else to do.’

  ‘Nice one, Phil, I thought you'd done a runner for a second or two.’

  This time it was Beringer’s turn to laugh. ‘Don’t think I didn't think about it. Are you doing the driving this afternoon?’

  ‘Yeah, I'm giving Helen a lift, she's taking the minutes. I suppose I may as well pick you up as well. I've got to make sure you actually turn up somehow.’

  ‘Thanks, Mel, I’ll try and get hold of a crash helmet from somewhere. See you later.’

  Chapter 14

  Nicholson opened the planning meeting with introductions, more for Helen's benefit than anything else, and advised the attendees what they were there to do. After a lengthy discussion that left several of the professionals wishing they were virtually anywhere else, the way forward was finally agreed. Phillip Beringer would head up the new dedicated social work investigative team, and would have day to day lead management responsibility. DI Simpson would head up a similar dedicated police team, and would liaise directly with Beringer to facilitate joint action as and when deemed necessary. Beringer would similarly liaise with the council solicitors and two local consultant paediatricians. DI Simpson would do likewise with the Crown Prosecution Service. Nicholson would act as a consultant: a sounding board and source of advice to everyone involved.

  When it came to discussing the alleged involvement of Dr Galbraith, the tension in the room was virtually palpable. Several attendees expressed their grave concerns, arguing that the South Wales Health Authority should be formally advised of the situation with a view to his suspension. DI Simpson silently tolerated the impassioned arguments for a time, before eventually rising to his feet. He held both hands out in front of him with his fingers spread wide and bellowed, ‘I do not want Galbraith warned. I do not want him to have the opportunity to warn other suspects. I do not want to give these people the opportunity to destroy evidence. I do not want them to have the opportunity to silence witnesses. I understand your anxieties, really, I do. But this is a complex, high risk criminal investigation. A criminal investigation! If we act prematurely there is a very real risk we will blow it. If that happens many more children will ultimately suffer.’ He paused for a moment, meeting the eyes of each potential dissenter in turn. ‘Make no mistake. If any of you break confidence, if any of you says a single word that potentially compromises this enquiry, I will arrest you for attempting to pervert the course of justice. This is high pressure, high risk work, people. Live with it!’

  After a period of stunned silence a paediatrician asked what several of the attendees were thinking. ‘What about surveillance?’

  DI Simpson smirked dismissively. ‘It’s a nice idea, but that’s all it is. There’s over three-hundred of these people in this county alone. And those are just the ones we know about as of now; the number’s growing all the time. As much as we’d like to, we can’t watch all of them. And, even if we did watch Galbraith, what would we actually watch? We can't watch him when he’s at home with his daughters. We can’t watch him when he’s with his patients. We can’t watch him when he visits friends’ homes. We have absolutely no idea where or when the ring meets, or how often. It could be months before the next gathering. What use would surveillance be, even if I had the resources? Which I don’t, by the way! It would make us all feel a little better. But that’s all it would do. Look, people. Twenty-six children have already been identified, others will inevitably follow. There are numerous adults involved. I’m going to need every available officer. This is going to take time to get right. If we try and rush things or overstretch our resources, we’ll inevitably make mistakes. Nobody wants that. I certainly don’t. When we do arrest these people, I want to make it stick. There is absolutely no point at all in pulling them in and then letting them go again without charge. That would achieve precisely nothing. The second we have enough for successful prosecutions we’ll be knocking on their doors. That I can guarantee.’

  Chapter 15

  Phillip Beringer slurped the creamy head from his fourth glass of Irish Guinness, and handed Mike Mailer another pint of the local Buckleys Bitter Ale. The two men met every Wednesday without fail for an overly competitive game of squash, inevitably followed by an hour or two at one local bar or another. The Caerystwyth rugby club was a much favoured watering hole. Beringer had been the best man at Mike and Molly’s wedding, and they had asked him to be a Godfather to Siân a few months later. He was flattered by the request, and happily acceded without hesitation despite his wavering faith.

  Beringer grinned. ‘There you are, you miserable sod.’

  ‘Cheers, Phil.’

  ‘Do you know what, Mike. I watched a documentary the other night about inmates on death row in Texas. None of them were as miserable as you are. What’s up?’

  Mike took the last Embassy cigarette from a packet of twenty, struck a match, lit the tip, and sucked on the filter hungrily, savouring the nicotine hit as the life sapping fumes filled his lungs. ‘Who the fuck are you, my mother?’

  Beringer laughed. ‘One of the many down sides of being a social worker, and believe me there’s quite a few, is that virtual strangers seem to think they have the God given right to unburden themselves whenever they chose. And yet we’ve been mates for years, and you tell me fuck all. Why don't you drop the macho bullshit and tell me what the problem is?’

  Mike Mailer shook his head discontentedly and quickly downed his pint. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘As long as it takes, Mike. As long as it takes.’

  Mike approached the bar, ordered another two pints to oil the conversational wheels, and returned to his seat. ‘It's this business with Molly and the kids. It’s doing my head in. I sometimes wish I’d never met Tina, to be honest.’

  ‘But you did, Mike. That’s what comes of thinking with your dick.’

  ‘Yeah, very helpful! Do any of your clients ever come back for a second appointment?’

  Beringer grinned. ‘You're going to have to decide what it is you really want, Mike. You can either think it through logically, weigh up the pros and cons, or listen to your gut. Knowing you as well as I do, I suspect you’ll find the latter method a lot more reliable.’

  ‘It’s difficult, Phil. I never intended to leave Molly in the first place. I never planned to move in with Tina. It just happened.’

  ‘What a lot of crap! Things don't just happen, Mike. You're not some flotsam subject to the ebb and flow of the tide. You made choices at every stage. You're still making choices.’

  ‘Yeah, but if Molly hadn't found out…’

  ‘For fucks sake, Mike. She did find out. You need to grow a pair and take responsibility for what you've done. If you're serious about Tina, tell Molly that. Make it crystal clear, and let her get on with her life. If you're not, if you're serious about trying to get back with Molly, then do something about it.’

  ‘I’ve told Molly I’m sorry time and time again.’

  ‘I wonder what planet your on sometimes. What would you say if it were the other way around? What if it were Molly living with some other bloke and telling you she was sorry?’

  ‘Have you seen Tina? She is a very good looking girl. The sex is going to be hard to give up.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  Mike stubbed out his cigarette, placed the tips of his fingers together as if in prayer, and rested his elbows on the table, carefully considering his response. ‘It’s lust. I don’t love the girl.’

  ‘Do yo
u love Molly?’

  Mike finished his beer. ‘Yeah, Yeah, I suppose I do.’

  ‘Do the words cake and eat it mean anything to you?’

  Mike’s face reddened, and he laughed hoarsely. ‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been a prat.’

  ‘You're not going to hear me disagreeing with that particular conclusion. Molly’s a cracking girl, you've got two lovely children. Wasn't that enough?’

  ‘I guess it should have been, but…’

  ‘There’s no but, Mike. You're not some kid in college. You're a father with responsibilities. They don't deserve the shit you've giving them. How the hell do you expect Molly to think your serious about you two getting back together when you're still living with the woman you left her for? Think about it, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I know, Phillip. Honestly, I know.’

  ‘Well, do something about it then. Stop being so fucking ineffectual.’

  Mike shook his head slowly. ‘I will.’

  ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘How about another pint?’

  ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘They're still playing up, if you must know. Molly’s arranged for us to see a psychiatrist, of all people.’

  ‘What, you and the children?’

  ‘Yeah, of course us and the children. He's a child psychiatrist.’

  Beringer felt his facial muscles tighten as he frowned. ‘Who's the doctor?’

  ‘Are you all right, Phil? You look like crap all of a sudden.’

  ‘His name, Mike?’

  ‘Galbraith, David Galbraith, what’s it matter?’

  ‘Has Tony actually seen him yet?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s got a second appointment this Friday, as it happens. Mo’s going in with him this time. I’m just providing the transport. I can't see the point of it all myself, to be honest. Mo’s already said that Tony’s more his old self again. I'm only going along with it to win a few Brownie points.’

  Beringer felt physically sick, his mind racing… Think! If Anthony’s mood had improved, it wasn't too late. Nothing had happened yet, but, it would. It definitely would. What the fuck could he say without breaking confidence and potentially jeopardising the investigation?

  He stood up without speaking, ran out of the pub and threw up against a wall in a dark corner of the car park… What could he say? Time to think. He needed time to think.

  Beringer reappeared a few minutes later, looking pale and drawn, with tears welling in his eyes. ‘I'm feeling like shit, Mike. Must be something I ate. I’m going to have to make a move, mate.’ He downed the dregs of his pint to wash the remaining vomit from his mouth. ‘Look, Mike, before I head off, I just wanted to say that it’s highly likely that Tony’s mood and behaviour has improved because you and Molly are on speaking terms again. It’s got fuck all to do with the doctor. Tony needs time, Mike, not a head doctor.’

  ‘We’ve been mates a long time, Phillip. Is there something you're not telling me?’

  Should he tell him? Siân and Anthony were his Godchildren, after all. No, it was potential career suicide. ‘Kids get labelled, Mike. These things can follow them for their entire education. He needs his family. It really is that simple. I’d seriously think about knocking it on the head, if I were you. I just want what’s best for Tony, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, Phil. But, Mo?’

  ‘Do you want me to talk to her?’

  Mike nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, thanks, Phil. Sounds like a plan. It’s appreciated. She’s not going to listen to a word I say.’ He checked his watch.

  ‘It’s only twenty-to-ten. Fancy another pint before you go?’

  ‘Not for me, thanks, mate. It’s time I headed off to get some shut eye. I’ll speak to you in a couple of days to see how things are going.’

  Beringer drove home with unnecessary haste despite being well over the drink drive limit. When he eventually arrived at his third floor town centre flat, he made a mug of strong milky instant coffee with two large spoonfuls of white sugar, in a short lived attempt to sober up. He sat at his kitchen table, trying to get his thoughts together… Could he convince Molly that the clinic wasn't a good idea? She could be an extremely stubborn woman when she wanted to be. She’d take a lot of convincing, but it had to be worth a try. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain. He had to give it his best shot.

  Beringer staggered into his lounge and picked up the phone before dialling Molly's number… He wouldn't be able to live with himself if Galbraith abused his Godson. His old friendships were well and truly on the line.

  The ringtone sounded for what seemed like an age before Molly picked up the receiver and said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Molly. It’s Phil. Have you got time for a quick chat?’

  ‘Are you pissed?’

  ‘What a question! It’s nice to talk to you as well. No, Molly, honestly, I’ve had a couple of pints with Mike, but that’s all.’

  ‘If this is some pathetic attempt at marriage guidance on behalf of that weak willed mate of yours, you can tell him to leave that tart before talking to me about the future. He must think I’m a complete idiot.’

  ‘He does want you back as it happens, Molly. But I’m calling about Anthony’s appointment with Galbraith.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You know I love Tony, don't you?’

  ‘I’m tired, Phil. If you've got something to say, just say it and let me get back to the television.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Molly. I really don't think Tony needs that kind of intervention.’

  ‘You've got no idea what he's been like, Phil. He needs help. The doctor’s making his case a priority.’

  Beringer blew the air from his mouth with a barely audible whistle. ‘I work with children like Tony all the time, Molly. It’s what I do day in day out. He just needs some consistency and reassurance about the future. That would better come from you and Mike than a stranger, however well qualified. I can’t make it any clearer than that.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Phil. The first appointment went a lot better than I could have hoped. I’ve seen positive changes in Tony. I don't know what the doctor did exactly, but whatever it was, it seems to be working.’

  Beringer closed his eyes and searched for an adequate response… This wasn't going his way. ‘I don't think it’s got anything to do with the clinic, Molly. If Tony’s mood and behaviour has improved as much as Mike said it had, there’s no way that’s down to one appointment at the clinic. You and Mike seem to be addressing your differences at last. I’m certain Tony’s responding to that. Just give him time. That’s all he needs.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Phil? I wasn't persuaded about going myself at first. But it really seems to be helping. The doctor’s a really nice guy: a bit odd I suppose, but he really seems to care about his patients. What harm can another appointment do?’

  ‘Promise me you’ll give it more thought, please.’

  ‘I don’t know what this is about, Phil. But, if it means that much to you, yes, I’ll think about it. Now go and sleep it off.’

  Chapter 16

  It was chilly in the Mailer household at 6:30 a.m. on a frosty Welsh winter morning, and the central heating wouldn't be coming on for another half-hour. Molly shivered against the cold, and hurriedly pulled on one of Mike’s old red replica Wales rugby shirts and an unfashionable pink cardigan bought cheaply in the local market the previous week. She crept across the landing, holding her white Dunlop daps in one hand, and after a brief bathroom visit, headed downstairs to make herself some much needed breakfast. Molly had slept somewhat fitfully after Beringer’s phone call, and concluded that a mug of sweet peppermint tea and a large bowl of sugary Kellogg’s Frosties were entirely justified in the circumstances.

  She sat at the kitchen table: trying not to think about the next morning’s appointment, trying not to think about the phone call, attempting to relax.

  But she couldn't stop her mind racing… H
ad Mike put Phil up to it? He never did have a very high opinion of psychiatry or the people who required it. Psychobable for needy people, wasn't that what he’d called it when one of his colleagues saw a psychologist after a mugging? But, if that was the case, why had Phil been so willing to support him? He was a therapist himself, wasn't he? Not the same as the doctor, but similar? Was there something more to it? There had to be, surely. He'd sounded genuine. Or was she overthinking it and in danger of becoming paranoid? There was only one way to find out, and she needed answers.

  Molly picked up the phone in the hall and dialled Mike’s number… What was she worrying about? If she woke her sleeping husband and his new love, that was all right with her.

  Molly swore silently under her breath when she heard Tina’s chirpy girlish voice at the other end of the line. She grimaced, and spoke through gritted teeth, trying her utmost to sound suitably confident and assertive. ‘I need to speak to Mike. It's his wife.’

  ‘He's still asleep, Molly. I'll ask him to ring you later. Was it really necessary to phone so early?’

  Molly bit the tip of her tongue, resisting the temptation to yell a stream of heart felt insults… How could anyone be so very irritating? ‘It's urgent, Tina. Just get him. Now, please.’

  ‘Molly?’

  ‘And a good morning to you as well, Mike. Tina sounded a little put out. I hope I haven't disturbed your domestic bliss?’

  ‘Why have you rung, Molly?’

  ‘I’ve had Phil on the phone last night, talking about Tony. Did you put him up to it?’

  ‘What? No! We had a game of squash after work as usual, but we didn't talk about Tony.’

  ‘You never were a very good liar, Mike. You might want to try being honest for once in your sad life. He was obviously pissed when he rang. How stupid do you think I am? Don't answer that by the way.’