When Evil Calls Your Name: a dark psychological thriller (Dr David Galbraith Book 2)

by John Nicholl

  I rubbed my tired eyes, smearing black mascara across one cheek.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mrs Galbraith?’

  What did she mean by that? Could she read my thoughts? The doctor often claimed he could. Maybe she was no different. It was hopeless, absolutely hopeless.

  ‘Can you hear me, Mrs Galbraith?’

  And then I spoke out instinctively, without thinking, without engaging my brain. ‘You’ve been so kind.’ It was okay to say that, wasn’t it? I hadn’t let anything slip. There was no harm in that.

  She leant towards me and handed me a paper hankie. ‘You’ve had a difficult day, you’re bound to feel emotional. Anyone would in the circumstances.’

  What a nice thing to say; it seemed she understood. Perhaps it was okay to talk to her after all. ‘I saw my parents. They collected my daughters after their interviews. I don’t see very much of them anymore. I hadn’t seen my dad since leaving for Cardiff.’

  She looked genuinely surprised. ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  It seemed like an innocuous enough question. Why not answer? ‘I let them down. They chose not to keep in touch.’

  The detective looked at me quizzically. ‘But they seemed absolutely delighted to see you earlier today. Your dad seemed overwhelmed with emotion. He could hardly contain himself.’

  ‘It’s all a show, they don’t really feel like that.’

  She shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘My husband explained it to me. He’s a clever man and understands such things. He speaks to them on a regular basis. They just can’t cope with my inadequacies.’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘Are you scared of your husband, Cynthia?’

  I didn’t expect that one. I’d said too much, far too much. It was spilling out of me like a flood, despite my determination to remain tight-lipped. Time to think. I needed time to think. I nodded ever so subtly and whispered, ‘He wouldn’t want me to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Dr Galbraith is in custody. It’s safe to talk. The more you tell me, the better. He can’t hurt you anymore.’

  I took a deep breath and steadied myself, making a show of sipping my hot tea before biting my lower lip and looking away.

  ‘We need your help, Cynthia.’

  Now, that got my attention and I sat up in my seat. Why would anyone need my help, of all people? ‘Really?’

  ‘A child is missing. A seven-year-old little boy called Anthony with short red hair and freckles. His mother was attacked and he was taken from his home in the middle of the night. It was an extremely violent assault. She was left for dead. We believe that your husband had something to do with the attack and the boy’s abduction. Have you seen Anthony? Can you help us find him?’

  Oh my God, oh my God! Think nice thoughts, Cynthia, think nice thoughts.

  She glared at me. ‘Can you help us?’

  I closed my bleary eyes tight shut and began rocking back and forth in my chair. It was too much to contemplate. Too much to handle. I was like a rabbit caught in the headlights with nowhere to run.

  ‘Did you see him? This is your opportunity to tell me what you know.’

  My mind was doing somersaults, attempting to compute the information but failing dismally. Maybe I should tell the nice officer what I’d seen and heard. I wanted to, I really wanted to. Perhaps I should follow my instincts. It would feel so good to help. But hold on! What would the doctor say if I did the wrong thing again? What would he do to me? Surely if he had the boy, it must be for extremely good reasons. He was an important man with an important professional role. Perhaps it was better to say nothing, rather than say or do the wrong thing yet again.

  ‘Speak to me, Cynthia.’

  I parted my lips as if to speak, but then reconsidered. He could tell the police everything they wanted to know if he chose to. It was probably best to leave the talking to him, and say nothing more.

  ‘Mrs Galbraith?’

  I ignored her prompt, closing my eyes for fear of saying the wrong thing again.

  ‘We suspect that Anthony is in terrible danger. We’re talking about a child’s life. Can you help us find him?’

  I bit my lip again, harder this time.

  ‘Look at me. Open your eyes, please.’

  I opened my eyes slowly and stared into space, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘I am going to ask you again. Was Anthony Mailer at your home?’

  I clamped down my teeth and tasted blood.

  ‘What is it you’re afraid of? If you know anything, anything at all, you must tell me.’ She was getting agitated now. Just like him, just like him. It seemed she wasn’t so nice after all. Keep your mouth shut, Cynthia, keep your mouth tightly shut.

  I closed my eyes again, acutely aware of the accusing shadow of my husband looming over me and cautioning continued silence. She’s trying to catch you out, you stupid bitch. Don’t trust her for an instant. You’ve said too much already. Not another word, not if you want to keep those brats of yours. Not a single word!

  ‘Do you know anything? Can you help us find Anthony?’

  I met the detective’s pleading look for a fleeting moment and shook my head vigorously, attempting to persuade her to bring the interview to an end.

  She persevered for another twenty minutes or more before reluctantly accepting defeat. I was just glad it was over. So very glad it was over.

  And then she smiled warmly and placed what I suspected was intended to be a reassuring hand on my left shoulder. ‘I’m going to make a phone call to find out if my colleagues have finished searching your house. I’ll take you home just as soon as I can. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘I haven’t got a key.’

  ‘You don’t have your own key?’

  ‘I’ve never had one.’

  ‘I’ll ask one of my colleagues to drop one off.’

  I nodded, grateful for the kindness. ‘Okay, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  DC Thomas took a pen from her handbag and asked for my home number.

  We left the resource centre about two hours later, after the various officers had left my home. I sat next to her in the front of the car and asked if they’d found anything significant. She chose not to answer.

  The detective kept her eyes fixed on the road, rather than turn to face me. ‘What do you think they may have found?’

  I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing more. I’d said too much already. How stupid could a person be?

  She repeatedly asked me the same unanswered questions during the twenty-minute journey, and I felt genuinely relieved when we finally arrived at the house and she chose to remain in the car. She handed me a white card with her name and telephone number on the front as I exited the vehicle. ‘Contact me anytime if you need to talk.’

  ‘When will my husband be home?’

  She smiled reassuringly. ‘He’s still being questioned, as far as I’m aware. It could be some time, and that’s if he comes home at all.’

  I had a skip in my step as I opened the door. How good would that be? Just me and my lovely girls. Or was that too much to ask for? Yes, it was probably too much to hope for. He’d explain himself, he’d outwit them, he’d win in the end. He always did. Why should this time be any different?

  I jumped, spilling a small amount of my tea into the saucer when the phone rang out and shattered the silence later that evening. I entered the hall in response to the demanding ringtone, picked up the receiver and held it to my ear. Please don’t be him, please don’t be him.

  ‘Hello, Cynth, it’s Mum. Is that you, love?’

  Should I say anything in response? Maybe or maybe not, I’d made enough mistakes for one day.

  ‘Say something, Cynth, the girls want to hear your voice.’

  My breathing became more laboured and my eyes filled with tears. ‘Are they with you now?’

  ‘Yes love, it’s on speaker phone. They can hear everything you’re saying. They want to say hello. They’re missing you.’
<
br />   She sounded so gentle, so caring. Perhaps it was for the girls’ benefit rather than mine.

  I heard Elizabeth and Sarah yelling ‘Hello’ in excited voices, encouraged by their grandmother. ‘Can they come home, Mum?’

  ‘Give me a second, I’ll just give Dad a shout. We need to talk privately. I’ll put the girls on.’

  ‘Good night, Mummy!’

  My eyes flooded with tears again. ‘Good night, you two, sweet dreams, be good for Granny.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here, Mum.’

  ‘Dad’s going to read the girls a bedtime story while we talk.’

  I smiled, recalling my own happy childhood. ‘That’s nice.’

  And then a brief silence before she spoke again, ‘I’m worried about you. What on earth’s going on in your life? The police and social services haven’t told us very much at all.’

  I shook my head, wanting to tell her, but doubting her true intentions. ‘When can the girls come home? They’re my daughters, not yours.’

  ‘I know that, I’m on your side.’

  Really? I hoped so. I really hoped so. ‘Bring them home first thing in the morning. I’ll have their breakfast waiting.’

  I could visualise her shaking her head in that maddening way of hers. ‘It’s not that simple. The social worker explained that if we didn’t agree to look after the girls until told otherwise, they’d be placed with foster carers.’

  I felt as if my fragile world was dismantling still further. ‘They can’t do that.’

  ‘They’ve applied for some sort of legal order. There’s going to be a meeting. The social worker’s going to discuss it with you once they know what’s happening with the police.’

  I didn’t want to hear it. I just couldn’t accept my new reality. Think nice thoughts, Cynthia. Think nice thoughts. ‘I just want them home.’

  ‘Talk to the social worker. Hold on, I’ve got the number here somewhere.’

  I didn’t want to talk to the social worker, or anyone else for that matter. I just wanted my girls home with me at the earliest opportunity and for us to be left alone to get on with our lives. I slammed the phone down and screamed. The doctor had it spot on all along. They were all liars, they were all against me, and they all wanted to take my children. Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time.

  43

  My porridge was cold, lumpy and particularly unappetising this morning, as it often is on Mondays for some inexplicable reason, but that apart it’s been a pretty good day. Things progressed as per usual until about 11:00 a.m., when one of the senior guards rushed into the laundry where I was busy ironing despite my recent accident, and announced that the governor, no less, wanted to see me. I felt somewhat anxious as I rushed to keep up with the guard as she negotiated various corridors before stopping abruptly on reaching the governor’s never-seen-before polished dark-oak door. I had no idea why I’d been summoned, and my nerves almost got the better of me as she knocked reticently and waited for a woman, I could only assume to be the governor’s secretary, to shout, ‘Come in,’ after a few seconds of painful silence. Getting that nervous made little sense given my situation and the limits of potential sanctions, but I think the scenario spirited me back to the headteacher’s office following some minor misdemeanour or other years before. Isn’t it strange how our past shapes and torments us when we least expect it?

  ‘Cynthia Galbraith to see the governor.’

  The middle-aged secretary looked up from her typewriter and pressed the tannoy button to its left. ‘Cynthia Galbraith to see you, Mr Thompson.’

  I stifled a nervous giggle. Pathetic, I know, but there you go. It felt so like school.

  ‘Send her in, Jo.’ I assumed it was short for Joanne, but who knows? I never did find out for certain, and I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.

  She pointed at a second oak-panelled door located just a few feet behind her desk and said, ‘You can go in now.’

  The governor was sitting in a brown antique leather swivel chair behind a large modern desk, when I entered the room and stood before him. Why do such people need such huge offices? I know it’s a status thing, but really, what a ridiculous waste of space. Aren’t the title, power and salary enough?

  ‘Take a seat, Cynthia.’

  Cynthia, my first name, and take a seat in one of his padded chairs. Now that surprised me. I was expecting to be left standing there wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. But instead he smiled warmly and called to his secretary, asking her to make two cups of coffee. He didn’t actually ask me how I like my coffee, I guess that would have been a step too far, but it was coffee nonetheless. The officious assistant with her brash and superior persona was making coffee for a prisoner. I bet that stuck in her craw. Wonders never cease.

  ‘I suppose you must be wondering why I’ve asked to see you.’

  I nodded as the secretary reentered the office in snooty silence and placed a tin tray holding two cups of black coffee, a jug of milk and a bowl of brown sugar next to the desktop computer. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘I’ll need you to take dictation in about an hour, but that will be all for the time being. Close your door on the way out please.’

  He turned back to face me and looked me directly in the eye. ‘Help yourself to a coffee.’

  I was all fingers and thumbs as I poured a splash of milk and spooned sugar into my cup and stirred vigorously. ‘Thank you, it’s appreciated.’

  And then a flicker of a smile played on his lips before he spoke again, ‘I’ve had your solicitor on the phone this morning, a Mr Breen. He seemed a pleasant enough man.’

  I moved to the very edge of my chair and took a deep breath before raising the cup to my lips, swallowing a mouthful of sweet coffee and savouring the rich flavour. ‘What was it he wanted?’ I was hoping for something positive, praying for something positive.

  ‘It seems there have been some developments in your case.’

  There was that phrase again. All I could think was, developments? What developments? Somebody tell me before my head explodes.

  ‘I’ll leave the specific details to your lawyer, but suffice it to say he considers them significant.’

  I resisted the impulse to protest. I wasn’t any clearer than when I’d entered the room. ‘Can you tell me any more, please?’

  ‘I’m sure your solicitor will put you fully in the picture just as soon as he sees you this afternoon. He’ll be here around two o’clock. I’ll ask Jo to ensure there’s a room available. Now, Mrs Martin tells me you’re writing a journal.’

  And that was it. He directed the conversation away from my question and never went back to it. He was in control. He was in charge. Like it or not, I’d just have to wait until the afternoon’s meeting. Be patient, Cynthia. You’ve waited three long years. What difference would another couple of hours make? I’d just have to be patient and let the minutes tick by.

  I thought my solicitor looked older and somewhat jaded as he shook my hand that afternoon. His brown hair had thinned since I’d last seen him, and his previously boyish face was finally showing its age. Isn’t it strange how we expect people to appear as they were when we last met them, even when it was years previously? I guess he was making similar observations about me. Perhaps it’s best not to think about it too much. I’m not getting any younger either.

  ‘Good to see you again, Cynthia. How’s life treating you?’

  A stupid question given my living arrangements, wouldn’t you agree? ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘Please take a seat, and I’ll explain what this is all about.’

  I sat as instructed, my gut doing somersaults with the expectation of it all.

  ‘How long has it been?’

  ‘Three long years.’

  He took a cigarette from a packet of twenty and offered me one before lighting the tip and sucking at it hungrily, as the poisonous fumes spiralled into the air and stung my eyes. ‘I thought so.’
<
br />   ‘Look, can we forget the small talk and get on with it?’

  He took another drag and nodded twice. ‘Do you remember Detective Inspector Gravel?’

  Just tell me, whatever it is, just tell me. ‘Yes, of course I do.’

  ‘He called to see me at my office first thing yesterday morning.’

  ‘And?’ It was far too important to be patient for a second longer.

  ‘The new owners of Galbraith’s Caerystwyth town house have been pulling up floorboards as part of a central heating project.’

  I was beginning to wonder if I was going to like what he said next one little bit.

  ‘They found a large collection of files, photos and videotapes hidden under a false floor. I don’t know how the hell the police missed them during their search.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought they’d found a body. ‘The police know exactly what he was. It’ll be more of the same.’

  ‘Oh, it was, no surprises there, but there was one different file. A file dedicated to you.’

  I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Everything you said was true.’

  I shook my head incredulously. ‘Well, I know that, but nobody believed me.’

  ‘He kept a complete written record of everything he did to you. They’ll believe you now.’

  ‘Does it change anything?’

  He stubbed out his cigarette and smiled. ‘Yes, I believe it does. I need to sound it out with the barrister, but I’m quite confident that we have grounds for appealing your conviction.’

  It sounded like good news, but I wasn’t ready to throw my figurative hat in the air just yet. ‘What sort of stuff did he record?’

  He pushed up the sleeve of his navy jacket and checked his wristwatch. ‘I’ll drop you a line sometime in the next couple of days to put you fully in the picture, but I want to spend our remaining time today discussing where we go from here.’

  I looked at him with pleading eyes, and he added, ‘I’ve got to be out of here in twenty minutes. Shall I make a start?’