The Treatment (30 page)

“Just calm down, OK?” He reached across her and she
flinched. “Relax.” He unhooked the seat belt. “I'm not going to touch you.”

As he pulled the seat belt across her huge body Lamb dropped her chin and sank teeth into his arm.

“
Fuck
. Jesus.” She had him in a vise grip. He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back, shaking her like a dog. “
Let go
. Come on, let fucking go, you
shit
house.” She gave a little gasp and released her grip and he pulled his hand away, examining the gray mark, pinpoints of blood under the skin. “You spiteful little slag.”

He drove her to a layby on the A134, opposite a graffitied power substation in the center of an overgrown field. He parked the Jag so the passenger door was hard up against a hedgerow, switched off the engine and turned to her.

“Look, first let me give you a little straightener, OK?” He got tobacco from the glove compartment and began to roll a cigarette. “I don't know why TO9 haven't got a file on you, but I can promise you that when they do they'll find you so
tasty
they'll crow it from the rooftops. You'd be looking at, what? Something between seven and ten? But for now they don't know—and guess who can keep it that way?”

“I'm not a snout if that's what you're getting at.” The gold earrings clung precariously to the bottom of a long slash in her earlobes, stretched by years of heavy jewelry. He was sure he could see a tiny flash of sky and trees through them every time she moved her head. “If that's what you've come here for. Not a fucking snout.”

“I'd like you to tell me if any of your brother's fucked-up and twisted pals had a habit of biting. Hmm? Someone in Brixton who likes leaving their sick marks on little boys?” He sealed the Rizla and lit the cigarette, pointing it at Tracey. “It's got serious now, Tracey, really serious. I want some names—I want to know all the names of Carl's friends.”

“You're fucking joking, aren't you? I'm not rolling over—go fuck yourself.”

“You specialize in juves, don't you? You and Carl were part of a pedo ring. I've seen the videos.”

“They were faked, ya stupid cunt. Faked.”

“Yes, well, first off, you're lying. But let's just say for the sake of argument that this is your excuse, then welcome, Tracey, to the land of the pseudo photo—the Home Office is one step ahead of you and we can do you for pseudo photos too, although I've never heard anyone, even those with twice your nous, try to use that as an excuse for a video, so ten out of ten for originality.”

“I haven't done nothing.”

“You're a liar.”

“I'm
not
! It was me brother's thing. All them vids were his—I never even knew—”

“Even so, you are a fucking liar—I recognize you.” Caffery put his cigarette in the ashtray and inspected the mark on his arm, squeezing it, seeing if it would bleed. “You had a wig on, but you made a boy who looked, to my untutored eye, about thirteen …” He paused and looked up from his arm. “Actually, you know, I could be wrong, maybe he was even younger—just goes to show I can't tell kids' ages very well. Anyway, you made him have sex with you, didn't you?” He dropped his arm and looked her square in the eye. “You know, the video with you on the sofa. A boy of about thirteen having his cock sucked. And there were three others.”

“Don't you start trying to grief me now.” She rubbed her chest. “I've got a bad chest. Doctor says stress could be dangerous.”

“Don't threaten me. You're not Cynthia Jarrett. No-body's going to give a flying fuck if you keel over, except for a couple of sad old nonces.”

“There wasn't no harm in what I did.” Her face was growing redder. “He wanted it, that lad. He
wanted it
. Couldn't you tell? You don't get a fucking lob-on if yer don't wannit.”

“Tracey, he was only a
kid
. Legally he can't make a decision at that age—and you shouldn't have put him in a position where he had to—”

“You're stressing me.” The phlegm was rattling in her throat. “You're really stressing me.” She moved her tongue around and began to lean over between her knees.

“Don't you dare spit in my fucking car!”

“I'll suffocate if I can't.”

“Oh, for
Christ's
sake.”

He leaned over, undid the passenger window and pushed her head out. She hawked phlegm into the hedgerow and it landed on an opened cow-parsley umbrella at shoulder height. “Charming.” He pulled her back into the car and pushed her against the seat. She sat back, blinking, and suddenly dropped her face into her hands and began to sob self-pityingly.

“Oh, Jesus.” He sighed.

“What are you going to do to me?” Her nose began to run. “What're you going to
do
?”

Caffery stared out the window at the cars going by on the A134. Tracey Lamb was depressing him.

“Don't shop me—please don't. I don't want to go away again.”

“You won't if you help me.”

“
But I don't know any of them who was biters—I don't!
”

“Not good enough. Not fucking good enough.”

“
It's true.
” Tracey started crying even louder.

“Oh, for Christ's sake.” He rolled his eyes skyward. “Here—have a fag, for fuck's sake.”

She wiped her nose and watched him roll a cigarette. She took it, let him light it and smoked for a few minutes until she was in control again. He watched her carefully, realizing as he did that all he'd said so far was subterfuge, that he should cut to the chase. He rested his elbow on the steering wheel and turned full on to her.

“Look,” he said, “be straight with me—don't you recognize my name?”

“What name?”

“Caffery.”

She shook her head. Her nose was still running.

“But you've heard of the boy across the railway tracks?” That got her attention.

She opened her mouth a little and looked at him. “You know about the boy across the railway tracks, don't you? Penderecki told you, didn't he?”

“Uh—”

“What happened, Tracey? Eh? What happened?”

“I—uh—” Her eyes had changed. They flickered uncertainly and he knew he was getting somewhere.

“Come on—where did Penderecki put him?”

“Why d'you want to know?”

“Doesn't matter
why
.” Caffery put his index fingers on his temples as if she tired him immensely. “What matters is what happens to
you
if you don't tell me.”

Her eyes traveled back and forward across his face as if she was working something around in her head, and slowly her expression changed. “Here,” she said eventually, a suspicious little glint in her eyes. “I thought you was asking about a biter. That's what you said—someone who bites little boys.”

“Well, now I'm not. Now I'm asking about the boy on the railway tracks.”

“How comes you're here on yer own?”

“I'm the only one who knows.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“I will if you want.”

“No, you won't.” Her eyes glittered like fake gems. She'd sussed him. “This ain't official, is it?” She smiled, her lips pulled back from the yellow rabbit's teeth.

“You're working for someone. There's some gelt in it. You're in with someone.”

“Just give me the truth.”

“The truth? The real truth?”

“Yes.”

She didn't answer. They stared at each other for a long time. Then Tracey raised her eyebrows and grinned.

“
What?
”

“I don't know. I don't know what happened to him.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He shook his head and dropped his face into his hands. “Stop dicking with me,” he said wearily. “I mean it, Tracey, no more bullshit. I want to know where they put him.”

“I don't know—seriously, I don't. All I know is that Ivan wouldn't tell me brother and that's all. I swear I don't know.”

C
AFFERY SAT BACK
, exhausted. He lit another cigarette and smoked it without speaking.
Fuck this
. He believed she didn't know anything about Rory's killer—but she knew more than she was letting on about Ewan. Was he going to let himself be suckered in again, sniff along blindly like a desperate, hungry dog?
I think you will.
He imagined Rebecca smiling in amusement, smoking a cigarillo and coolly assessing his behavior.
Pen-derecki's gone but you still like being jerked around when it comes to Ewan.

No, he thought, fuck it, no. He chucked the cigarette out the window, started the car and nosed it forward a few feet. “I'll come back.” He reached across Tracey and opened the door. “When you've had time to think about it.”

She looked dubiously down at the stinging nettles pushing through the cracks in the hot tarmac. “I'm not getting out here in me drawers. Can't you drive me back to the house?”

“No.” He unsnapped her seat belt and shoved her. “Go on—get out.”

She jerked forward. “Oi, ya cunt. What d'you think you're—”

“Go on. Fuck off.”

“You cunt!” Tracey Lamb got out of the car, squealing, “You cunt!”

“Yeah.” He closed the door. “Okay, see you later.” She was in her underwear and a see-through wrap, barefoot in a layby two miles from her house, but he didn't care.
Fuck her
. He accelerated away, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. He followed the A12 into London and straight into the city, where he turned south, setting the car for Shrivemoor. He was going to go straight back and tell Souness about Penderecki's cache and then he was going to go home and sleep. Sleep—it sounded like a long drink from a cold well.

The Jaguar was almost empty so he pulled into the petrol station opposite Shrivemoor to fill up. It was hot: overhead the sun was steady at the midday position, shrinking the grass in the front gardens, making the drains sweat. He stared out absently at the street as the car filled, conscious of the way he'd just lived out Rebecca's diagnosis of him—all through the time in the car with Tracey Lamb he'd wanted to push those rabbit's teeth down her throat. He sighed and replaced the nozzle, locking the petrol cap. He was tired of it all. He was tired of knocking himself out for a kid he didn't know—and suddenly he didn't care if they caught Rory Peach's killer, he didn't even care if there was another family, tied up somewhere, their own child naked and terrified.

He went into the kiosk to pay, bought a truffle ice cream for Kryotos and was crossing the forecourt, the tarmac hot underfoot, when someone came trotting over from the direction of Shrivemoor. “Mr. Caffery.”

Instinctively he left his hand where it was, on his breast pocket, closed over his wallet. A very tall man—with pale, almost alabaster skin and fine blond hair in a neat baby curl—stopped a few feet away on the edge of the forecourt. He was dressed in a pop-button cord shirt and matching fawn cords and was holding an old Argos carrier bag containing a few belongings. “You are DI Caffery.” He put his hand up to shield his eyes. “I saw you in Brixton.”

“Have we met?”

“No. I was interviewed by one of your men. He gave me your name.”

“And you are?”

“Name's Gummer. I'm, uh—” He looked over his shoulder. “I've got some things I'd like to say about the Peach case.”

“Uh.” Caffery didn't move for a moment. He supposed he should shake Gummer's hand but there was something about him that said Gummer was more interested in giving him a lecture on the allocation of man-hours than passing on any information. He looked like someone who had a theory. Or maybe he was a journalist giving him an act. “It might be easier if you made an appointment.”

“Maybe we could have …” He waved vaguely down the street in the direction of the shops. “I could buy you coffee. They wouldn't let me into the station—made me wait out in the sun.”

“They probably would rather you called first.”

“S'pose so.” Gummer began to tuck in his shirt, and now Caffery could see a slight stoop in his posture, as if he was afraid he had shown too much of himself, too much spirit in that brave, rash sprint across the tarmac.

Suddenly Caffery felt a little sorry for him. He dropped his hand from his wallet. “Look, what did you want to talk about?”

“I just said—the Peach family. You know. The ones in Donegal Crescent?” He crossed his hands over his chest and gave an odd little dip at the waist, as if his hands had been bound across his chest like a pharaoh's. “You know, the ones who got tied up.”