White is the coldest colour
Author
John Nicholl
Author Bio
John Nicholl wrote a multi agency child protection good practice manual and articles for news papers and a national social work magazine during his career, but White is the coldest colour is his first novel.
He has worked as a police officer, and as a social worker and operational manager for the child guidance service, two social services departments, and the NSPCC. He has also lectured on child protection matters at several colleges and universities.
Description
The Mailer family is oblivious to the terrible danger that enters their lives when seven-year-old Anthony is referred to the child guidance service by the family GP following the breakdown of his parents’ marriage.
Fifty-eight year old Dr David Galbraith, a sadistic predatory paedophile employed as a consultant child psychiatrist, has already murdered one child in the soundproofed cellar below the South Wales Georgian town-house he shares with his wife and two young daughters.
Anthony becomes Galbraith’s latest obsession, and he will stop at nothing to make his grotesque fantasies reality.
The novel is entirely fictional, but draws on John Nicholl’s experiences as a police officer, child protection social worker, manager and trainer.
During his career the author was faced with case after case that left him incredulous as to the harm sexual predators chose to inflict on their victims. The book reflects that reality.
The story is set in 1992, a more naive time when many found it extremely difficult to believe that a significant number of adults posed a serious risk to children.
The book contains material some may find upsetting from the start.
It is dedicated to survivors everywhere.
Book excerpt
Chapter 1
Thursday 9, January 1992
The video featured two middle-aged men wearing nothing but black leather bondage-hoods, who were eagerly assaulting an eight-year-old boy with shoulder-length russet brown hair parted in the middle. Their blows gradually increased in severity until their victim slumped unconscious and bleeding. He hung there, suspended by twisted arms, with his head dangling towards a white-tiled floor stained with intermingling bodily fluids.
As the film came to an eventual blood-spattered conclusion, fifty-eight-year-old Dr David Galbraith wiped himself with a paper hankie taken from a box kept next to the desktop computer, discarded the soiled tissue in a waste paper basket to the right of his desk, switched off the television, and ejected the tape from the VCR.
He returned to his seat, balanced his gold metal-rimmed reading glasses on the bridge of his nose, opened the olive green cardboard file on the desktop in front of him, and began perusing the contents… The cellar provided an excellent production studio, both functional and aesthetically pleasing. It wasn’t quite perfect, of course; the family kitchen didn’t provide the ideal access point. And forcing the Welsh oak dresser aside on each and every occasion was an unfortunate necessity. But, nonetheless, its development was something to be proud of. And only utilising professional assistance on a strictly cash basis from like-minded contacts made absolute sense. Security was everything.
Lining the walls with eight-inches of highly efficient soundproofing foam was truly inspired. Even the most piercing and prolonged screams couldn’t be heard in the rest of the house, or anywhere else for that matter. It was entirely practical, as was the stainless steel medical trolley. Where else would he keep the various tools of his trade?
He actively controlled his breathing and closed his eyes for a second or two, before opening them slowly and refocussing on his notes… And what of his plaything? How did the process begin? It was important to pin down the specific details; important to identify the precise moment in time. Ah, yes, he first saw the little bastard at Tŷ Gwyn children’s home, and decided immediately that he provided suitable project material if the opportunity arose. And of course, fate smiled on him.
Dr Galbraith turned the page… He was driving the Daimler in the direction of Caerystwyth, and despite the poor visibility he spotted the little bastard walking, head bowed, in the opposite direction. That was worthy of a symbolic pat on the back if anything was.
Whether or not to abduct the little bastard wasn’t an easy decision to make. He knew it was risky. Maybe he became complacent and gambled with his freedom? And what if he’d been caught? It just didn’t bear thinking about.
The doctor bit his lower lip hard, and resisted the impulse to shriek as the pressure in his head escalated exponentially: pounding, booming, compression and sound that made him twist and blink and squirm and pant for breath… The long game would have been a much safer option. Why the hell did he deviate from such a well-established and successful protocol?
Author Website
http://ccdgroupftp.co.uk/jn/
