Read White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller Online
Authors: John Nicholl
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The doctor stifled a laugh… If the cretins thought the girls were adequately protected, they were kidding themselves.
Dr Galbraith approached Davies in the car park as he strode, head bowed, towards his estate car. He introduced himself flamboyantly, as if meeting Davies for the first time, shook hands, and handed him a business card with words of reassurance written on the back in blue ink. He gave Davies a knowing nod, and quickly turned away to approach the mother, who was standing a few yards behind them, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Dr Galbraith addressed her quietly, in contrived soft reassuring tones. ‘Hello, my dear, try not to worry, these conferences don't always get it right. The reasons children say such things can be far more complex than the average person appreciates. They may have seen something inappropriate on television, or be recounting nightmares for example. And, to be honest, it’s not unusual for well-meaning but misguided social workers to put ideas in children's heads. They sometimes ask leading questions, as do the police. It can be all too easy to jump to the wrong conclusions. That may well be the case with regard to your daughters. Bring the girls to see me at my home at half-past-four this-afternoon. If errors have been made, as I suspect they have, I'll have you all back together before you know it. I’ve given Mr Davies my card with the address and contact details.’
The mother looked at the floor as she spoke, only raising her eyes for an instant before quickly refocusing on the tarmac. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I just couldn’t believe Gary had done the awful things they said he had. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time. I just want the girls home with us. We both do, don't we, Gary?’
Davies nodded his eager agreement.
Dr Galbraith took her hand in his, squeezed it gently, and then shook it. ‘They will be, my dear lady. They will be. Now, I must get on. We will sort out this unfortunate misunderstanding before you know it.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I look forward to seeing you this afternoon.’
W
PC Jane Prichard arrived early for her shift on Wednesday 15, January, and eventually tracked down DI Trevor Simpson in the police canteen, where he was engaged in mundane moral sapping conversation with a junior colleague. She bought herself a cup of predictably unappetising tea, and slowly approached his table. ‘Hello, sir. Have you got five-minutes? I’ve completed the enquiries you required.’
‘Take a seat, Jane. Do you know DS Halfpenny?’
‘Yes, sir, we were at the training college together.’
‘You all right, Jane?’
‘Yes, not bad, thanks, Joe.’
DI Simpson took a sip of his hot coffee and frowned. ‘If you head off and get on with the Wilson robbery, Joe. I’ll catch up with you later in the day.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘What’s the news, Jane?’
‘I’ve spoken to everyone concerned, and it seems a white room has featured in at least three investigations over the years.’
‘You've got the details, I presume?’
‘Yeah, there was a young lad of six in August 1984. Similar story really: he alleged he was taken to a white room by an uncle.’
‘Any mention of a doctor?’
‘No, sir, and the case didn't go anywhere. No forensic evidence, and the child’s account contained significant inconsistencies. A child psychiatrist put the allegations down to nightmares at the time, and that was the end of it. But given what we know now?’
‘You may well be right, Jane. Any idea who the psychiatrist was?’
‘No, sorry, sir, but I’m sure I can dig out the file and find out.’
‘Don’t worry about it; it’s not of any consequence. What’s next?’
‘There was a boy of five In June 1987, and a boy of four in May 89.’
‘Different families?’
‘Yeah.’
‘All boys?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Anything that helps us?’
‘Not really, sir, nothing that identifies the location. The men were suspected of sexual offences, and the kids names were placed on the child protection register. But, same old story: insufficient evidence for prosecutions as far as the CPS were concerned.’
‘I think we’re going to have to revisit this lot, Jane. I don’t believe in coincidences. Were all three children local.’
‘Yeah, they all live within a five-mile radius of Caerystwyth.’
‘I’m guessing the white room’s probably in the same area? Sorry, Jane, I’m just thinking out loud. Anything you haven’t told me?’
‘The six-year-old mentioned being filmed.’
‘Ah, that makes sense.’
‘I thought so, sir.’
‘Any mention of a doctor?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘I want you to write a full report and get it to me as soon as possible, Jane. There’s got to be something in it.’
‘I’ll get it done today, sir.’
DI Simpson shook his head. ‘What’s wrong with these people?’
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, sir, but you said you may speak to Dewi’s father at some point?’
‘You can leave it with me, Constable. Get that paper work to me as quickly as possible.’
A
nthony didn't like Thursday mornings. Thursday mornings meant English, Welsh and mathematics, three lessons he didn’t particularly enjoy. Miss Larkin somehow succeeded in making English and Welsh bearable, but he found geometry utterly excruciating. Anthony listened at first, trying to grasp the complex concepts, but he quickly concluded that his teacher may as well be speaking a foreign language he couldn't begin to understand. He glanced repeatedly at the clock above the door as the lessons progressed, and wondered why the hands were moving so slowly? When lunchtime eventually arrived, he felt as if a burdensome physical force had been lifted from his chest, and he smiled spontaneously for the fist time since arriving at school that morning.
Anthony chose pork-sausage, baked-beans and chips for lunch; one of his favourite meals. And for the first time since his father’s departure, he gulped it down, eager to escape to the schoolyard to play football with his friends. The game went well: he scored a goal, which was unusual for him, and his side won. Anthony walked back to the classroom when the bell rang, thinking that Thursdays weren't so bad after all.
Anthony found the afternoon’s music and art lessons far more enjoyable than the morning's academic tedium. To his surprise, he’d recently begun enjoying both drawing and painting far more than previously. He wasn't sure why, but splashing paint around on paper somehow made him feel better. He painted a picture of his family: his mother, his father, his sister and himself, standing outside the cottage on a warm sun drenched summer day. For some reason he couldn’t comprehend, he painted his father much larger and in brighter colours than the rest of the family. Miss Larkin pointed it out, asking why the man in his painting was so big? Anthony replied, ‘It’s my dad,’ but said no more than that.
Miss Larkin gave a sigh of relief when the much anticipated bell that signalled the end of the school day rang out loudly in every part of the modern open-plan building. She stood at the front of her class, surveying her domain with obvious pride, and said, ‘Stand, put your paints away, pour the dirty water into the sink and wash the brushes before going home.’ Once the children had completed their various tasks, she smiled, and added the same familiar instructions she issued every afternoon: ‘Walk don’t run, and remember your homework.’
Anthony was particularly keen to show his mother his water-colour as soon as he arrived home, and double-checked that it was safely in his bag before rushing out of the classroom as fast as it was possible to walk without actually running. Most of the children did likewise, and were outside talking excitedly with friends; but Anthony waited alone and in silence for the bus to arrive. When it eventually turned up about five-minutes later, he boarded last and sat at the front, rather than join the rest of the boys at the back.
Molly was watching from the kitchen window when the bus appeared in the street amongst clouds of dirty soot-black diesel fumes. She opened the front door as it came to a gradual stop, and waved as Anthony disembarked with his bag clutched tightly in one hand, and the painting in the other.
Molly buttoned her brown woollen cardigan against the winter chill, and met Anthony at the path’s half-way point. ‘Come on, cariad. I’ve made you a nice big mug of hot-chocolate.’
Anthony followed his mother into the kitchen, took off his coat, hung it on the back of a chair, placed his school bag in a corner, and held up his picture in full view.
‘That looks like a nice painting, cariad. Can I have a look?’
Anthony smiled eagerly, and handed her his picture. Molly held it out in front of her and studied it… It portrayed the four of them, that was obvious, but why was Mike so very large? Did the fact Tony was missing his father explain it? Possibly? Maybe it was something else to ask the psychiatrist?
‘Do you like it, Mum?’
‘Get some sticky tape from the drawer, cariad.’
Molly smiled warmly as Anthony handed her the Sellotape. As she displayed the picture on the pantry door she was praising Anthony’s artistic endeavours, but thinking about the impact her errant husband’s infidelity had had on them all… Anthony needed more help than she could give him. The child guidance clinic was a welcome beacon of hope.
Siân arrived home about ten-minutes later, and went straight to her bedroom without speaking to either her mother or brother. Molly gave her a short reprieve, and then called to her from the hall. ‘Tea’s almost ready, love. We're all going to eat at the table for a change. I need to have a chat with you both.’
Siân didn't reply, but she appeared in the kitchen just as Molly was placing three plates of spaghetti bolognese topped with generous helpings of grated cheddar cheese on the kitchen table. Molly smiled at her daughter and pulled out a chair before saying, ‘Sit down, love. Is water okay?’
Siân nodded unenthusiastically.
‘What about you, Tony, milk or squash?’
‘Orange squash, please, Mum.’
Molly handed her children their drinks and joined them at the table. ‘I wanted to remind you both that we’re going to the clinic in the morning.’
Siân frowned in an exaggerated teenage manner. ‘Do I really have to go, Mum? Anthony’s the one with the problems, not me!’
‘We’ve already talked about this, Siân. The doctor want’s to see us all. Please, love!’
Siân chose not to reply, but Molly noted she hadn't said no.
Anthony grinned sheepishly as a length of pasta fell from his mouth and onto his jumper. ‘Can I watch telly now, Mum?’
‘Finish your food first, Anthony. Surely you can wait that long?’
He said nothing more, but gulped down the remainder of his meal at breakneck speed.
Molly shook her head and smiled thinly. ‘Off you both go. I’ll do the washing up tonight. But tomorrow I want some help.’
Molly put Anthony to bed a little earlier than usual and read to him for approximately twenty-minutes before saying, ‘I need to telephone Dad, cariad. You get off to sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.’
‘Dad is definitely coming, isn't he, Mummy?’
‘Yes, cariad, definitely!’
Anthony beamed. ‘I scored a goal today, Mum. I’m going to tell Dad about it.’
‘Did you, cariad? That’s brilliant! Dad will be pleased. You’ll be able to start going to rugby training again soon.’
Anthony’s smile evaporated from his face.
‘Now then, cariad, eyes closed and off to sleep with you. I’ll leave the landing light on just for tonight. Goodnight, Tony.’
‘Goodnight, Mum.’
Molly sat on the bottom step of the stairs and dialled Mike’s number. She was very much hoping that Tina wouldn't answer when she heard Mike say, ‘Hello?’
‘Mike, it’s Molly. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten about tomorrow morning?’
‘Of course I haven't forgotten, Mo.’
‘Please make sure you're not late, Mike. We need to be there before half-past-ten. It’s the first appointment. I want to make a good impression.’
‘I know that, love. I’ll…’
‘You promised to speak to Siân, Mike. The doctor want’s to see us all. I’ve already explained that to you.’
‘Slow down, love. I said I’d speak to her, and I will. Is she in?’
‘She’s out somewhere. Hopefully, she’ll be back at some point. I’ll ask her to ring you if and when finally turns up. See you in the morning, Mike. Please don't be late.’
Molly put the phone down before he had the opportunity to respond, and shook her head regretfully… Be more patient, you daft woman. What had her mother told her? Conversation as opposed to monologue. It was sound advice. Mike was trying. Not hard enough, but he was trying.
Siân eventually arrived home when Molly was about to give up on her and head to bed for the night. Molly met her at the back door, and was relieved that she was sober and, wonder of wonders, communicative. She decided that in the circumstances it was best to ignore the time… There were bigger fish to fry.
‘Hi, Mum,’
Molly forced a transient smile. ‘Hi, love, Dad wanted you to ring him before bed.’
‘Is it about tomorrow, Mum?
Molly nodded. ‘Yes, love, it is.’
‘I'll go if you want me to. I do care about Tony. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do, love.’
‘Sorry about earlier, Mum.’
Molly smiled, this time spontaneously. ‘Thanks, love. Come here and give your old mum a hug.’
For once Siân didn't pull away.
T
revor Simpson peered into DI Gravel’s disorganised office and grinned. ‘How was Bournemouth?’
The forlorn expression on Grav’s face rendered any further discussion on the subject entirely unnecessary, but DI Simpson chose to pursue the matter nonetheless. ‘I hope the mother-in-law enjoyed herself?’
‘Look, Trevor, unless you've got something useful to say, I suggest you fuck off and let me get on with some work.’
DI Simpson guffawed loudly, and decided not to bait his friend any further despite the temptation. ‘No, seriously, there is one thing I wanted to mention, Grav.’