White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller

by John Nicholl

  PC Harris knocked again and waited… There was a light on. He could hear what sounded like Radio 4 somewhere in the house. Why the delay? He was cold, he was wet, and he was shivering. Should he walk away and try next door? No, he had a job to do. It mattered. He had to do it properly.

  He stamped his feet, clapped his black leather gloved hands together vigorously in an attempt to warm them, and knocked forcefully for the third time.

  Eighty-seven year old Rachel Evans was not nearly as mobile as she’d once been. She was heavily reliant on a walking frame, and very much hoping that her visitor was still in situ when she finally reached her front door and opened it… Thankfully he was. ‘Oh, hello, dear. I wasn't expecting the police.’ She smiled revealing stained broken teeth that were at least her own. ‘Your’e not going to arrest me are you, dear?’

  PC Harris had heard the joke what felt like a thousand times before, but he smiled anyway. ‘We’re undertaking enquiries in the area, and are speaking to all potential witnesses. I’d just like to ask you a few questions if that’s all right? Would you like to see my warrant card?’

  Mrs Evans declined with a mischievous grin. ‘That's all right, my dear, I can see you're a police officer, even if you do look young enough to be my grandson. Why don't you come in for a nice cup of tea in the warm? You look as if you could do with it.’

  He reciprocated her friendly smile, thinking that the old lady reminded him of his maternal grandmother. ‘I haven't got time for a cuppa now, sorry, but maybe another time. I want you to tell me if you saw anything suspicious or unusual between approximately four-thirty yesterday afternoon and about eleven-thirty this morning? Think carefully please, anything you can tell me may be important.’

  ‘Oh, I don't think so, dear. Are you sure you won't come in for a nice cup of tea and a piece of sponge? It’s homemade.’

  PC Harris made a mental commitment to call again when he had more time. ‘I'm really sorry, I would like to, honestly, but I must get on. I've got a lot more houses to visit.’

  Mrs Evans looked crest fallen. ‘Oh, all right, dear, you must visit again you know.’

  ‘I will. Goodbye for now.’

  ‘Goodbye, dear! Don’t forget to call.’

  As he walked away, pulling his coat around himself against the stinging rain, the old woman called after him in a faltering voice: ‘Oh, there was one thing, dear. There was an old van outside the Mailer's cottage. It was the middle of the night. I thought that was a bit odd.’

  PC Harris felt as if a bolt of electricity were passing through his body. ‘I think I will have that cup of tea after all.’

  Kieran Harris followed the old lady as she slowly manoeuvred herself towards her lounge, every item of ageing furniture a seeming obstacle. When they eventually reached their destination Mrs Evans gave him a beaming smile. ‘You sit yourself down there on the sofa, dear, and I'll get you that cuppa and a lovely piece of fresh sponge. I made it yesterday morning with plenty of strawberry jam.’

  Could he get away with saying no? Probably not, and a hot drink and a bite to eat wouldn’t do any harm. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Milk and sugar, dear?’

  ‘Just a drop of milk, please.’

  As she ambled unsteadily towards her kitchen, he was on pins… Would he, an inexperienced junior officer, be the one to break the high profile case? How good would that be. He may not have fitted in too well at the police station, but this could be a game changer. Zero to hero in one dramatic bound.

  As he sat there, surrounded by wood-chip wallpaper, brown furniture and fading memories, impatiently awaiting the old lady’s imminent return, he pictured himself providing DI Gravel with the vital information that lead to the violent perpetrator's arrest and Anthony Mailer's dramatic life saving rescue… It was a nice thought. Maybe, just maybe, it would become more than an ego boosting fantasy?

  To the young constable’s relief Mrs Evans re-appeared from her kitchen balancing perilously with a hospital-issue aluminium walking stick in one hand and a cup and saucer in the other. She smiled anxiously. ‘Nearly there, dear.’

  PC Harris rose from his seat… Was she going to fall? She may well do.

  He rushed towards her. ‘Let me take that from you!’

  ‘Oh, all right, dear. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’ll be eighty-eight in July. Fancy that. Life passes by so very quickly. Put your tea down on the coffee table, dear, and you can fetch my tea and the sponge from the kitchen. You'll find some plates in the cupboard above the fridge.’

  PC Harris returned carrying a heavily laden tray a minute or two later.

  ‘Oh, that's lovely, dear! Now, put the tray down here, and we can enjoy ourselves. Oh look, dear, you’ve forgotten a knife for the sponge.’

  He returned to the kitchen… Count to ten, Kieran. Count to ten.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Why don’t I cut you a nice big slice, and tell you what I saw?’

  He took his pocket book and a yellow plastic ballpoint pen from a uniform pocket. ‘Tell me exactly what you saw, Mrs Evans, take your time please. Anything you can tell me could be very important.’

  Mrs Evans placed her cup back on its saucer and looked up at the young officer with obvious pride. ‘I will, dear. Where shall I start? Now, let me think. I went to bed at about nine-o-clock. There's nothing worth watching on the telly these days. I couldn't sleep, dear, so I took a sleeping tablet, just the one. I do sometimes. In the middle of the night, I'm not really sure what time it was, I woke up needing the bathroom. It was very cold, dear. I looked out of my bedroom window to see if it was snowing. That nice weather man with the beard said it might.’

  Come to the point. Please come to the point. ‘What did you actually see, Mrs Evans?’

  ‘Well, it was very strange, dear. Like I said, I looked out of the window, my bedroom is in the front of the house, you know, and there was a big white van just outside that nice Mr and Mrs Mailer's cottage. I thought it rather odd. Well, you would, wouldn't you, dear, in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Why did you think it was unusual?’

  ‘I’d never seen that van in the street before, and then things became even stranger. Two men came out of the cottage. Dressed all in white they were. They walked up the path as bold as brass. Eat your sponge dear, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

  PC Harris took another large bite and washed it down with a gulp of tea.

  ‘What’s your sponge like, dear?’

  ‘Very nice, thanks, Mrs Evans.’

  The old lady beamed. ‘Would you like another piece, dear?’

  ‘Not just now thanks, Mrs Evans. I really would love to, but I must get on or I'll be in trouble with my boss.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want that, dear. Now then, what was it you wanted to ask me?’

  About time. ‘Can you describe the van for me, Mrs Evans? This really is very important.’

  The old lady looked troubled initially, but after a few seconds thought she smiled. ‘I'll try my best, dear.’

  PC Harris strongly suspected that he wasn't going to like the answer, but he asked the question anyway. ‘Do you know the make of the van, Mrs Evans?’

  ‘Oh no, no, no, dear! I don't know much about vans and the like. Does it matter, dear?’

  ‘That's all right, Mrs Evans, you're being very helpful.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear.’

  This was going to be a long shot. ‘Did you see the number plate?’

  ‘No, sorry, I'm not being very helpful, am I? Would you like another cup of tea, dear?’

  ‘I won't have anything more now, thanks. Can you tell me anything else about the van? Anything at all?’

  ‘Oh, now let me think. I don't know, dear? It was very rusty. I don't suppose that matters?’

  PC Harris felt the adrenalin flood through his body… He’d stopped a van meeting that description. He’d requested a PNC check. It could be the same vehicle, couldn't it? Was that was too much to hope for
?

  He composed himself and continued. ‘What about the two men, Mrs Evans? Can you describe them for me?’

  ‘Oh, I'll do my best, dear. But, it was very dark, you know. As I said before, there were two of them, one was quite tall and well built, and the other one was a little bit on the short side. I don't mean to be unkind, dear. And the strangest thing: they were dressed from head to foot in white.’

  ‘White? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘That really is very helpful, Mrs Evans. Did you see their faces, by any chance?’

  The old lady looked crestfallen. ‘Oh, no, dear, they were too far away for that. And I didn't have my glasses on. I am Sorry. Have I helped at all, dear?’

  PC Harris smiled warmly. ‘You have been extremely helpful, Mrs Evans. Now, think hard. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all?’

  ‘Now let me think. There was one thing, dear. The shorter one was carrying something on his shoulder. A rug perhaps? Or something like that anyway. He threw it in the back of the van before they drove off. Were they stealing, dear?’

  It had to be worth asking. ‘Could he have been carrying a child, Mrs Evans?’

  ‘A child, dear? Surely not!’ She paused, ‘Well, it could have been a child, I suppose.’

  PC Harris nodded. ‘Thank you very, very much, Mrs Evans. You've been extremely helpful. Someone from CID will want to talk to you and take a full statement. Will that be all right?’

  She hadn't felt useful in a long, long time, and it felt good. ‘That will be lovely, dear. I’m very happy to help. Now, will you have one last cup of tea or something else to eat before you go back out into the cold? You could do with a bit of feeding up, young man.’

  PC Harris stood up to leave. ‘I would like to, Mrs Evans, but I really do have to leave now. Thank you again for your assistance.’

  What a shame! Still, she’d be receiving another visitor soon. That was something to look forward to. ‘You will call again, won't you, dear?’

  He looked back and said that he would… He planned to keep his promise.

  As he walked the short distance to the adjoining house, PC Harris had an unmistakable skip in his step… Maybe he’d won the investigative lottery. His information was potentially important, that was definite. But, should he use his radio to contact the inspector? Maybe yes, maybe no? His information would have a greater impact at the feedback meeting, wouldn't it?

  He pictured himself receiving the glowing plaudits of his previously dismissive colleagues… It could wait until seven-o-clock, couldn't it? Of course it could. Where was the harm in that?

  Chapter 33

  Sister Thomas appeared at the day-room door with a fleeting smile that hardened as she entered the room. Mike squeezed Siân’s hand, expecting the worst, but hoping for the best… A look could sometimes do that.

  In a faltering voice resonating with disquiet emotion he asked, ‘How is she, Sister?’

  ‘If you come to my office, Mr Mailer, I’ll tell you what I can.’

  Mike stood to follow her, but stopped abruptly when Siân said, ‘I want to hear what she has to say, Dad. She's my mother. I’m old enough.’

  ‘All right, love, fair comment.’ He met the sister’s eyes and nodded his agreement… Sian had the right to know the reality, however potentially painful. And at least someone else would be doing the telling.

  The sister returned his nod, and chose her words carefully. ‘Mrs Mailer is in intensive care. The operation to repair her facial injuries went relatively well, but I'm afraid there were complications. Mr Faulks will be along to speak to you as soon as he can.’

  Mike and Siân responded in unison as WPC William’s looked on, acutely aware that she was trespassing on the families grief. ‘Complications? What sort of complications?’

  Sister Thomas appeared suddenly flustered. ‘I really can't tell you any more at the moment. I'll try and find out how quickly Mr Faulks can speak to you.’

  Mike placed a mutually supportive arm around Siân’s shoulder… Why was the nurse being so evasive? So cautious? She was hiding something. What wasn't she saying?

  He tried again. ‘Surely you can tell us something more, Sister?’

  She mumbled her virtually incomprehensible apologies, and hurried from the room without saying anything more.

  Time passed frustratingly slowly as they waited for the consultant surgeon to make an appearance. When he did finally appear, he stood just inside the door a good ten-feet form Mike, Siân and the WPC, and looked past them into the distance, rather than meet their anxious gaze. When he began speaking, Mike noted it was in what he considered a predictably privileged, privately educated south of England accent. ‘Mr Mailer, I am sure you will be pleased to hear that the operation went relatively well given the severity of your wife's injuries. As the weeks pass the physical scars will heal, and her features will appear much as they did prior to the attack. There were, however, some difficulties during the operation, and we will just have to wait and see how she is when she eventually comes around from the anaesthetic.’ And with that said, he turned to leave.

  Mike took a deep breath… Was that it? Difficulties? What the fuck did he mean by difficulties? Did the patronising prat really think the information he’d provided was adequate?

  He stood up, shouted, ‘Hold on a minute,’ and walked towards the surgeon, who appeared genuinely surprised at what he interpreted as Mike’s audacity.

  ‘What the hell do you mean by difficulties?’

  Mr Faulks steadied himself. ‘As I said, Mrs Mailer's facial injuries will heal given sufficient time. She did thou receive several heavy blows to the head during the assault, which will almost certainly have caused some degree of injury to her brain. Patients do usually recover from such injuries as the swelling recedes. But I'm afraid in Mrs Mailer’s case the picture is rather more complex.’

  Mike returned to his seat to comfort his daughter… Here we go again. ‘Complex? What's that supposed to mean?’

  The surgeon stared at the ceiling, shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, and cleared his throat noisily before responding. ‘Mrs Mailer suffered a cardiac event during the surgery. It's regrettable, but it sometimes happens.’

  Mike shook his head incredulously. ‘Cardiac event? Do you mean a heart attack?’

  ‘Yes, I'm afraid I do, Mr Mailer. Mrs Mailer was successfully resuscitated, but she stopped breathing for a time. Her brain was deprived of oxygen, and may have been irrevocably damaged as a consequence. One can't say with any certainty in such cases. As I said, we will just have to wait and see. I will assess her again along with my neurological colleagues in due course.’

  ‘Are you saying she died?’

  ‘Her heart stopped for almost three-minutes, Mr Mailer. Let’s wait and see how things progress.’

  Please get better, Mo. Please God, make her better. ‘C-can we see her now, Doctor?’

  ‘I really can't see any reason why not, Mr Mailer. You will find her on the intensive care ward. But please don’t expect too much. It’s far too soon to expect her to speak. Now, I really must to get on, I have other patients to think of. Any final questions?’

  Mike shook his head wearily, and nothing more was said.

  WPC Williams had heard enough to know it was pointless asking when interviewing Molly would be feasible… It was going to be a long wait, if it happened at all.

  As Mike watched the surgeon walk away a thousand questions invaded his troubled mind. He wanted to stamp and shout like a petulant child… But what purpose would it serve. One thing at a time, bite sized chunks. That was how to deal with the situation. Go and see Mo, and then think about Tony. Man up, Mike. For Siân’s sake, man up. ‘Come on, love. Let's go and see your mum.’

  Chapter 34

  DI Gravel drained his much favoured black and white Neath rugby club mug, pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, and checked his Casio… Only ten-minutes before the feedback meeting and he
had fuck all of note to tell the troops.

  He reevaluated the relevant facts in his mind for the umpteenth time, searching for a positive… Was there something he’d missed? Was there anything he hadn't done? If only it were that simple: stranger abductions were rare, but it looked as if this was one of those cases. There just wasn't much to go on unless they came up with something and quickly. Fuck it! Things were not looking good. The chances of finding Anthony Mailer alive were diminishing with every minute that passed.

  He picked up a pencil, and snapped it in half before hurling the pieces at the wall… Raising the teams moral wasn't going to be easy.

  When DI Gravel entered the incident room a few minutes later he was attempting to exude an air of confidence he didn't feel. He looked around the room, gratified that all relevant officers were ready and waiting, with the exception of Bethan Williams, whom he wasn't expecting to attend.

  The loud chatter stopped abruptly when the inspector stood at the front of the room and raised a hand high above his head. He casually surveyed the limited resources under his command and swore silently under his breath… They were inadequate, but would have to do. The curse of small rural forces.

  You could have heard a pin drop as he began speaking. ‘Right people, listen carefully.’ And then a joke to reduce the tension. ‘I'll be asking questions later.’ Everyone laughed. They felt they had to.

  He raised his open hand in the air for a second time, effectively silencing the room. ‘Listen up, everyone. Time to get serious. Siân Mailer found her injured mother and discovered that her brother was missing approximately seven and a half hours ago. Time is moving on, people. In this type of investigation rapid results are essential for a successful outcome. Molly Mailer is in South Wales General. She's had surgery, and Bethan will let me know if and when she can be interviewed. But I'm not holding my breath. It's not going to be anytime soon. So I hope you lot can offer me something. Anthony Mailer is still missing. Mrs Mailer's attack was a vicious, sustained assault. It is highly likely that the same perpetrator, or perpetrators, snatched Anthony. I do not need to tell you what that could mean. We need to find him, and fast.’ He paused for breath and then continued. ‘Let’s hear what you've got. Clive, you kick off. Anything from the hospitals or the boy's known contacts?’