White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller (2 page)

And despite everything, he’d utilised his therapeutic skills in an attempt to help the man. He’d explained why they did what they did. Why Sherwood did what he did. That he was facing his true-self for the first time, with no room for his usual rationalisation, self-deception or denial. But, Sherwood’s guilt became even more entrenched. He insisted that Gareth’s death was a watershed moment. Gareth! He actually used the little bastard’s name, and claimed he’d never offend again as a result of his death.

Dr Galbraith slammed the palm of his right hand down on his desktop… Claiming he’d talk to the authorities rather than harm another child was an abomination. Sherwood became an intolerable liability at that precise moment. Something had to be done. It really was as simple as that.

Two-days passed, and Sherwood was still maintaining his laughable position. The man even turned down the opportunity to attend a gathering of the ring. He hadn't missed a meeting for years. That was far too significant a development to ignore. Enough was enough. Providing the paracetemol was an act of human kindness.

He sat Sherwood on that ghastly bohemian red leather settee of his, poured one tot of single malt-whiskey after another down his ungrateful throat, and handed him the tablets one at a time. He even did that for the man before repeatedly reinforcing his feelings of guilt and remorse: ‘You've done terrible things, Richard. You will never overcome your guilt, Richard. You will harm other children, Richard. Death can be a welcome release, Richard. It needn't be painful, Richard.’ It was something along those lines. Anyway, whatever his choice of words they had the desired effect. That’s what mattered. And liver damage wasn't such a bad way to go, was it? Why concern himself? Sherwood was better off dead. There seemed little purpose in further pondering such inconsequences.

Dr Galbraith removed his spectacles, closed Gareth's project file, and was instantly back in the present. He ran a hand through his neat black hair, rose easily from his seat, pulled up his pants and trousers, and tucked his shirt-tail into his waist band with both hands… It had been too long, far too long, and no amount of reminiscing would sustain him, however dedicated his approach.

He took a GP referral letter from an inside pocket of the bespoke navy-blue single-breasted suit jacket hanging on the back of the study door, removed it from its ivory envelope, returned to his seat, unfolded it carefully, and reread it for the sixth time since receiving it the previous morning… The little bastard was the past, and a new project was essential if the pressure in his head were to become even remotely manageable.

He blinked repeatedly as a single bead of sweat ran down his forehead and found a home in his left eye… It was looking hopeful. His new patient was the correct gender and within the required age range. He had to be worth a look, didn't he?

He closed his eyes again and nodded once, confirming the conclusion of his ruminations… Yes, yes, of course he was. New projects made life worth living.

Chapter 2

‘W
ill you read to me, Mummy?’

‘Oh, Anthony, it’s well past your bed time. What will teacher say if you fall asleep in class again?’

‘Just a few pages, Mummy, please. I’m feeling sad.’

‘Come here, cariad, and give your old mum a hug.’

Anthony buried his head in the warm orange wool of her jumper.

Molly disentangled herself from her son. ‘Now then, cariad, into bed with you, and I’ll tuck you in nice and snug. I’ve put your teddy and a nice warm hot water bottle under your quilt.’

‘Just a few pages, please. I don't want to be on my own.’

‘Okay, just five-minutes. But then it’s time for sleeping.’

Molly Mailer picked up the paperback and began reading.

‘Is Dad coming to see me on Saturday, Mummy?’

Molly closed the book and rested it on the small glass topped bedside cabinet.

‘No, Cariad, Dad can't make it this weekend.’ She rubbed the top of his head tenderly with the palm of her hand, leant forward, and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Shall I read the story now?’

‘Why can’t he come, Mummy?’

‘I explained, cariad. He’s going away for the weekend.’

‘With his new friend?’

‘Yes, cariad, with his new friend.’

Anthony sat up and frowned. ‘It’s all my fault.’

Molly hugged her son tightly. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, cariad? It’s not your fault. It really, really isn’t. Mum and Dad both love you. Dad still loves you. Now, under the quilt with you, and I’ll lie down on top of the bed to keep you company until you fall asleep.’

A few moments later Anthony curled up into a ball, hugged his teddy-bear tightly to his chest, and started snoring quietly.

Molly rose stiffly from the bed, silently cursed her aching lower back, and tiptoed out of the room: ever so slowly, ever so carefully… Please don't wake up, Tony. Please don't wake up.

She gritted her teeth and grimaced as she stared into the large oval bathroom mirror on the wall above the heated towel rail, focussing on the inevitable signs of ageing cruelly highlighted by the glaring excessively bright florescent light above her head… It wasn't good. She looked tired, she looked jaded, and she looked older. There was no denying it, however tempting it was to try.

She took a deep intake of breath through her nose, and exhaled slowly and gradually through her open mouth… That’s what single parenthood did for you. The separation had taken its toll.

She sighed, rubbed her bleary eyes with the back of one hand, and headed downstairs… Any attempts at beautification, however seemingly necessary, would have to wait.

Molly shuffled into the kitchen on tired legs and switched the kettle on… Anthony was finally asleep, and Siân was out again. Why not make the most of the free time whilst she had the opportunity?

She slumped into an unforgiving kitchen chair, rested her elbows on the pine table, and cradled a large mug of her favoured peppermint tea sweetened with an over generous helping of sweet Welsh honey in both hands. She closed her eyes and tried to relax as the rising vapour warmed her face… Should she head up to bed to enjoy her Lesley Thomas? It was tempting. No, she was going to have to wait up to let Siân in. That was if she bothered coming home at all.

Molly groaned loudly and took a calming gulp of the fast cooling liquid… Would it be sensible to give Siân her own key? It would definitely make life easier. But, was she really old enough for that kind of independence? Yes, no, yes, no? It wasn't easy making decisions when you were used to a partner acting as a sounding board. Why not sleep on it?

She yawned and fought to stay awake, but after about fifteen-minutes of good-intentions she capitulated, rested her head on the kitchen table, and slept.

Molly woke with a start, and stared at the kitchen clock… Twenty-past-twelve. Oh, not again, what did the thoughtless girl think she was doing? She was only fifteen, for goodness sake.

She hurried into the cottage’s tiny hall with its ancient faded red tiled floor, grabbed the house-phone from its wall mounted cradle next to the front door, and sat on the bottom step of the stairway, which creaked noisily under her weight. Molly stilled herself and listened intently… No sound of stirring from Anthony’s room. Thank God for small mercies.

After a minute or two’s cautious silence, Molly went to dial. But then it dawned on her… Who was she going to ring? Siân hadn't shared details of friends for months. Was ringing arbitrary parents at half-past-twelve in the morning really such a good idea? All she could do was wait, worry, and hope for the best.

Molly flopped back into the same unforgiving kitchen chair and wept: deep, all consuming sobs, that caused to chest to heave repeatedly as she gasped for breath… Should she ring her mum again? It was about an hour later in Majorca, but she badly needed to talk. Why not? Mum wouldn't mind her calling. She never did.

Molly waited for what seemed like an age before finally hearing her mother’s familiar voice say, ‘Hello,’ in melodic Welsh tones, tinged with a barely decipherable but unequivocal hint of Spanish.

‘Molly? It's about half-one in the morning here. What’s wrong, love?’

‘Sorry, Mum, just the usual stuff.’

‘Sorry to hear that, love. But half-past-one? Can’t we talk in the morning?’

There was a moment’s silence before Molly began weeping without words.

‘Oh, Molly, things can’t be that bad, can they?’

‘Not great to be honest, Mum.’ She paused, and then added, ‘I wish Mike hadn't met that tart.’

‘I know, love. I know. Give me a second, Dad's sleeping. I’ll pick up the phone in the lounge.’

‘Hello, Molly?’

‘Yes, I’m still here, Mum.’

‘Right, love. Tell me all about it.’

‘Siân’s out again. God only knows where? I just wish she’d tell me where she’s going, or at least give me a call to say she’s safe. It’s not much to ask, is it?’

‘Siân’s a teenager, love, you weren't so very different at that age, to be honest.’

‘Yeah, I suppose you're right, Mum. But it’s not easy on my own.’

‘I know, love. Now, tell me. How's Anthony doing?’

Molly shook her head slowly and frowned. ‘Tony? Where do I start?’

‘That bad, eh?’

Molly swallowed hard before responding. ‘Oh, Mum, he’s changed. He's clingy, he’s wetting the bed most nights, and he's even started taking a teddy-bear to bed again. Mr Snuggles! Can you believe that? He’s seven not four. I thought those days were long gone.’

‘It’s understandable, love, in the circumstances.’

‘He just stays in and plays with his bloody lego. Anything to avoid mixing.’ She paused for breath and continued. ‘He asks me about Mike constantly: is Dad coming today? Can I see Dad on Saturday? Will Dad play football with me? I try to be patient, Mum, but he asks the same bloody questions every single day. I’m struggling, Mum. The other morning he threw an entire bowl of cornflakes across the room when I told him Mike couldn't make it this Saturday. There was one hell of a mess. And, then he went completely to pieces: stamping about the kitchen with tears streaming down his face, snot everywhere. It was like the terrible twos, but worse. It s-seems never-ending.’

‘He’s at that age, love. He’s missing his dad. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but these things don’t sort themselves out overnight. I wish I could be there with you, love, but, what with Dad’s kidney problems…’

‘I know, Mum.’

‘Have you told Mike about all this?’

‘I’ve tried talking to him, but we just end up arguing. I miss him, Mum. He says he’s sorry and want’s us to get back together; but he’s still living with that woman. It makes me so bloody angry.’

‘I know, love. But don't give up on him just yet, eh. You two were together for a long time.’

There was a moments silence as Molly wiped away her tears. ‘There’s something I haven't told you, Mum. I saw them together.’

‘Really? When was that, love?’

‘Before he left. She’d sent him naked photos. I found them hidden in his sock drawer. Let’s just say they didn’t leave anything to the imagination. There was no escaping reality after that. He let me down, Mum. He let the kids down. I really trusted him. I hate him sometimes.’

‘I know, love.’

‘I didn't tell him what I’d seen at first. I tried to live with it for the sake of the kids. But It gnawed away at me. I sat outside the bank one lunchtime and waited until they eventually came out together. Oh, Mum, she is so very young: figure hugging clothes, immaculate hair and make-up, long legs, high heels and a ridiculously short skirt. And, so pretty. It made me feel totally redundant.’

‘That must have been awful, love. But, you’re far from useless.’

‘They walked straight past my car, and turned into Merlin Lane. I followed them a couple of minutes later and found them in the Scala. You know it, Mum, that nice Greek restaurant we used to visit on special occasions.’

‘I remember, love.’

‘He was sitting opposite her on a table for two with his back to me.’ Molly laughed despite herself. ‘I was lucky if he bought me a bag of chips. I just stood and watched them at first, without saying a word. But then Mike leant across the table and kissed her.’ She paused, contemplating the past. ‘The pig complained bitterly if I tried to hold his hand in public.’

‘How did he react, love?’

‘Some garbage along the lines of, it wasn't what it looked like. I threw a glass of red wine in his face and told him to move out. He told me a few days later, that he moved in with her that evening. The worst thing was telling Anthony.’

‘Why haven't you told me all this before, love?’

‘Things become more real somehow, when you talk about them’

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

Should she tell her? Yes, why not? There was nothing to lose. ‘You'll be pleased to hear that there may be some light at the end of the tunnel, Mum.’

‘Well, thank goodness for that, love. Tell me more.’

‘Tony’s teacher rang me. She said he’d regressed.’

‘I can’t say it sounds too positive so far, love.’

Molly smiled, but the expression quickly left her face. ‘I talked to Dr Proctor, Mum. You must remember her?’

‘Of course, she was my GP for years.’

‘I thought she may prescribe Tony something to cheer him up a bit. But no, she’s referred him to the child guidance clinic. She said it’s got a good reputation. I thought you may disapprove?’

‘Not at all, love, any idea how long the waiting list is?’

‘Not really, Mum, but you know what the NHS is like. It’ll probably be months.’

‘Well, at least you're on the list, love. It’s good news. But you need to let Mike know what’s happening. Ring him, try to stay calm, tell him about the appointment, and tell him you still care about him. Because you do, don’t you, love.’

Molly smiled thinly. ‘I suppose your right, Mum. Thanks for the chat. Give my love to Dad. I love you, Mum.’

‘I love you too, Molly. Kiss the children for me. Now, it’s late. Try to get some sleep.’

Chapter 3

C
ynthia Galbraith rose at 5:30 a.m. on Friday 10, January, as she invariably did on days when her husband was working. She showered, dressed in an immaculate white silk dress, carefully styled her caramel-blonde hair and skilfully applied her makeup, taking care to look her best. She suspected that her husband would treat her efforts with utter indifference; nonetheless, she reminded herself, she had to keep trying.