White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller (18 page)

He forwent his usual morning exercise routine in favour of an early breakfast, which he enjoyed without interacting with Cynthia on any level whatsoever… There were more important things to do with his time. Significant things that required his total undistracted attention.

The doctor phoned Sharon at 8:45 a.m. precisely, and engaged in a lengthy, somewhat inconsistent apology in which he sited various reasons for the previous days aberration, as he put it. He informed her that he’d be taking a few days sick leave by unfortunate necessity, and instructed her to cancel his various professional commitments. Sharon concluded that illness, or to be more specific fever, best explained his shocking outburst of the previous day… It was so out of character. What other explanation was there?

Dr Galbraith made one further call, ordering a large bunch of red and white roses from a local florist, which would be delivered to Sharon at the clinic later in the day. They would have a simple message of apology and affection attached. He smiled in response to his largess… It was well worth spending a few miserable pounds to keep the obnoxious bitch onside.

After an hour or more spent watching videos and fondly reminiscing, he turned his attention to planning Anthony's abduction with what he considered military precision. He took a notepad and fountain-pen from a desk drawer, and began exploring his thoughts on paper: firstly, when the time was right, he would borrow a suitable vehicle from a paedophile acquaintance.

Next, he’d dedicate as much time as was required to observing the Mailer family in order to determine the optimum time and place to seize his prey.

Once Anthony was imprisoned in the cellar he’d take his time to chronicle every moment on film and paper.

Finally, when the little bastard had served his purpose and was of no further use to him, he would maximise the bitch mother’s suffering by sending her copies of the videos.

Dr Galbraith linked his fingers behind his nape, pictured the scene, and relaxed. When he was finally ready to let go of the fantasy he placed his completed plans in Anthony’s case-file for safe keeping and future reference.

The doctor suddenly sat bolt upright… Who the hell would assist him with the practicalities? Sherwood had occasionally served a useful purpose: fetching and carrying, assisting with filming, and doing the cleaning up that invariably followed their activities. At some point in the near future he’d require another like minded malleable accomplice to do his bidding. What about Gary Davies? Davies owed him. That was true. But, was he too risky? Should he be ruled out on the basis of recent police attention? Why the hell was he finding it so much harder to reach definitive decisions than he had over the years? Why did thinking make his head ache? What the hell! Davies would have to do. Davies was the obvious choice.

Chapter 25

A
t 8:00 a.m. the next morning, Dr Galbraith was sitting outside the Mailer family cottage in an old white Ford Transit van borrowed from a sex offender contact, who owned a local scrap yard located in the neighbouring industrial town. The man was a member of the ring, and happy to assist without asking too many unwelcome questions.

The doctor lifted his Zeiss Jena DF 7x40 military binoculars to his eyes, and stared into each room in turn. His eyes darted from window to window: ground-floor to first-floor, right to left, left to right, and then back again. He watched, and waited, constantly repeating the process, until he finally saw Anthony leave the cottage approximately half-an-hour later… Come on, you little bastard. Out you come. Out you come.

Anthony walked down the path hand in hand with Molly, boarded the bus, and sat at the front rather than join the other boys of his age, who considered it cool to sit at the back. Molly waved with exaggerated enthusiasm until the bus left her sight.

Dr Galbraith silently cursed Molly’s existence, started the van’s ill-kept diesel engine on the third turn of the key, and followed cautiously at a discreet distance, adhering slavishly to the speed limits and actively avoiding any ill considered manoeuvre that could potentially draw the attention of the police, or anybody else, to the van.

Clouds of choking black smoke poured from the Transit’s fractured exhaust as he overtook the bus on reaching its ultimate destination approximately fifteen-minutes later. He applied the brakes, turned off the engine, and parked about fifty-yards or so further down the road to watch the children disembarking in his passenger side rear view mirror… It wasn't good. It wasn't good at all.

The doctor gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, lurched forwards, and head-butted the windscreen… A bitch crossing attendant was helping the little bastards cross the road. A moronic male teacher was watching from the school’s entrance. It was fucking hopeless.

Dr Galbraith was back outside the school at 3:20 p.m. having concluded that while it provided an unlikely snatch point, it was probably worth a second look before ruling the option out completely. He parked on the opposite side of the road to which he’d chosen earlier in the day, and observed events with keen eyes… The same bitch lollipop woman, the same moronic pleb teacher; the simple system appeared to work frustratingly well.

He followed the bus on its return journey, more in hope than expectation, and pulled up behind it as Anthony disembarked directly outside the Mailer’s cottage. For a glorious second or two, Dr Galbraith thought this may offer an opportunity. But, no… There the bitch mother was. Back in the doorway. Watching every move the little bastard made like an obsessive mother hen. What was it with these people?

He swore loudly and crudely, punched the steering wheel violently with a clenched fist, overtook the bus, and drove off as speedily as the spluttering engine would allow… It was high time to consider other options.

Dr Galbraith parked almost directly outside Mike Mailer's workplace at a 4:44 p.m. and watched as Mike left the building approximately twenty-minutes later. He was contemplating whether to follow in the van or on foot, when Mike stopped next to his convertible, unlocked the car, and got into the drivers seat. The doctor restarted the van's engine on the fourth attempt just as Mike drove off, and succeeded in keeping the car in sight despite its vastly superior performance, due to the busy rush hour traffic.

The doctor didn't stop on reaching June Mailer's council house, but he slowed as he passed-by, and watched Mike get out of the car and walk down the path towards the front door. He made a mental note of the street name and house number… It looked hopeful. One less obstacle to worry about? Probably, but he had to be sure.

Dr Galbraith pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and headed in the direction of the Ceffyl Du public house, which he’d passed a few minutes earlier at the entrance to the council estate. He’d anticipated leaving the anonymous security of the van at some point or other during the day, and had prepared accordingly. He was wearing thick-rimmed mock tortoise shell glasses with brown lightly tinted nonprescription lenses; a dirty dark-green bobble hat pulled down low over his precisely trimmed eyebrows, a pair of the scrap man's oil stained grey overalls, and a pair of decrepit black wellingtons unnecessarily turned down at the top. He left the van and admired his reflection in one of the pub’s two large ground floor windows… It was an effective ensemble that rendered any fear of recognition virtually groundless. Even a close family member would struggle to identify him if challenged.

The Ceff, as the tavern was affectionately known locally, was a typical Welsh working class watering hole. He pushed open the door with his foot, and waited in the doorway for a few seconds, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim interior before entering the bar. Even in the gloomy atmosphere, through choking clouds of swirling tobacco smoke, he could see that the only customers were three dishevelled looking elderly men holding cigarettes with yellow fingers, and a younger alcohol ravaged drunk of indeterminate age standing unsteadily at the bar, talking to a grossly overweight landlord who couldn't have looked less interested if paid to. A pounding Rolling Stones rock track the doctor didn't recognise or appreciate was playing on the wall-mounted jukebox.

Dr Galbraith said, ‘Evening,' to the proprietor in a fairly convincing Glaswegian accent on approaching the bar, and ordered a single malt whiskey.

‘We've only got the one brand of blended whiskey, if that’s any good to you?’

The doctor was used to more expensive spirits, but replied, ‘No problem,’ with mock enthusiasm, and gulped it down with the flick of his wrist. ‘I’ll have another, and have one yourself.’

‘That’s very kind of you, it’s a rare event around here, I can tell you.’

‘You're welcome.’

The landlord laughed jovially and gestured to the inebriated regulars. ‘I can’t remember the last time one of these mean sods bought me a drink.’ He poured the spirits and smiled revealing decaying teeth. ‘I haven't seen you in here before. What brings you to our part of the world?’

The doctor leant casually on the bar, proactively portraying a relaxed demeanour. ‘I'm looking for an old friend of mine: Mike, Mike Mailer, any idea where I can find him?’

The landlord scratched his bulbous balding head and frowned. ‘I should do, I’ve run this place for almost thirty-years, but no, I can’t place him.’

‘I’m pretty sure he lives around here somewhere?’

The landlord thought for a few seconds before the quizzical look suddenly evaporated from his face. ‘Ah, you mean Mikey, June's boy.’ He laughed loudly causing his grossly protruding beer-gut to wobble like a birthday jelly. ‘He's back living with his mother, the silly sod. Kicked out by his misses after screwing some slapper or other.’

Dr Galbraith laughed along with his jovial host. ‘What, he's not with that Tina he left his wife and kids for?’

‘No, I was talking to June only yesterday, as it appens. It's all over, but his wife won't have him back.’ He laughed again and added, ‘Silly sod, June's gutted’ before turning away and pouring the drunk another pint of strong German larger.

‘So he’s definitely back living with June?’

‘Yeah, definitely, she said so much herself.’

The doctor said his goodbyes and started for home… It was a minor victory, but a victory nonetheless. Things were looking up at last.

That evening Dr Galbraith sat in his study sanctuary, reviewing his progress, or rather the lack of it… In all, Mike Mailer’s living arrangements apart, it was disappointing. He had to acknowledge that reality. No wonder his damned head was aching so badly. It was to his credit that he could function at all. He’d ruled things out, but nothing in, and that simply wasn't good enough. He had to do something proactive to progress matters. Invading the Mailer's home was an option, he’d already accepted that, but it was perilous. Was it too perilous despite the pleb father being off the scene? Surely such an approach should be a last resort to be kept in reserve if all else failed.

The doctor perused Anthony's file for the umpteenth time, searching desperately for much needed inspiration… Rugby training. What about rugby training? Hadn’t the bitch mother said that the little bastard went to rugby training on Fridays?

Dr Galbraith checked his notes: six-thirty on Fridays; but he hadn't been for a while. Was it still worth considering? The bitch was encouraging him to attend. She’d made that perfectly clear.

The pounding in his head eased slightly, and he sat back in his seat with his eyes closed, attempting to unwind… The possibility had to be worth exploring.

The doctor stood and paced the floor… He'd done well. Of course he had. He deserved a reward. He took a video from a desk drawer, unzipped his trousers, and switched on the VCR.

Chapter 26

D
r Galbraith watched from the anonymity of the Transit van as three boys of about Anthony's age dressed in brightly coloured sports clothes approached the Mailer's front door at 6:16 p.m. on Friday 7, February. Molly answered the door and immediately disappeared back into the cottage, whilst the boys, who had unwisely declined her invite to wait in the warm, stood and shivered on the doorstep.

The doctor stared at each boy in turn, looking them up and down, and considering their potential as future projects. But he quickly ruled it out as the pressure in his head began building… What the hell was wrong with him? He had to focus on one project at a time if unforeseen mistakes were to be avoided.

He forced himself to stare at the door and nothing else… Come out, you little bastard. Out you come. Out you come.

Molly placed an open hand on each of Anthony’s shoulders and tried not to let her increasing frustration show on her face. ‘Come on now, Tony, your friends are waiting for you. You've got your kit on. I’ve cleaned your boots for you. Go on now, you’ll enjoy yourself once your there.’

‘I’ll go next week, Mum.’

‘The longer you leave it before starting back, the harder it’s going to be, cariad. Dad will be really proud of you if you go tonight.’

‘Will he?’

‘Yes, of course he will. Off you go now. I’ll have your supper waiting for you as soon as you arrive back home.’

Anthony made his way towards the front door as if he were approaching the gallows, but his mood raised immediately and he smiled on joining his friends outside in the semi-darkness. Molly sighed with relief as she watched the four boys walk down the path towards the pavement, and finally closed the door once they left her sight.

Dr Galbraith left the van and followed the boys at a discreet distance with his head bowed low to avoid his face being seen by any potential onlookers or passers-by, until they eventually reached the sports field about fifteen-minutes later. Several other lads were already playing touch-rugby under the bright electric glare of the flood lights, and the four new arrivals joined in the impromptu game without waiting to be invited. Two men in casual clothes, who the doctor assumed to be over-attentive fathers, and a third man in a red tracksuit, who turned out to be the youth coach, were talking animately on the touchline near to the twenty-two line. Dr Galbraith walked around the edge of the gradually hardening pitch, and stood on the opposite side of the field with his woolly hat pulled low to cover as much of his face as possible.