The Treatment (48 page)

“Oh, God.”

“Quinn got some preliminary results from the stuff in the attic.”

“And?”

“They don't match Peach's profile.”

“Yup. Thought that's what you were going to say.” Caffery laced his hands together, rolled his head from side to side as if to get rid of a neck crick. “God,” he said, after a while, scratching his neck. “Damn and fuck, Marilyn. I can't believe this is happening—the wheel's coming off.”

“I know. And there's more.”

“More?”

“They reran the DNA tests on whoever raped Rory, and—”

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Don't tell me.”

“It came back the same as last time. Exactly the same. Alek Peach.”

When Souness arrived at the incident room Caffery was waiting for her at the door. He'd been thinking about it. Thinking the impossible. “We need to go and see Alek Peach. I think I know what happened. And I think we should appoint a SOIT officer for him.”

“SOIT? But that's for—”

“For victims of sexual assault. That's right.”

Tracey Lamb's name was on the board in the reception wing of Holloway Prison. It said she had a legal visit that afternoon at two o'clock. At one forty-five they took her with the other girls down to the holding cell: “Cunts' Corner,” it was still called, just as it had been the last time she was here.

“You're in room one.” Room one: that made sense— the one with the TV for video evidence, nearest to the screws' station so they could keep her under their noses. “Here's your drawer.” Lamb scowled at the officer, held wet fingers to the end of her roll-up to stop if from burning,
and slung it in the drawer to smoke later. “And the rest.” The officer rattled the drawer. Obediently Lamb reached into the breast pocket of her T-shirt for her rollups. She had a tiny amount of tobacco—as a remand prisoner she was allowed thirty pounds a week, and that had to buy toiletries and all her tobacco.

Three K. Just think—three grand, straight through your fingers.

“Come on, room one, let's be having you.”

She was shepherded out of the cell, down the glasslined corridor and into the room where Kelly Alvarez waited with her papers spread out on the table.

“Hi, Tracey.”

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“I want to just tie up some loose ends about your bail next week—I want to be ready for them this time. Want to have a package to offer.” She gleamed across at her client, anxious for a response.

Tracey sat down opposite and scowled. “You never told me I might not get bail today.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry about that, Tracey.”

“I'd of skipped if I'd known this was going to happen.”

“Tracey, that particular judge has got a reputation for it. I spoke to Prosecution afterward and he was as surprised as I was.” She smiled. Yellow teeth. “But we'll make a new application next week and then there'll be no problem.”

“Yeah?” She raised her chin a little and looked carefully at Alvarez. In a week Steven might not be alive—if he hadn't got out of the ropes he might still be there, bound to the cupboards and the table in the trailer.
Seven days— how long would it take? What the fuck would you do with a body? Just leave it there?
What did he have for water and food? The Cokes and chocolate she'd brought him this morning, and a little water in the bottle under the sink. “How can you be so sure I'll get out next time?”

“Ah, because I've got some inside info.” She winked broadly. “Today's judge will be on holiday next week and he's got a reputation for denying bail, but it'll be someone else next time and there'll be no problem, I promise you.”

Lamb nodded thoughtfully. Accustomed to looking over her shoulder, spotting the sleight-of-hand in every encounter, her senses were perfectly tuned in to certain frequencies and she could tell that Kelly Alvarez was not suited to this profession. She sensed Alvarez's idealism, sensed how badly she wanted to please her clients and Lamb knew exactly how to make this fundamental flaw work for her. “Did you find out how they got me?” she said.

“They had a video of you.”

“Just one?”

“Just the one.” She held up her copy. “Want to see it?”

“No.” She shifted in her chair. “What am I doing in it?”

“You are …” She coughed neatly into a big fist. “You are indecently assaulting a small boy.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Yes.”

“And? Where are we? What am I wearing?”

“You're on a bed.”

“Leopard-skin cover?”

“That's the one. They'd had it for years.” Alvarez put her head on one side, her eyes sympathetic. “I think it was always going to happen, Tracey. The only good thing is that it's all a long time in the past. They haven't got anything recent—a jury will be convinced you've put it all behind you.”

“No Internet stuff?”

“Uh …” Alvarez started to look uncomfortable at this new direction. “No,” she said cautiously. “The video was the only piece of evidence that's come to light so far.”

“OK.”
There are at least four more videos of you in the stuff Penderecki was holding—and a whole pack of Carl's Internet stuff.
Caffery might have surrendered all of that if he'd been connected. Lamb rubbed her hands over her face and looked over her shoulders at the screws' station. “Right.” She turned back, leaning forward, her voice lower. “I asked you about DI Caffery.”

“Yes.” Alvarez seemed happy to change the subject. “I
was interested in that—I asked Prosecution and he hadn't heard of him.”

“You
sure
?”

“Certain. I did a bit of asking around and he's with a totally different unit, absolutely nothing to do with the pedophile unit and certainly nothing to do with the investigation. Why? What're you thinking?”

“Nothing.” But of course her thoughts were pounding along. Something in her kept stretching, stretching as hard as it could toward that money—every sinew, every cell. “You reckon I'll get bail next week, then?”

“Oh, yes. I can
guarantee
you will.”

I
T DIDN'T TAKE LONG FOR CAFFERY
to recognize that Carmel Peach was on medication. During the night, Alek had been moved to an annex room in a new ward, and Carmel sat at the end of his bed painstakingly picking the onions out of a bowl of minestrone soup and placing them in a napkin. She looked as if the pigment had been sucked out of her, as if what was left standing was just the dried-out hide. She had chipped her nail polish into flakes that lay across her T-shirt and jeans, and when Caffery and Souness came into the ward she looked up but didn't recognize their faces. Her mind flicked easily past them and she went back to the soup.

“Alek.” Souness sat down next to him on the bed. Caffery closed the door and pulled down the blind. “Alek,” Souness said gently, “do ye know why we're here, son?”

“To give me more grief?” He was wearing a black and silver Elvis T-shirt, and two or three pillows supported his back. His sideburns had been trimmed, right up to the gray, and next to him, on the side of the bedside cabinet, a child's crayon drawing had been taped. Kenny from
South Park,
“Rory” written in brown felt tip at the bottom. “You can't hurt me now.” He stared at his big hands, his head drooping. “Not anymore. Just do what you have to do.”

“We're sorry.” Caffery mirrored Souness and sat down
on the bed, conscious of the intimacy of sitting so close to Peach. “We're here to say that we're sorry—I'm sorry— but there's still something you're not telling us, Alek. Something happened in your house …” He cleared his throat. “Something happened before Rory was kidnapped. We've got an idea what but we'd like to hear it from you because—”

He stopped. Carmel had suddenly sat bolt upright. Without a word she slammed down the napkin, got to her feet, stuffed her feet into a ragged pair of trainers, the backs pressed down under her heels, and walked jerkily around the room, humming loudly to herself, a snatch of music from a car advert, picking things up and putting them down, opening the bedside cupboard and pulling objects out, noisily rearranging them. Seeing her expression Alek put his face in his hands and shook his head despairingly. Caffery leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, above the noise, “I'm sorry, Alek, if this seems insensitive, but it has to be done.”

“Da-da da
da
!” Carmel sang the tune out loud. Caffery looked up to find her glaring angrily at him. “Da-da-da-
da
!”

“Carmel, love,” Peach said, “go and wait outside.”

Furiously, silently, she grappled in her handbag for cigarettes and a lighter, not taking her eyes off Caffery, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. It took him a moment or two, staring at the closed door, to get rid of that angry, war-mask image. He shifted a little, and glanced over at Souness, who shrugged.

“Mr. Peach …” He tried again, straightening up his voice. “Alek.”

Peach's jaw moved, as if his tongue were a piece of obstinate gristle that he'd like to swallow or spit out. He pushed away the bowl of soup and didn't answer.

“We do understand how you feel. We've got a specially trained officer—he's done a course, a special course for, uh, this sort of thing.”

Peach pointedly turned his head to Souness. “Is that all he's come here for? To tell me about your training schemes?”

Caffery sighed. “I understand why it's difficult, Alek.”

“Oh, yeah?” He turned cold eyes back to Caffery. “You really think you understand, do you?”

“Yeah. I think I—”

“You really think you understand.” He bunched up his fists. “Fucking filth come here and tell
me
they can
understand
what happened to
me
. You haven't got a
clue
what we went through.”

“What I mean is—”

“
No
.” He pointed a finger in Caffery's face. “No, let
me
tell
you
about understanding.” His head was twitching, the sinews on his neck stood out. “Because I'll tell you this for nothing, I hope one day you
do
understand. I hope one day the same thing happens to you. I hope you feel this way so someone can come mincing in and preaching to
you
about under-fucking-standing. You've
never
had a choice like I had—
never
.” He dropped back against the pillow, breathing hard. “You haven't got children—I can see it in your eyes.”

Caffery stared at Rory's drawing of Kenny. He knew he was supposed to be feeling sympathy for Alek Peach, knew he was supposed to be terribly, terribly sorry for what had happened to him, but there it was again, that maddening, bright anger moving down his limbs—as if it had been injected like adrenaline from a gland into his heart. All he'd expected from his extended hand of sympathy was straightforward, honest acceptance. He tried again. “Mr. Peach, all I—”

“Don't tell me.”

“I just want to—”

“I don't
want
your understanding.”

Shit
. Caffery jumped to his feet, furious, pacing around the bed, opening his hands to appeal to Souness. “
I'm only trying to help
,” he mouthed at her.

She turned her face away from Peach and reached over to touch Caffery on the wrist: “Let me deal with this, OK?”

“Go on, then.” He dropped into a chair in the corner. He'd given up with Alek Peach. He sat, his legs pushed out
in front of him, his head dropped on one hand, and watched.

“Right …” Souness rubbed her forehead, trying to think how to put it. “Alek, we think the intruder made ye do something to Rory….” She paused. Peach was breathing hard, staring angrily at his hands. “Now, we've never come up against something like this, so we need you to work with us, and what I think we need to start with is an allegation.”

Silence. Caffery watched sullenly from the edge of the room.
She won't get through to him—he's a dickhead.

“We're sorry, young man.” She put her hand on his and squeezed it. “But we need to hear it in your own words.”

Peach suddenly put his head back and tears lit up in the corners of his eyes, running down his face. He heaved in a breath. “It doesn't matter anyway. I've died now,” he muttered. “I've died now, so it doesn't matter what I tell you. I'm dead. I know you can see me.” He lifted one bruised hand and touched the fingertips to his chest. “You can see me, sitting here, inside my skin, but really I'm not
here
, see? I'm not really here.” He used the heel of his hand to press the tears back into his eyes. “Oh, God, oh, God—”