White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller

by John Nicholl

  Chapter 37

  ‘Fisher’s still asking for his call, boss. ’

  DI Gravel shook his head and snorted disdainfully. ‘The bastard seems to understand the legal system as well as I do.’

  ‘It seems so, boss.’

  ‘Let him make his call, Clive. And then lock him up and let him sweat awhile.’

  ‘Any news from DI Simpson?’

  ‘Fuck all as yet, Clive. I’ll give him a bell to see how things are progressing. Look, why don’t you have a quick cup of tea in the canteen, and I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready for Fisher’s interrogation.’

  Wayne Fisher looked behind him and then to each side of the room, before finally picking up the phone… Unless the pigs had some unlikely high-tech snooping device hidden somewhere it was safe to make the call.

  His hand hovered above the dial… What the hell was Galbraith’s number? Was it five nine six or nine five six? Nine five six, that was it. He dialled frantically and listened to the ring tone.

  Cynthia Galbraith answered the phone almost immediately and was slightly out of breath when she said, ‘Hello, who’s speaking, please?’

  ‘My name’s Fisher, Wayne Fisher, I’m a friend of your husband. I need to speak to him.’

  ‘I haven’t heard him mention your name, Mr Fisher?’

  ‘Is he there?’

  ‘Yes, but he doesn't like to be disturbed, Mr Fisher.’

  What the hell was wrong with the woman? ‘This is urgent, lady. He would want to hear what I have to say. Just tell him whose on the phone, please.’

  Cynthia was suddenly aware that her hair was sticking to her forehead… What if it was urgent? The man seemed angry for some inexplicable reason. Maybe it was a male thing? Perhaps taking a message was the preferable option? ‘I really don't want to disturb him when he's working, Mr Fisher. If you know my husband as you claim to, you will understand that he wouldn't appreciate it at all. Can I take a message?’

  ‘This can’t wait, Mrs Galbraith. I don't know how I can make myself any clearer? This call is extremely urgent. I need to talk to him now please.’

  ‘I suppose I could ask him if he want’s to speak to you?’

  ‘That would be great. Please do that.’

  Cynthia stood at the entrance to her husband’s secret world, staring at the forbidden grey concrete steps, and for the first time ever she dared to descend, step by slow determined step towards the white steel security-door at the bottom. She hesitated on reaching the door, solely tempted to retreat back to the comparative safety of the kitchen. But instead, after a few seconds urging herself to act, she knocked on the cold metal, softly at first, as if hoping he wouldn't hear her, and then harder, time and time again until he did.

  When Dr Galbraith opened the door, the two of them stood like silent statues, intensely focussed on one another for a full ten-seconds before Cynthia finally looked away. As the doctor raised his right fist to punch her, she took a rapid backward step and raised both arms defensively, before blurting out, ‘Wayne Fisher’s on the phone. He says it's urgent. I'm sorry, he said I had to interrupt you.’

  The doctor stopped dead in his tracks… Why the hell was Fisher contacting him? It had better be good.

  He lowered his arm without striking, and pushed past Cynthia on his way up the steps.

  Cynthia didn't move at first, but then she took a single step forward… Should she put her head through the door-frame and peep into the prohibited glaringly bright room? It would be illuminating. But, what if he came back and caught her looking? That degree of danger was unthinkable.

  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 Dr Galbraith was such a good idea after all. ‘I’m at the police station, Doctor. I’ve been nicked on suspicion of receiving.’

  ‘What the hell has that got to do with me, man?’

  ‘They've taken the van, Doctor. They've never done that before. Somethings up. They're asking questions I can’t answer.’

  Pressure and sound exploded inside his 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, man?’ He slammed down the phone, cracking the red plastic receiver.

  Wayne Fisher’s legs weakened, his head swimming… It was no empty threat. The man was dangerous. There was no way he was telling the pigs anything at all.

  Dr Galbraith returned to the cellar and sat on the 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 further delayed.

  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 little bastard’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.

  Dr 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 little bastard 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 little bastard now, and destroy the evidence. That was the sensible option, wasn't it?

  Dr 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.

  Chapter 38

  ‘Trevor, it’s Grav. How you doing?’

  ‘Not bad thanks, Grav. 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 naturally, but it’s looking pretty good, Grav. Galbraith’s well and truly in the frame. He's should be going down for a 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 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?’

  ‘Nothing as yet, Grav, Fisher’s going to have to wait awhile. We just haven't got enough on him as things stand. Any joy your end?’

  ‘Fuck all, Trevor. We found nothing of interest at the ya
rd 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, Grav. 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?’

  ‘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 finger-print anywhere except for me and Ranking’s. Fuck all! Our Mr Fisher’s been up to something, but I’ve got nothing on him.’

  ‘You win some you lose some, Grav.’

  ‘Fisher’s time will come.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. How’s the Mailer investigation going otherwise? Are you any nearer finding the boy?’

  ‘It’s going nowhere at the moment, Trevor. I’m thinking Fisher being out and about that night was purely coincidental. Like you said, there’s a lot of white vans in circulation.’

  ‘It was always a long shot, Grav. You already knew that.’

  ‘Your’e not wrong, Trevor. If we find the boy alive, it’ll be a fucking miracle.’

  Chapter 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 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 kissed 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 instinctively 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 questions in the circumstances, wouldn't it?

  After a moments 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 answerers. 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 the 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 focussed on the linoleum, and continued running.

  WPC 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 troubled lungs… He loved Mo dearly, so why had he let her down again? And just when she most needed him most. 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 attached her. A man with blue eyes. But, what about Tony? Oh, God, what aboutTony? 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?

  WPC 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 grimaced.

  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, please call me Bethan. I'm sure you want to know exactly what’s going on.’

  Molly nodded once and grimaced.

  ‘Mrs Mailer, there's no easy way to tell you this. You were attacked in your home. You were in your bedroom at the time. Sian found you there and dialled 999. Can you remember anything that could help us catch the man who did this? Anything at all? Even seemingly insignificant details may prove vital.’

  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.

  WPC Williams looked quizzically to 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.

  WPC 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 note pad and 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, Molly. 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 franticly tried to vocalise minutes earlier: WHERE IS ANTHONY?

  Bethan Williams spoke slowly, trying desperately to prevent her voice breaking with emotion. ‘Molly, 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 WPC looked directly at Molly, rather than give into the strong temptation to look away… It was time for total honesty. The poor woman deserved to know the reality however distressing the facts. ‘I know this isn't going to be easy for
you to hear, Molly. 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 WPC 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, Molly? 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 moments 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, Molly? 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 actress, 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.’