by John Nicholl
‘Yeah, Phil said much the same thing to me. But, I’m not so sure. Why the sudden change in Tony? The more I think about it… the doctor must have helped. What other explanation is there? He seems like a different boy. I’m not saying Tony’s been the perfect child since the appointment. I wouldn’t want that anyway. But he does seem happier. He really does. And Dr Galbraith seemed to think that he needs more help, not less. He said it’s urgent. Why would he say that if it wasn’t true? What if I cancel and Tony gets worse again? He obviously likes the doctor. Why not give it another go?’
‘Phil should know about this stuff. But if you think it’s a good idea, I’m happy to go along with it.’
‘Anything for an easy life, eh, Mike?’
Mike scratched his head. She had it spot on as usual. Was he really that predictable? ‘It’s not like that. I just trust your judgement, love.’
‘You are seriously winding me up. Just pick us up in the morning if you can spare your precious time. And don’t even think about being late.’
‘Bloody hell, I won’t be. See you in the morning.’
17
Phillip Beringer dragged himself out of bed at 8:40 a.m. on Thursday 30 January. He cursed crudely, forcefully threw his box of herbal sleeping tablets across his bedroom, and headed downstairs to ring in sick for the first time in over three years, feigning a severe migraine.
After a brief bathroom visit he headed to the kitchen to fetch some breakfast, and sat in the lounge-cum-dining room in his striped flannelette pyjamas. He drank semi-skimmed milk from the carton, and chewed on a half-cooked piece of stale toast that he’d smothered in Marmite, from the distinctive bulbous glass pot balanced precariously on the grubby arm of his armchair.
Beringer gulped down the last of the milk, casually propelled the remaining bread crust across the room into a wastepaper bin located immediately next to the gas fire, and rose stiffly from his chair to switch on the television. He stood in front of the screen, pressed various buttons and reviewed the available channels, before quickly deciding that nothing on offer was going to distract him for very long. He switched the set off and picked up the phone. He’d been listening to other people’s problems for years. Where were they when he needed someone to talk to?
He placed the phone back on its receiver. Should he ring anybody at all?
Beringer balanced on a three-legged stool next to the phone for almost five minutes, trying to make a decision. What if Molly decided to take Anthony to his appointment despite his advice? It was a significant possibility. She seemed far from convinced by his argument. Perhaps he should have another word with Mike. No, that was completely pointless. It was Molly who made the decisions when it came to their children. He’d given it his best shot. But was that good enough? Was doing nothing more and living in hope really a viable option?
He stood up and kicked the stool over with the ball of his bare foot. Like fuck it was.
Beringer picked up the phone again, and tapped the handset repeatedly on his thigh. He’d already ruled out talking to Nicholson. Talking to someone within the area was always going to be potentially risky to the investigation, and to his career for that matter. What about someone from his old college days? He was still on speaking terms with one or two of them.
He weighed up his limited options. What about Bernie? He was in child protection in the North of England somewhere. He was a down-to-earth sort of bloke with a lot of relevant experience. They’d got pissed together a few times in the old days as young men, when blissfully oblivious to the future realities of the professional lives they’d so naïvely chosen. He may be worth talking to. Why not give it a try? There weren’t any other obvious candidates.
Beringer took his contacts book from the windowsill below the lounge window and flicked through the well-thumbed pages until he eventually located Bernard Gormley’s work number.
‘Good morning, can I speak to Mr Gormley, please?’
‘I can put you through to the duty social worker, if that helps.’
‘It’s a personal call. I’m an old mate of Bern.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Phillip Beringer.’
‘Thank you, Mr Beringer. I’ll see if he’s available.’
‘Hello, Phil, it’s Bern. You’re a blast from the past.’
‘Yeah, it’s been a while. How’s the wife and kids?’
‘Good, thanks. Are you still living the single life?’
‘Yeah, I’m afraid so, mate. Who’d have me?’
‘You’ve got a point there.’
‘Look, Bern, this isn’t a social call.’
Bernard Gormley laughed. ‘Yeah, I guessed that much. What can I do for you?’
‘I could do with some advice. Have you got five minutes to talk?’
‘As long as you need.’
‘Bern, this has to be on a strictly confidential basis, yeah?’
‘Goes without saying.’
‘We’re investigating a paedophile ring. It’s big. Everyone’s under a lot of pressure.’
‘And?’
‘The police are looking to make coordinated arrests in the not-too-distant future. We’re doing everything we can to prevent any of the suspects getting any clue of what’s coming. You know, for obvious reasons.’
‘And you’re having to live with various kids being at risk while the investigation continues. Not an easy thing to do.’
‘No, it’s not, but it’s become more personal than that.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘One of the suspects is a child psychiatrist.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
Beringer frowned. ‘It gets worse. A close mate of mine’s son is due to see the bastard tomorrow. I’m the boy’s godfather.’
‘Oh, that’s bad! Does the boy match the victim profile?’
‘It seems so.’
‘And you haven’t said anything to the parents? I’m not sure I could just stand by and let things happen.’
‘I’m not just standing by, Bern. That’s why I’m on the fucking phone. I’ve already tried to influence the parents in the direction of cancelling the appointment, but the mother still seems keen. She’s the sort of woman who’s hard to derail once her mind’s set on something, if you know what I mean. I don’t know what the hell to do next. Obviously I want to tell them, but if the doctor gets even the slightest hint that something’s up, the consequences for the investigation could be dire.’
‘You’re not wrong there, but…’
‘But what?’
‘You need to use your imagination, mate. Get creative.’
‘I’ve spent most of the night trying to get creative.’
‘How will they get to the appointment?’
‘By car, but what the hell’s that got to do with anything?’
‘How many have they got?’
‘What, cars?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I asked you.’
‘Just the one.’
‘Disable the engine, smash the windscreen, syphon the petrol. Do something. It’s got to be better than doing fuck all.’
‘Really? You’re telling me to vandalise the man’s car?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you.’
‘What’s that going to achieve? Even if they don’t get there, the mother’s likely to arrange another appointment.’
‘I’m not saying it would resolve the situation long term, Phil. But it may just buy you some time.’
Beringer shook his head. ‘And that’s the best you’ve got?’
‘That’s the best I’ve got.’
18
Galbraith woke with a start on Friday 31 January. He’d spent the night sleeping intermittently in the recliner chair in one corner of his study next to a faulty radiator, and he was cold, stiff and tired. He stood, raised both arms in the air to stretch his back, yawned loudly, and smiled. Was today the day? It could be. It was something to aim for. But he had to be careful. He shou
ldn’t rush things.
The doctor showered and shaved before dropping to the bathroom floor and doing seventy-five rapid press-ups, which left him only slightly out of breath. He jumped to his feet and admired his reflection in his magnified shaving mirror, before heading towards his palatial bedroom to get dressed.
He chose a Prince of Wales check suit made from an exquisite lambs’ wool cloth, a pristine white Egyptian cotton shirt, and a highly polished pair of black leather Oxford brogues. He finished the outfit off with his favoured gold cufflinks and a brightly coloured cartoon tie adorned with a sporting logo, which he considered Anthony would almost certainly appreciate. He stared into a framed mirror hanging to the side of the king-size bed in the light of the window and adjusted his hair, carefully coaxing the precise side parting into place. Finally, he swept non-existent fluff from both shoulders with a cherry wood clothes brush. Galbraith looked in the mirror for one final time, drinking in his image, and decided that he looked truly wonderful. He left his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, strode purposefully across the landing, and descended the stairs two or three steps at a time.
Galbraith sat at the kitchen table, actively ignoring Cynthia, who was standing next to the cooker, cleaning a spotless granite worktop. She was still cleaning the same worktop when he finally finished breakfast about twenty minutes later.
The doctor stood and glared at the back of her head. ‘I initially thought that you’d actually managed to do a reasonable job of preparing breakfast, for once in your miserable life.’
She steadied herself and slowly turned to face him. ‘Initially, dear?’
‘The position of my glass was two millimetres out of place.’
‘I checked twice. I used the ruler. I’m sure…’
He took a step towards her. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘No, of course not, I would never…’
‘Two millimetres isn’t acceptable. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.’
Cynthia fought to control her trembling body, she fought to control her bladder, and she searched for a response, any response that may placate him even slightly. Say something, Cynthia. Say something. ‘I’m s-sorry, dear. I’ll do better. I promise I’ll do better. Have you g-got everything you need for w-work?’
He approached her slowly, placing his face only inches from hers, and spat his words, spraying her face with buttery yellow saliva. ‘Don’t pretend you care about my work, bitch.’
‘But I do care.’
He swivelled his head and glared towards the door. ‘I can hear your fucking brats crying. You would be well advised to sort them out before I do.’
The couple’s two young daughters were standing ashen-faced and weeping at the top of the stairs when Cynthia reached the landing. No one spoke, but Cynthia smiled softly, and gestured to them to come to her. Both girls walked forward and hugged her tightly with eager arms. Cynthia held them close, shielding them from their cruel world, until they heard the front door slam shut a minute or two later. She forced a thin smile and spoke in a hushed whisper. ‘It’s not Daddy’s fault, girls. I must try harder. We all must.’
Galbraith sat back in the driver’s seat, red-faced and panting hard. He took slow, deep breaths as the pressure in his head mounted. Think, man, think. Picture the scene: the little bastard hanging there, helpless and at his mercy. That’s it, that’s it, make it big, make it bright, make it loud.
He squirmed and twitched and sweated and struggled to relax as the pounding gradually subsided and became bearable. That’s it, that’s it, now all he had to do was make fantasy reality.
Galbraith mopped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. Stay positive, man, stay positive. At least now he could move his project forward. Not as fast as he would like to, certainly. But forward nonetheless. The boy would soon be within his grasp. Albeit for only an hour, and with his ghastly, interfering bitch mother hovering somewhere in the background like a foul odour. Today was not the day he’d live out his ultimate fantasies; he had to accept that. But it would bring that day nearer. That was something to be grateful for. Something to celebrate. Something to be proud of. A sweet sorrow, so to speak. Today, however frustrating, he would have to be satisfied with whatever he could get away with.
The doctor arrived in the clinic’s empty car park much earlier than usual. He secured the vehicle with the click of a button, and smiled as he made his way across the car park. At least his moronic secretary wasn’t in work yet.
He strode into the clinic’s reception and entered the four-digit code into the burglar alarm control box with unneeded haste. It felt good to be standing in the empty room, avoiding the usual ritual of good mornings and other nauseating mundane pleasantries with his needy secretary. One day he’d tell the obnoxious bitch exactly what he thought of her.
He clenched his fists, before consciously relaxing his hands. One day, yes, one day.
Galbraith darted from room to room, repeatedly checking that everything was ready. Video camera, yes; video recorder, yes; new videotape, yes; television, yes; and microphones, yes. Everything in its place and working perfectly. Things were well on course. Just one more thing to organise…
He lowered himself to the floor of the therapy room and arranged several children’s videos on the shelf immediately below the television. He ensured that all but one were suitable only for very young children: Postman Pat, Noddy, Paddington Bear, Play School and the like. Yes, yes, they were ideal.
He picked up a Best Goal compilation, discarded the tape behind him for later disposal, and took an unlabelled videotape from his briefcase, before putting it in the case and placing it back on the shelf with the others. He relaxed momentarily and smiled. It was a simple technique. One he’d used many times over the years. But he couldn’t be too careful. There was always an element of risk and no room for complacency. Staying focused was everything.
Galbraith sat at his desk and repeatedly reviewed the plan in his mind, point by point, again and again and again. Was following the tried and tested process he’d utilised so many times before, giving him the temporary illusion of a self-control he no longer possessed? He had to be sure everything was right. He had to avoid any potential pitfalls. Think, man, think!
‘Good morning, Doctor, you’re an early bird today.’
He checked the clock. Oh for fuck’s sake! The bitch was early. Why today of all days?
He pictured her bloody and dying, and smiled. Game face. Come on, man, game face. ‘And a good morning to you, my dear girl. Is that a new blouse you’re wearing?’
Sharon giggled like a self-conscious schoolgirl. ‘What, this old thing? No, I’ve had it for ages.’
‘Well, it looks marvellous.’
Sharon beamed.
Gullible bitch. ‘I need you to perform an errand for me a little later, my dear girl. After you’ve welcomed Anthony and his charming mother to our clinic. Nothing too strenuous of course. Simply delivering an urgent report to the social services in Swansea for me. It will take you an hour or so I expect, nothing more.’
‘When exactly would you like me to take it?’
He grinned and adopted a relaxed persona, sitting half on and half off one corner of her desk. ‘Let’s not worry about that for now, my dear. I’ll let you know nearer the time. Why don’t you make us both a nice cup of coffee to start our day properly?’
Sharon frowned. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t particularly warm in the room. Why was he sweating? His shirt was sticking to his body. And why was his left eye twitching? He was usually so composed. Should she say something or just ignore it? Yes, of course she should. They were friends, after all. ‘Are you all right, Doctor? You look a little red in the face. Can I get you something?’
Get a grip, man. The bitch is onto something. ‘Nice of you to notice, my dear girl. Nothing to worry about. You know I don’t like to complain. I suspect the girls brought some winter virus or other back from school. It’s inevitable at this time of year, I’m afraid.�
��
‘You must look after yourself better, Doctor.’
Yes, yes, he was doing well. Keep it up, keep it up. ‘The entire family has gone down with it. Poor Cynthia was in a terrible state when I left the house this morning. I really hate to leave her like that. Now then, how about that coffee you were about to make us?’
‘You sit there and try to relax, Doctor. It won’t be long before the Mailers arrive.’ She picked up her handbag and went to open it. ‘Would you like some painkillers? I’m sure I’ve got some in here somewhere.’
‘No, thanks, my dear girl. Just a coffee will be wonderful.’
The doctor slumped at his desk, staring at the clock, watching the second hand and willing it to move faster. He fantasised, but this time it failed to alleviate his escalating distress. He clawed at his scalp with short clipped nails and clamped his cupped hands over his ears. If he didn’t get his hands on the little bastard soon, the consequences to his wellbeing could prove insurmountable.
19
Mike Mailer had taken full advantage of the opportunity for a lie-in, and finally dragged himself out of bed at 9:12 a.m. He put on the previous day’s pants, socks, shirt and tie, and one of his two low-budget supermarket work suits, before casually running an electric shaver over his face on the way to the bathroom.
Mike checked the divers’ watch he’d received as a Christmas gift from Molly two years previously. Nearly half past nine. Time for a quick coffee and a piece of toast smothered in peanut butter and strawberry jam if he got a shift on.
Mike left the flat about twenty minutes later, in the certain knowledge that he was cutting it fine. But, then he always did. That was his way, and there was nothing wrong with that.
