White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller (5 page)

‘My father took me there.’

‘And you didn't see the building?’

The boy dabbed at his face with a damp woollen sleeve… She didn't believe him. Why didn't she believe him? ‘Dad blindfolded me as soon as we were in the car.’

The officer visibly relaxed and the tension left her face… Maybe she should be more trusting? ‘Ah, now I understand. Where did you start the journey?’

The boy blinked repeatedly… Perhaps she did believe him after all? ‘Dad woke me up in bed at home and took me to his car.’

‘Do you know what time it was?’

She must believe him, or why ask the time? ‘No.’

‘Was it light or dark.’

‘Dark.’

‘Can you remember how long the journey took?’

He lifted a hand to his face, covering his eyes. ‘Not really, I just remember being scared.’

‘Was it a short journey, or a long journey?’

‘A long journey.’

‘More than an hour, or less than an hour?’

Why did she keep asking? Please let her stop. ‘Less, I think.’

Dewi’s entire body tensed involuntarily, and the officer decided not to pursue the matter further. ‘That’s really helpful, Dewi, but I need to ask you some more questions about the man.’

‘I’ve already told you what he did!’

He was close to panic. Why wouldn't he be? How would she feel in the same circumstances? ‘We don't need to talk about that again, Dewi. But, I need you to tell us anything that can help us find out who the man is, so that we can arrest him.’

Dewi relaxed slightly and sounded slightly more confident when he said, ‘Okay.’

‘Why do you think he’s a doctor?’

‘My father said he was.’

The WPC paused… Was it too much to ask for? ‘Did your father ever say the man’s name?’

‘Yes.’

She attempted to mask her excitement. ‘What was it, Dewi? Can you remember?’

‘The doctor made me take some medicine when we got there. I felt sleepy.’

‘Try to think, Dewi. Take your time, please.’

She wanted an answer. All he could do was try his best. ‘I think it may have been Dr Griffiths.’

‘Are you a little bit sure, or very sure.’

He looked disappointed, almost despondent. ‘I can’t remember what happened very clearly. But I’m sure his name started with a G.’

‘Definitely a G?’

‘I think so.’

She hid her disappointment as best she could. ‘Do you know what kind of doctor he was, Dewi?’ She regretted the question as soon as she asked it, and wasn't surprised when the boy replied, ‘No,’ with a bewildered expression on his face.

‘All right, Dewi. Not many more questions left. What did the man look like? Let’s start with his hair. What colour hair did the doctor have?’

The boy’s eyes narrowed to virtual slits. ‘Dark’

‘Black or brown, is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure which, sorry.’

‘That’s all right, Dewi. We just want you to tell us what you remember, nothing more. How long was his hair?’

That was one he could answer. ‘Short, like mine.’

She smiled. ‘That’s helpful, Dewi; how tall was he?’

‘Taller than my father.’

The pencil-thin middle-aged social worker rose to his feet. ‘I’m six-foot-two inches tall, Dewi. Was the man shorter or taller than me, or about the same height?’

‘About the same height, but he looked a lot stronger.’

Alan Garret sat back down, and the WPC grinned momentarily despite, or perhaps due to the obvious tension. ‘Why do you think he looked stronger than Alan?’

‘He was bigger, like a wrestler on the telly.’

‘Big fat, or big muscular?’

The boy raised his arms, as if momentarily flexing his biceps. ‘Big muscular.’

‘That’s really helpful, Dewi, is there anything else you can tell us about the man? Anything at all?’

‘Not really.’

‘What about his eyes? Do you remember the colour his eyes?’

‘Blue.’

‘You're sure?’

Why ask again? He’d answered the question once. ‘I think they were blue.’

‘But you're not sure?’

The boy shook his head.

‘No?’

His breathing became more laboured. ‘Not really.’

She silently admonished herself… Too much pressure; she was pushing too hard. ‘If you're not sure of the answer, Dewi, it’s fine to say so. Just say, I don't know. Don’t try to guess ’

‘Okay.’

‘Did you ever tell anyone else about the man before telling your foster-mum last night?’

‘No, never.’

‘Not even your mother?’

His eyes filled with tears and his chubby face reddened. ‘She knew all about what my father did to me, and she didn’t help. She didn't stop him. Why would I tell her?’

She checked her watch, and looked towards the social worker who nodded his silent agreement… The boy had had enough. It was time to bring matters to a close. ‘All right, Dewi, I understand. We’re almost finished, but there is one more thing I need to ask you. Is that okay?’

Oh, God, not more questions. ‘I suppose so.’

The WPC smiled softly and nodded. ‘Dewi, I have to ask you why you didn't tell us about this man the last time, when you told us what your father did to you?’

‘I was too scared.’

‘Are you saying you were more scared of the man, than of your father?’

He stared at the floor and said, ‘Yes.’

Jane Pritchard frowned. ‘Why? After everything your father did to you.’

‘My f-father said the doctor would kill me if I ever said anything.’

It was too late to stop now. She had to ask. ‘And you believed him?’

Dewi took a blue Ventolin asthma pump from a trouser pocket and inhaled two urgent puffs of the drug into his lungs before saying, ‘Yes.’

What could she say to that? What the hell was wrong with these people? ‘Sometimes adults say things to frighten children, to stop them getting the help they need. You’re safe now, Dewi. You do understand that, don’t you?’

People kept saying he was safe. Perhaps it was true? ‘Yes.’

He didn't look convinced. Why would he be? He’d been let down all his life. ‘That’s good to hear, Dewi. Is there anything else you want to say, or anything you want to ask either of us before we bring the interview to an end.’

Dewi rose from the beanbag and adjusted the tight waistband of his trousers. ‘Can we get something to eat on the way back to my foster-parents house? They wouldn't mind.’

WPC Pritchard turned to the social worker… Why wouldn't he comfort-eat after what he’d been through? Maybe she’d do the same thing. ‘Do you mind providing the transport, Alan? I need to label the tapes and start writing the transcript as soon as possible.’

Alan Garret stood, smiled broadly, and guided Dewi towards the door. ‘Come on, young man. I’ll give your foster-parents a ring to see if they can meet us at McDonalds for a burger.’

As they walked towards the stairs, WPC Pritchard called after them. ‘Alan, is it okay if I use your office to give my inspector a ring? I could do with some privacy.’

‘No problem, Jane, I’ll speak to you soon.’

Jane Prichard completed the practical tasks required of her by the rules of evidence, and headed downstairs to the kitchen for a quick cuppa before making her call… It had already been a long stressful day, and a few minutes to herself was one small luxury she planned to make the most of.

She took a shortcake biscuit from a tin decorated with a stereotypical highland scene, and nibbled at it, savouring the rich buttery texture as the kettle slowly came to the boil. She sat at the small Formica table and tried to think about something other than child protection. Anything other than child protection; but her naturally conscientious nature overrode her desire for some quality time. She swore silently under her breath, gobbled down the remainder of the biscuit, and pushed her mug to one side before heading to Alan Garret’s untidy office, piled high with unread Social Work Today magazines on every conceivable surface.

She only had to wait for a few seconds before a control room officer whose voice she didn't recognise answered the phone.

‘Hello, this is WPC 458, can you put me through to DI Simpson’s office please.’

‘Will do, Jane. I think he’s in.’

‘DI Simpson.’

‘Hello, sir. It’s Jane Pritchard. I’m sorry to bother you.’

‘No bother, Constable. What can I do for you?’

‘I could do with some advice, sir.’

‘Why aren't you talking to Grav, he’s your local DI?’

‘Inspector Gravel’s on leave, sir. And I understand you have overall responsibility for child protection for the force area.’

Trevor Simpson laughed. ‘Ah, yes, Grav said something about going to Bournemouth with his misses. Silver wedding celebrations.’ He laughed again. ‘I believe his mother-in-law went with them.’ He checked his Rado watch. ‘Right, Jane. How can I help you?’

‘I’ve just undertaken a joint interview with a nine-year old boy named Dewi Williams, sir.’

‘Yeah, I know the case. Grav mentioned it. Any new developments?’

‘Sir, the boy told us that sometime during the summer months he was blindfolded by his father and taken by car to an unknown venue, where he was assaulted by a man he believes to be a doctor. He’s given a sketchy description of the abuser and of the location, but the details of the room sound dubious.’

‘You’ve done the right thing in contacting me, Jane. But, is the boy a reliable witness?’

‘I’ve got absolutely no reason to think that he’s making any of this up, sir. He’s been reliable in the past. He was taken somewhere, I’m sure of that, but from what he said I think it likely he was drugged.’

‘Right, Jane. Get the transcript of the interview completed, send it over to me this afternoon, and I’ll take a look at it. Talk to your DS and contact his counterparts in the other two child protection units. Ask them if there’s been any other mention of a doctor, or of children being taken to a venue that matches the boy’s description. Give the social services child protection team managers a ring, and ask the same questions. Let me know if you have any joy. I may well pay the father a visit at Swansea nick. Grav mentioned that he’s appealing the length of his sentence. That should provide me with some leverage. I’ll have a chat with Grav as soon as he’s back and get him up to speed if I think there’s anything in it.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get it done.’

Chapter 6

M
olly received three letters on Monday 13, January. She sat on the stairs, discarded the two brown envelopes, and urgently opened the white one… Could it be an appointment letter from the clinic? Here’s hoping it was. But, surely not? After all, only a few days had passed since she’d spoken to Dr Proctor.

Molly unfolded the letter, and held it out in front of her, taking advantage of the unseasonable winter sunshine streaming through the leaded glass panel in the front door… The Department of Child, Adolescent and Family Psychiatry. It was an appointment letter. How about that!

She crossed the middle and index fingers of her right hand and perused the contents… How long would the wait be? Several miserable weeks at best, probably months? But, no, unbelievable, it was only four-days away.

Molly smiled, rose from the step with a new energy she hadn't felt for some time, and danced in a small circle with the letter held high above her head in one hand… What a great service. The GP had said Dr Galbraith was good. It looked as if she was right.

She left the appointment letter propped up against a mock art deco silver-plated photo frame on the sideboard in the dining room for safe keeping, and ascended the stairs to wake her children. Anthony had slept through the night for the first time in several weeks, and was already wide awake. Molly examined his bed, trying not to be too obvious… It was dry. What a relief! Should she praise him? Should she draw his attention to it at all? Yes, it felt like the right thing to do.

Molly looked at Anthony, meeting his eyes, and smiled warmly. ‘Well done, cariad. I’m proud of you. I’ll call at the Spar to buy you some sweets for when you get back from school.’

Anthony dressed in the clothes laid out at the bottom of his bed by his mother earlier that morning. He pulled on his favourite pair of Wrangler blue jeans, a bright yellow cotton tee-shirt, and a warm green and white woollen jumper with a large red dragon motif on the front, before running towards the bathroom to empty his bladder. He almost made it, but not quite. When he shouted, ‘Mum!’ with obvious urgency, Molly rushed into the bathroom and saw the dark wet patch on the front of his trousers. She bit her lip determinedly rather than say something she knew she would later regret and forced a reluctant smile. ‘Don't worry, cariad. It’s not your fault. I should have told you to go to the toilet before getting dressed.’

Anthony nodded sheepishly, but didn’t say anything… The brief triumph of the dry bed was well and truly over.

Molly's eyes moistened as she placed clean clothes on Anthony's bed for the second time that morning. She helped him out of his soiled trousers, pants and socks, wiped her tears from her face with a cotton sleeve, and struggled to regain her composure. ‘Have a warm shower, cariad, it’ll make you feel better. Get a move on though, Siân will want to use the bathroom once you've finished.’

Molly listened for the reassuring sound of the electric shower pump before approaching Siân’s bedroom door. She raised her hand to knock, but before she had the opportunity to act on her intentions, she heard Siân shout, ‘I’m already up, Mum. It’s not easy sleeping what with the racket you and Tony make.’

Molly thought, same old Siân, but simply said, ‘Sorry, love. I’ll see you downstairs…’ There was no point in inviting an argument.

After getting dressed, Anthony followed his mother downstairs for breakfast. He sat at the kitchen table, and chose to ignore his older sister as she entered the room a couple of minutes later. Siân was never particularly communicative in the mornings, and today was no different, as she sat in virtual silence eating a bowl of sugar free cereal.

Anthony raised his eyes from his much loved Sugar Puffs, and turned to Molly, who was buttering some wholemeal toast on a worktop next to the electric cooker. ‘Is Dad coming tonight, Mum?’