White is the coldest colour: A dark psychological suspense thriller (4 page)

He grimaced as a sudden stabbing pain jolted his brain on entering the small reception, which also served as his young secretaries office… He’d been successfully conning people for years. Why the hell should that change now?

‘Good morning, Doctor!’

‘And a good morning to you, Sharon!’ He paused, cocked his head to one side at an approximate forty-five degree angle and studied her for a second to two. ‘Have you done something different with your hair, my dear girl?’

She looked down at her desktop, avoiding his gaze. ‘Oh, nothing special, Doctor, I just washed it before work and put a few curlers in.’

‘Well, whatever you did, my dear girl, you look marvellous.’

She smiled warmly and self-consciously adjusted her fringe with chubby fingers.

Dr Galbraith looked her up and down… The moronic bitch was as malleable as warm putty. ‘Now then, Sharon, first things first, there’s no clinic this morning as I recall; no patients for us to worry about. Why not make us both some coffee?’

She nodded. ‘One heaped spoonful of Nescafe, a splash of semi-skimmed, and one sugar?’

‘Exactly right as always, my dear. I’ll be in my office.’

She called after him as he walked away. ‘How about a biscuit?’

He snorted disdainfully… The greedy bitch was looking for any excuse to fill her repugnant face again. Maybe a trough would be a suitable birthday gift? ‘Not for me thank you, my dear. I enjoyed an excellent breakfast. But why don't you have one?’

Sharon switched on the kettle and frowned: sullen, dejected… Had he forgotten her birthday? It wasn't like him.

She spooned coffee granules into two mugs, added milk and finally sugar: one level spoonful for the doctor as per usual, and three heaped for herself, whilst waiting for the water to come to the boil.

Dr Galbraith entered his seemingly unremarkable magnolia office, adjusted his recently acquired black leather swivel chair, and sat at the modern veneered desk he’d located directly against the rear wall, avoiding any barrier between himself and prospective victims. He moved a flowering Christmas cactus aside, and picked up the silver framed black and white photo of his wife and two young daughters. He held it out in front of him in both hands, stared at it for several seconds and smiled contentedly… He must ensure he referred to the portrait when first meeting the little bastard and his needful family.

Dr Galbraith placed the photograph back on his desk and slowly scanned the room with eager eyes… Was everything in its place? Was everything as it should be? The poster covering the glass panel in his office door could do with some additional Sellotape. That was a job for Sharon. Surely the incompetent bitch could manage that much.

He shook his head vigorously… It beggared belief. Why the hell were all the women in his life such a burden?

Dr Galbraith manoeuvred himself to the centre of the room in his chair and examined the room’s only window… That pleb at the garden centre had been surprisingly knowledgeable despite his youth and obvious limitations. The elaeagnus bush had grown significantly faster than he could have hoped, and the thorns formed an excellent barrier. He really couldn't have made a better choice.

The doctor rose form his seat, pushed the chair back in the direction of his desk with a flick of his right foot, approached the window, adjusted the blinds and peered out… He still had a reasonable view of the car park without the fear of potentially interfering external onlookers. He’d need to strategically trim the bush at some stage, but that could almost certainly wait until spring.

He turned away from the window, surveyed the room for one final time, and smiled… It was an undoubted triumph. One more thing to be proud of.

Dr Galbraith opened Anthony Mailer’s file and read slowly, taking his time, and carefully considering each word… The little bastard had blamed himself for his parents break up and had developed various behavioural problems as a result. His mother had accepted the family doctor's offer of specialist help.

He sat back in his chair and stretched his arms high above his head before lowering them slowly and deliberately… It wasn't a complex scenario. Far from it, in fact; if he were of a mind to help, he could. Of course he could. If the little bastard had been a girl, he would have provided an excellent therapeutic service. If he was a little older he would have done likewise. That was entirely reasonable, wasn't it? Of course it was. What the hell did it matter if he used a few boys for his own purposes?

The resurgent pressure began to build again… Why the hell was he forced to keep his true-nature secret from the world at large? He helped the vast majority of children he saw. That was to his credit. People should be grateful for that.

The doctor’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by his young secretary tapping on the door with the point of her scarlet court shoe, and entering his office with his mug of coffee in one hand and the clinic’s appointments diary in the other.

‘Come in, my dear girl. Come in, and make yourself comfortable. I neglected to wish you a happy birthday earlier, and so I will do it now. Is it eighteen or nineteen this year?’

She giggled bashfully. ‘Oh, you know I’m older than that.’

He grinned… The repulsive bitch looked nearer to forty than twenty. ‘Well, you don't look it, my dear. Now then, to business: when’s the next free appointment?’

Sharon sat at his side, opened the diary, flicked through the pages, stopped, continued, and then stopped again. ‘Not until the twenty-seventh, I'm afraid, Doctor.’

He stared at the floor fleetingly, and then slowly raised his eyes, fixing her with an intense look that she struggled to decipher. ‘There’s nothing sooner?’

Was there a degree of anxiety in his voice?

She urgently re-opened the book and frowned. ‘I’ll take another look, Doctor, but you really mustn’t overdo it. You've been looking tired recently, and you've been getting those terrible headaches of yours. Didn't you say you were planning a holiday?’

Keep control, man, keep control, indulge the interfering bitch. ‘That is not your concern, young lady. The children have to come first. You know that. If I don't help them, whose going to do it?’ He tapped the desktop repeatedly with his right index finger. ‘Now, come on, diary.’

Sharon sighed… He was such a caring man. If only there were more like him.

‘There is one cancellation on Friday the seventeenth, Doctor. That’s half-past-ten a week today, but I’m sure you mentioned a dental appointment.’

Dr Galbraith visibly relaxed… A week was too long. But it seemed there was no viable alternative. ‘No, no, Sharon, that will have to do. It will have to do. Please ensure the appointment letter is sent out first class this morning. This particular child is in crisis. The Mailer’s need my urgent help.’ He stood, pointed towards the door, and smiled engagingly. ‘Do you hear me, girl? Get it done please.’

She left the office promptly, her body quivering like a pink blancmange with each step… If the doctor could be so very dedicated, then so could she.

Dr Galbraith opened Anthony’s file for the second time that morning, and re-read the general practitioner's letter repeatedly before pushing it aside a few minutes later… How could the stupid bitch take so long to type a few miserable lines of script?

He cleared his throat and shouted, ‘Is the Mailer letter ready, Sharon?’

‘It’s nearly done, Doctor. Do you want the entire family to attend?’

Oh for fucks sake, it was the little bastard’s first appointment. Why the hell did she always need to ask? ‘Yes, please, Sharon, a standard initial appointment letter: the mother, the father and the two children.’

‘I’ll have it done in five-minutes, Doctor.’

He rubbed a hand over his chin… A damn chimp could type faster. ‘Thank you, my dear.’

She shook her head as she started typing… What was the hurry this time? Sometimes, he was too dedicated for his own good.

Dr Galbraith sighed loudly and screwed up his face. ‘Where the hell is it, Sharon?’

‘I’m typing as fast as I can, Doctor.’

Focus, man, focus. Too harsh, far too harsh, placate the bitch.

He actively calmed himself before entering her office. ‘I apologise if I appear somewhat irate this morning, my dear. But it really couldn't be more urgent.’

Sharon finished typing a second or two later, her fleshy bust heaving with the effort of it all. ‘That’s it, done!’

‘Thank you, my dear. I’ll check the contents in my office.’

Dr Galbraith sat at his desk and held the letter out in front of him, accommodating his long-sightedness, rather than making use of his reading-glasses. He began reading but struggled to concentrate despite the contents usual captivation… He was doing the right thing, wasn't he? It was a fair question in the circumstances. He usually made a point of avoiding children who enjoyed close family ties. Why the hell was this time any different?

He clawed at his scalp and desperately tried to ignore the invasive crashing symbols in his mind… Was it really a wise move? The risks were high. What if the little bastard said something to the wrong person? What if that someone actually listened to him and acted on his allegations? It just didn't bare thinking about.

He blinked and twitched and sweated and paced the floor, as the escalating racket threatened to overwhelm him completely… He’d made exceptions in the past. Of course he had. When it had suited him. He’d taken risks, but they were considered risks. That was the essential caveat. A man of his intelligence and expertise could handle such complications. Of course he could. And the little bastard was well worth the additional effort.

Dr Galbraith felt suddenly calmer… All he had to do was think things through and stick to a plan. Manipulating the little bastard would be easy enough. He was good at it, and had to remember that. It was just a matter of how? The father was an obvious vulnerability. And if that failed, which seemed highly unlikely, there were other viable options. Of course there were. He'd undertaken the task on numerous occasions without any significant issues arising. How many boys was it at the last count? Was it ninety-seven, or ninety-eight? Either way it was something to be proud of. What the hell was he worrying about? His methods had worked before and they would again.

He returned to his seat just as Sharon knocked on the door and entered without waiting to be asked. ‘Would you like me to post the Mailer letter at lunchtime, Doctor?’

Dr Galbraith beamed. ‘That will not be necessary, Sharon. You've done an excellent job. Thank you, my dear girl.’

She blushed crimson. ‘Are you sure, Doctor? You did say earlier…’

‘I’m grateful, my dear. Extremely grateful, but I’m about to leave for a meeting. I'll post this one myself on the way.’

She smiled contentedly as he took a faux crocodile-leather wallet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, opened it theatrically, and handed her a crisp ten-pound note. ‘Happy birthday, my dear girl, please treat yourself to something nice for lunch. And don’t rush back. You deserve it.’

She gushed, and decided to ignore the fact that there was nothing marked in his diary… He really was a wonderful boss, and unbelievably generous. His wife really was a lucky woman. ‘Will I see you after the meeting, Doctor?’

She was hoping the answer was yes, but she didn't receive a response. Dr Galbraith waved exuberantly as he rushed from the clinic and headed towards his car. His mind was focussed on other things.

Chapter 5

W
PC Jane Pritchard glanced knowingly at Alan Garret, her child protection social work colleague, and re-focused on the nervous overweight nine-year old boy they’d been interviewing at one of the county’s two social services video interview facilities for almost an hour.

After a moment’s silence she leant towards the boy, and took the lead in line with her joint investigation training. ‘Just so we’re clear, Dewi. You’re saying you were assaulted by a male doctor as well as your father.’

The boy stared at the floor and remained silent for a second or two before nodding reticently and saying, ‘Yes’ in a faltering voice.

‘How many times did it happen?’

‘Just the t-time I told you about.’

Alan Garret nodded. ‘You’re doing really well, Dewi. None of this was your fault. It’s important to remember that.’

WPC Prichard lifted a hand to her face, brushed her hair away from her eyes and smiled. ‘That’s right, Dewi. I know this isn't easy, but it is important. Do you need a tissue before we carry on?’

She reached out holding a paper hankie taken from her handbag, but withdrew her hand when he didn’t accept it. ‘No?’

The boy wiped away his tears with the sleeve of his grey jumper and shook his head.

‘Okay, then we’ll continue. When did it happen?’

‘Last s-summer, before I was taken into care.’

‘Do you know which month it was?’

He shook his head… How was he supposed to know that?

‘Was it at the start of the school holidays, in the middle, or at the end?’

‘At the start, I think.’

‘But you can't be sure?’

‘No.’

‘Where did it happen?’

‘In a white room.’

‘A white room? Can you tell us more about the room? Any details at all would be helpful.’

‘It was covered in white tiles, like a bathroom.’

The officer frowned, oblivious to her expression. ‘Anything else?’

‘There weren't any windows.’

‘What, none at all?’

‘No.’

‘Do you mean they were boarded up, or something?’

‘No, there just weren't any.’

‘Had you ever seen the room before?’

‘No.’

‘Were you ever taken there again.’

‘No.’

‘This is an important question, Dewi. Please think carefully before you answer. Do you know where the room is?’

‘No.’

‘Can you describe the building it was in?’

‘No, I didn't see it.’

She paused momentarily, searching for an appropriate question… This was not going well. He looked ready to run for the door. ‘Well, if you didn't see the building, how did you get to the room?’