White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller (6 page)

Molly sighed… Here we go again. ‘Not tonight, cariad, but you’ll definitely see him on Friday. He’s coming to the doctor’s with us. I’ll be ringing him to arrange it as soon as you two are in school.’

Anthony beamed, and began eating his cereal with renewed gusto.

Siân didn't say anything in response to the news, but she hurried from the kitchen, retreating to the isolation of her teenage bedroom to await the school bus… There were more important things in life than enforced family reunions.

Siân left the cottage first, and shouted an unenthusiastic, ‘See you later,’ before closing the front-door, and running down the path towards her bus, which was about to leave without her.

Molly thought, one down, one to go, and encouraged Anthony to finish his second bowl of Sugar Puffs, whilst absently checking to ensure he had everything he needed for his school day… She wasn’t looking forward to contacting Mike, but needs must.

Molly held her son’s hand tightly in her’s and encouraged him out through the front door towards the bus stop, conveniently located almost directly outside the cottage on the same side of the road. It was a bright winter morning, but despite the sunshine a penetrating January chill caused them both to shiver uncontrollably as they stood, waiting together on the twinkling tarmacadam pavement. Almost immediately, a familiar diesel growl permeated the air, and the school-bus appeared from around a bend in the road, half full of rowdy chatting laughing primary age children.

Molly rubbed the top of Anthony’s head and smiled. ‘Right then, cariad. On you get. Your friends are already on the bus. I’ll see you later. Try and have a good day.’ She walked closely behind him, patted him on the back as he got on, and waved energetically until the vehicle eventually disappeared into the distance.

Molly hurried back into the cottage, grateful for the comparative warmth that met her at the front door. She paused momentarily in the hall, considering picking up the phone, but quickly decided on another comforting hot drink before making the call. She switched the kettle on, placed a herbal teabag and a large spoonful of local honey in a favoured mug, poured in the boiling water, and stirred vigorously, causing a small amount of the scalding liquid to spill onto the worktop. Molly swore loudly… Housework could wait.

She turned on Radio 2 and sat at the kitchen table, thinking the music and chatter may help her relax. But she quickly concluded that she was simply putting off the inevitable. She approached the sink, added a few drops of cooling tap-water to her tea, and drained her mug, savouring the intense sweetness at the bottom… In her mother’s wise words, it was time to bite the bullet.

Molly picked up the phone, dialled her husband’s direct office number, and waited whilst tugging repeatedly at her mousey hair with her free hand… How should she begin the conversation? Perhaps an assertive approach was best? Or possibly not? Maybe persuasion rather than coercion was advisable? At the end of the day, whichever approach she adopted, Mike would be surprised she’d rung at all.

She was seriously considering placing the phone back on its receiver and ringing again later in the day to allow sufficient time for another cathartic discussion with her mother, when she heard her errant husband’s infuriatingly chirpy phone voice at the other end of the line. ‘Hello, Mike Mailer speaking.’

‘Hello, Mike. It's Molly, we need to talk.’

‘Molly, what is it? Is there something wrong? Has something happened to one of the kids?’

‘Relax, Mike. It’s nothing like that, no need to panic. But, we do need to talk about the children.’

‘You had me worried for a minute, Mo. I’m a bit busy at the moment, to be honest. Can I give you a ring after work?’

‘Oh, be fair, Mike, when was the last time I rang you at the bank? I’d really like you to make time to talk now. They're your children as well as mine. Or have you forgotten that small fact?’

Mike tightened his grip on the phone. ‘Give me a second, Molly. I’ll close the door.’

‘You do that.’

‘Hello, Mo. What’s this about, love?’

‘Love? I think that ship well and truly sailed when you moved in with that tart.’

‘Now look, Molly. I really haven’t got time for this shit now. If you've got something meaningful to say, please spit it out.’

Molly paused, swallowing her words… Try to stay calm, don’t get personal, tell him you still care about him. Wasn't that what her mother had advised?

‘Molly? Are you still there?’

‘Hold on, Mike. Can we start again? I really don’t want to argue. We've done enough of that for one lifetime. I’m not going to pretend I’m not still seriously pissed off with you, but the children need to come first for a change.’

‘Fair enough, you’re right. What’s this all about, love?’

She chose to ignore the platitude this time… Where on earth should she start?

‘Molly? I’ve got work to get on with. Are you going to tell me what this is about or what?’

‘Yes, of course I am. That’s why I rang. Things haven't been easy since you left. It’s hit the kids hard. They miss you, Mike, Particularly Tony. Siân goes her own way. I hardly see her these days, to be honest. But, Anthony! It’s like he’s mourning a death.’

‘What do you want from me?’

There was a moment’s silence… Should she tell him? How would he react? Yes, why not? What was there to lose? ‘I miss you, Mike. Despite everything you've done. I still love you, God help me.’

‘Mo, I'm sorry. How many times do I have to say it? If I could turn the clock back I would. Honestly I would. But I can’t, can I?’

‘What do you take me for, Mike? You’re still living with that fucking woman. End it, move out, and maybe we can talk about the future.’

‘Thanks, Mo. That’s good to hear.’

‘Don’t think it’s going to be easy, Mike. If you’re serious about this, I need action, not more empty words. I don’t think you understand just how bad things are here. You’re not here to see it, day in day out like I am. I need help, Mike. We need help as a family.’

‘I hear what you're saying, Mo.’

Molly took a deep breath… It was now or never. ‘I’ve spoken to Dr Proctor about Anthony. I didn’t know what else to do?’

‘Really? Can she give him something?’

‘Give him something? It's not nearly that easy, Mike. The doctor’s arranged for us to see someone at the child guidance clinic. That means you, me, and the children. The appointment letter arrived this morning.’

Mike cursed silently under his breath. ‘Are you sure the doctor wants to see us all, love?’

‘Yes, Mike, I'm sure. Very sure! I couldn't be more sure. That’s how it works. You need to pick us up at ten-o-clock on Friday morning. That's this coming Friday! If you're serious about us getting back together at some point in the future, you will do this for me.’

Mike sighed… Washing his dirty laundry in front of a pseudo-scientific stranger was not his idea of fun. But at the end of the day, if there was a chance of reconciliation he couldn’t afford to jeopardise the opportunity. ‘Fair enough, love, I’ll be there on time, guaranteed.’

‘I don’t want to be late, Mike. This is important.’

‘I said I’d be there on time, Mo, and I will be. Now leave it there, please.’

Molly put the phone down and walked towards the lounge, deep in thought… She'd got her own way as expected, that was true. But for some reason it felt a rather hollow victory.

She sat on the brown faux leather settee facing the lounge window and the unkempt garden beyond, and wiped a tear from her cheek… Mike was a waste of space, but he should be her waste of space. She wanted him back, there was no denying it. But it wasn’t going to be easy to trust him again. If he actually left the tart instead of just talking about it, that would be an excellent start.

She smiled fleetingly… Life could be better. It could be a lot better, but at least now Anthony was going to get the support he needed.

Chapter 7

D
r Galbraith sat at his desk, frantically turning the pages of his personal diary: Tuesday 14, January, the 14, January… Oh, for fucks sake, another child protection case conference. Why the hell did the system dedicate so much time and effort to such a tedious task? What were the misguided fools thinking? That was one question he couldn't answer; but what he did know was that it was a tragic waste of his valuable time. Where the hell was that invitation letter?

He opened a desk drawer and foraged through the contents… Where the hell had he put it? Ah, yes, yes, his in-tray, it was still in his in-tray.

The doctor unfolded the notification letter and accompanying papers, and spread them out on his desktop in front of him. He took his reading glasses from an inside pocket of his dark-grey pinstripe jacket, and perused the contents… Four-year-old twin sisters; alleged sexual abuse, no unequivocal medical evidence supporting the girls video statements, an ineffectual mother targeted and befriended by a predatory paedophile employed as a secondary-school music teacher prior to his arrest, the mother supporting the alleged abuser. No surprises there, he’d chosen well. It all seemed straight forward enough, nothing unusual. What was the alleged perpetrator’s name? Gary Davies? Gary Davies? The name rang a bell for some reason?

He closed his eyes, searching his busy mind… Ah yes, Davies. He was a member of the ring. An inconsequential member, certainly, but still a member. That counted for something. He’d seen him at various gatherings over the years.

Dr Galbraith took a well thumbed notebook from his brown leather briefcase, and referred back to the letter… Who was in the chair? Mel Nicholson: senior child protection social work manager?

He opened his notebook and referred to his hand written notes… Nicholson? Nicholson? Ah yes, he’d met the interfering busy-body on a course a few years back. He was one of those idiotic egalitarian, save the world, black and white, good and evil merchants.

The doctor turned the page and continued reading… Nicholson had moved to Devon to work for the NSPCC a couple of years back. He’d obviously returned to Wales. Probably promoted? That was worthy of note.

And who else was attending? The usual miserable plebs, no doubt. More misguided simpletons dedicated to an utterly pointless endeavour.

He examined the list of attendees… Ah, yes, Detective Inspector Roy Thomas, wasn't his bitch wife expecting the last time he’d spoken to him? R-S-T… Yes, there he was: Roy Thomas. He was correct, of course; no surprise there. The little brat should be about three-months old by now.

Dr Galbraith checked the clock… He should have allowed himself more time. His organisation wasn't what it was. Time to make a move.

The doctor placed the notebook back in his briefcase and locked it, before putting the key in the inside pocket of his jacket for safe keeping. As he walked across his office towards reception his head was aching, the pressure was building, but he repeatedly reminded himself that he had to maintain the deception if his plan were to become reality… It was becoming harder, every day it was harder.

Dr Galbraith smiled humourlessly at his secretary. ‘I’m attending a child protection case conference at the social services resource centre in Caerystwyth this morning, my dear girl. I will leave the clinic in your very capable hands. Dr Rosie Higgins will be here this afternoon to help me with the backlog. She’s a good doctor, and I’m sure you’ll like her. I will see you in the morning, my dear. Have a good day.’

The doctor parked the Daimler half on and half off the curb, and rushed towards the entrance to the resource centre to intercept Mel Nicholson, who was about to enter the building. ‘Mel, is that really you, my dear boy? Marvellous to see you again. Devon, wasn't it? NSPCC, if I recall correctly?’

Nicholson shook the doctor’s hand firmly. ‘Good to see you, Doc. Plymouth, I was based in Plymouth.’

‘Good to have you back on board, old man. Their loss our gain, so to speak. Promotion?’

‘Yeah, I’m heading up child protection services for the local authority. It’s good to be back in Wales.’

‘Quite right. Quite right.’ He pushed up a jacket sleeve and checked his gold Cartier wrist-watch. ‘Better make a move, old man. I didn't have an opportunity to read the papers, pressure of work and all that. Any idea whose in the chair?’

‘That’ll be me.’

‘It’s a terrible world, dear boy, a terrible world. But, I’m sure you’ll do a marvellous job.’

Dr Galbraith entered the conference room in the style of a film star navigating the red carpet: a wave here, a smile there. He approached DI Thomas and patted him robustly on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations, old boy! Boy or girl?’

The inspector beamed. ‘A boy: Gareth, after the rugby player, but please don’t tell the wife that.’

The doctor laughed exuberantly. ‘Our secret, old boy!’ He raised an open hand in the air. ‘Oh, I can see our chairman wants to make a start. I’d better take my seat before I’m reprimanded.’

Nicholson, as he was generally known, opened the meeting by introducing himself, and asking the attendees to do likewise. He explained that the purpose of the meeting was to decide if the children were at risk, and if they were, to agree a multi-agency child protection plan. Before requesting individual contributions he reminded Davies that he was still subject to police caution. Anything he said could be used in evidence.

At the mention of the police, Davies shuffled uneasily in his seat and glanced furtively in Dr Galbraith's direction, repeatedly attempting to meet his eyes. The doctor looked away on every occasion… What the hell did the idiot think he was doing? Too obvious, far too obvious! He would help him, of course he would. That was expected of him as a fellow ring member. But now was not the time. There’d be ample opportunity when he met the moronic bitch mother, and provided therapy to her hideous daughters.

Nicholson facilitated the conference with an efficiency born of experience. Within the hour, the girls names had been included on the at risk register, it had been agreed that they would return to the care of their mother on the condition that they had no further contact with Davies, a comprehensive risk assessment would be undertaken by child care social workers, and Dr Galbraith would provide appropriate therapy.