The Treatment (50 page)

“You come in under a different name,” she said. “I asked the screws who it was, they said Essex.”

“An old friend of mine.” He felt in his pocket for change. “What do you want, Tracey? Tea? Coffee?”

“Nah—did you bring my fags?”

“You know I can't bring them in here—you know that.”

“OK,” she said lightly. Caffery could tell she was glinting with satisfaction at getting him here with just one phone call. But she wasn't going to be the first to show her hand. “What're you here for, then?”

He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the little child's table between them.

“Who's Rollo?”

“
Eh
?”

“Rollo. From Carl's videos.”

She sighed. “Not
him
again. You don't want to get anywhere near him—he blades your sort.”

“He lives by the park in Brixton, doesn't he?”

“So?” She frowned, scratching nervously at the inside of her arm. “So what?”

“What's his real name?”

“What am I? A cunt? I'm not telling you anything.”

“You'll tell me, Tracey—or that trouble we talked about is going to come back to haunt you.”

She stared furiously across at him. “Nah …” she said.

“Nah—you're more scared of the dirty squad than I am. You're not going to let them have the rest of those vids because you don't have them anymore—you've traded them already.” She spat into her polystyrene cup, wiped her mouth and looked up. “I know your game. I know your connections.”

He didn't speak. He pressed both hands palms down on the table. Behind her, in the crèche, children screamed and ran in circles. A baby lay on its back, kicking its legs and arms, having its nappy changed. Lamb might think she had him straddled, but she'd already given him more than she knew.

“Right.” He stood up to leave. “Always nice to see you, Tracey.”

“Wait!” She half stood, her eyes bright and desperate.

“What?”

She glanced nervously at the guard and lowered her voice to a hiss: “
You never asked me about the boy, you never asked me about Penderecki's boy
.” Lowering herself back into the chair, she pushed her hair behind her ear and dropped her eyes to the table. “I thought we was going to talk,” she murmured out of the side of her mouth.

“No.” He bent over and put his hands on the table, his face close to hers. “No, Tracey. I'm tired of being dicked by your sort.”

“
I know something
.”

“I don't think so. You're lying to me, but it's not the first time and, believe me, it's no novelty to me.”

“Nineteen seventy-three,” she said, “in the autumn.”

Caffery, who was taking a breath to reply, stopped. He stared at her, his eyes moving across her face. He shouldn't let himself be pulled in again—she was just putting up another smokescreen and if Penderecki had told Carl about Ewan then there'd be no mystery about
when
it happened. But, of course,
you can't let it go, can you
? He sat down again, subdued, crumpling into the chair and putting his head in his hands. He sat like this for over a minute, resenting her, hating her, wanting to hit her. “Go on then.” He looked up, wearily drawing his hands down his face, knowing. “Roll out the spiel.”

“Nah.” Lamb looked sullenly at him. She scratched under her armpit and sniffed loudly, looking around the room with her nose tipped up. “Nah,” she said, looking at the ceiling. “You need to try a little harder than that. 'S not that easy, is it?” She summoned up phlegm, spat into the polystyrene cup, wiped her mouth and raised her eyebrows at him. “
You
've got to convince
me
. You've got to prove you ain't nothing to do with the dirty squad. Because it's funny how they come sniffing around right after you did, isn't it?”

He nodded and sat looking at her, stroking his chin, a therapist assessing a patient. Had Tracey Lamb known more about him she would have stopped there. She wouldn't have blatantly fed his mood pure oxygen. “Well?” she asked, cocking her head and smiling. “Come on. It's your turn to be nice to me.”

And with that she'd crossed the line. She'd lost him. He sat forward and spoke very quietly: “Don't dick with me, Tracey.” He said it into her face. “Because if I ever see you on the street I'll kill you.”

“Oh,” she said archly, her lips white. “Well, fuck you, then, 'cause maybe I don't know anything after all.”

“Well, what a surprise.” He got to his feet. “The only difference is
I
mean what I say.”

He walked to the door, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the little security stamp. An officer appeared at his side, jangling keys on a long chain, and guided him to a small black box, pushing his hand under the UV. “Under the light. That's it.” The stamp on his hand lit up and she looped the keys, unlocked the door and held it open for him. He paused, half turning to look back to where Lamb stood, her hands on the table, glaring at him. She mouthed something and raised her eyebrows, but Caffery turned away, thanked the officer and moved on out the door. He was trembling.

Fuck.
Lamb fell back into the chair, kicking angrily at the table legs. She couldn't believe he'd gone. She had been so close.
So fucking close
. She looked around her, at all the
mothers and the daughters and the babies, and knew she was alone. Totally alone.

She was sullenly sticking her fingernails in the side of the Styrofoam cup when she saw the senior officer watching her. “Yeah?” she said, raising her eyebrows sarcastically at her. “What you staring at?”

T
HE INCIDENT ROOM WAS EMPTYING
for the day. Most of the computers had been turned off and Kryotos had washed up all the cups. She was already halfway out of the office, pulling on her jacket, when she saw him coming out of the lift. She knew Caffery. She knew not to argue with him when he had that look on his face.
My God, that look.
“Come on, then,” she said, taking off her jacket without even waiting for him to speak. They went back into the incident room, where she booted up the aging PC and tapped in the new fields he gave her: prison sentences beginning in 1989, attacks on police officers using a knife or razor blade, and addresses in SW2, specifically addresses on the perimeter of Brockwell Park. “Where'd you get all this, Jack?” Souness was in her braces and shirtsleeves, a cup of coffee in one hand, a docket in the other. She'd wandered out of the SIOs' room and come to stand behind Kryotos and Caffery. “Where's this all been massaged from?”

“I dunno.” He didn't meet her eyes. “Just a hunch.”

Even as he said it he felt her eyes snap down on him, in that wry, all-seeing way of hers, and he had to turn his head slightly sideways so she couldn't look in through his face.

“Jack?” He moved away, toward the SIOs' room, but Souness had him by the tail and she knew it. She could
take her time working her way up, hand over hand. “Don't walk away from me, Jack.” She followed him calmly. “I know you too well.”

“Just a bit of fucking privacy, Danni.” He sat down at his desk. “
If that's not too much to ask
.”

But she stood in the doorway, leaning calmly against the frame, sipping her coffee. “Jack Caffery's got a wee secret.” She looked over her shoulder, closed the door and came into the office. She put the coffee on the desk and bent down to him, her voice a low whisper. “Jack, I wish ye'd tell me more.”

He pushed his face nearer hers, his voice matching hers. “
What am I supposed to tell you?
” he whispered. “
Danni?
”

“You're supposed to tell me if something's happening to ye—something that could affect your future in the force.”

“OK, then,” he said, sitting back and opening his hands. At last it was happening. “Come on—out with it. I've been waiting for this.”

She shushed him, holding her finger to her lip. “Why's the love of my life suddenly so interested in you, Jack? Why's Paulina started subtly bringing you into the conversation all the time?” She jerked her chin at the phone. “I've just had her now, in her snaky little way, bringing the conversation back to you.”

“I don't know, Danni. Do you?”

“Don't be sarcastic with me.” She looked at him, her chin dropped, her eyebrows raised. “If she was just shopping around, looking for a bit of quick recreational dicking, I'd understand. You look like you could do the honors, I'll give ye that. But it's not, is it? It's something else.”

He didn't answer. Souness's face was close to his. He dropped his eyes and stared at his hand where it lay on the desk, opening and closing it. He didn't want to be the first to say it. He wanted her to have the opening shot.

“Who is it?” she said eventually. “Eh? Who is it's got you looking like you want to blatter someone?”

“No one.”

“You're lying. You've been gone all afternoon and now you come back with a face ready to take someone apart. And it's the same person gave you those new parameters.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“If something's happening I won't be coming to your aid. Ye do know that?”

“You won't have to.”

“I'll forget your
name
if it means I can cover my own arse.”

He nodded. “It won't come to that. I promise.”

“Jack.” Kryotos was at the door, a cool smile on her face. Souness straightened like a guilty child, immediately dropping this hard-faced, Ping-Pong match.

“Marilyn,” Caffery pushed back his chair, “what?”

“This.” She was holding a single-page printout. “Detained under Section 41—a genuine loony tunes. Can I go home now?”

She was right to be so smug. She had poured all the new search parameters into the database and out of the soup one name had bobbed up. When Caffery saw it he shook his head. “Shit.” He handed the paper to Souness. “I know that name.”

No one answered the door. They'd hammered and called, and now, in the little uncarpeted landing, they had a silent audience of neighbors standing in the doorways, arms folded, the
East Enders
theme playing in living rooms behind them. Caffery lifted the letter box and peered in.

“What do you think?” Souness murmured next to him. Neither she nor Caffery had mentioned Paulina all the way here. It was just as if they'd agreed to drop it until this was dealt with. “Well?”

“He's not here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” He straightened and pulled off his jacket. “He's off somewhere.” He handed Souness the jacket and began loosening his tie. “With someone else, probably.”

“Oh, Christ Almighty.” She saw what he was going to
do and turned hurriedly to the audience. “If ye'd all just like to go inside. That's it.” She made shooing gestures at them, as if to sweep them all back into their flats. “Come on now, nothing to see here.” Slowly, reluctantly, they closed their doors and she turned back. “Jack,” she hissed, “we don't even know if this is him.”

“We will soon.” He emptied his pockets, handing her his keys and some loose change.

“Oh, Jesus—I hope you remember how to fill out a PropDam.”

“Remember?” He took a step back. “I could do it in my sleep.” He rammed his foot into the door. “
Police!
” His voice echoed around the small, dank landing. Letter boxes opened slyly behind them. A second kick. The door shuddered, seemed for a moment to bow at the center, but the two Yale locks held.

“That bottom one's a deadbolt, Jack.”

“I know. POLICE!” He slammed out his foot, landing the kick perfectly along the line of the locks, jarring the tendons in his knee. The top Yale sprang out of its footing but the bottom one held. He hopped backward, getting his balance. “
Fucking thing
.”

“Och, look,” Souness said impatiently, patting her pockets for her mobile. “You'll never hoof it down. We need the ghostbusters, Jack. I'll give them a call.”

“OK, OK—just give me a—” He stepped back, pushing his hair off his forehead, and landed the third kick where he wanted it, about four inches to the right of the locks. The thin outer skin of the door crumpled. The next kick went straight through. “There.” He hopped back, dragging away long splinters of wood, and began ripping at the opening, breathing hard, dropping pieces of honeycombed interior onto the floor. He pushed his hand into the hole and patted along the inside, his face hard against the door. “Good.” He looked at Souness. There was a thumb-turn at the back of the deadbolt. “Got it.” The lock rotated easily. He and Souness were in.