The Treatment

Twenty.

Caffery 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 he was sure 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 behaviour. Penderecki'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 of 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 though 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 doing '

"Go on. Fuck off."

"You cunt!" Tracey Lamb got out of the car, squealing, "You cuntV

"Yeah." He closed the door. "OK, see you later." She was in her underwear and a see-through wrap, barefoot in a lay by 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 child 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 icecream 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 a few things I'd like to discuss 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 Caffery 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. "You know, the ones who got tied up."

"Yes, surprisingly, I do know."

"I've got a theory."

Ah. I was right. I've got you sussed. "Look, Mr. Gummer, maybe an appointment would be better do it officially." He turned to go but Gummer stepped in front of him.

"No."

"We can make an appointment now."

"No come and have coffee with me."

"If it's so important why don't you just tell me? Now."

"I'd rather you had coffee with me."

"I'd rather you made an appointment."

"OK. OK." Gummer dropped his eyes and stared at his greying, unlaced trainers, shifting from one foot to the other as if getting up his courage. His face was becoming red. "Has um has anyone said anything to you about a bogeyman? A troll?"

That got Caffery's interest. "Where've you heard that?"

"It was in the paper. A little boy got raped by him in the park."

"I see," he said cautiously. "And when was this?"

"Long time ago. His name was Champaluang Keoduangdy."

"Did you know him?"

"No. I read about it."

"You remember his name? It's a difficult name to remember."

"I learned it. I was living in Brixton then. It was the troll who did that, you know." His neck was red now, bright red. He seemed to be blushing all over.

"Is this what your kids have told you?"

"No, no. Not my kids…" He put his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet a bit more. "I haven't -uh I haven't got any."

"Got any?"

"Any kids."

"Then who told you about the troll?"

"The kids I teach at the swimming-pool. The little ones are always talking about it. And…" He looked up and met Caffery's eyes. "And I wondered what the police knew about it."

"But we're talking about kids' fantasy lives. What's it got to do with the Peaches?"

"They're not stupid, children. If they talk about a troll in the woods, about a troll watching them in bed, maybe you should listen to them. Whoever it was who raped Champaluang wasn't a figment of someone's imagination."

"That's true." Caffery put his hand under the icecream, afraid it would drip. "Mr. Gummer, these children you teach, have any of them actually seen him? The troll? Have you heard any of them say they've seen him or been approached by him?"

" just because they haven't doesn't mean you can dismiss' it You should be exploring every avenue."

"Yes. That's what we're '

"And something else," Gummer interrupted, agitated now. "I read the Peaches were going on holiday is that true?"

"If you read it then it must be true."

"Well, then," he said, 'maybe we should ask ourselves if that is relevant information."

"I think it would have crossed the mind of any investigating officer. If he was doing his job. Wouldn't it?"

"If he was doing his job, yes…" Gummer met Caffery's eyes defiantly, leaving the sentence to hang there between them.

Caffery sighed. He was tiring of this jousting session out in the midday sun. "Look." He held up the ice-cream. "It's melting. I should go."

Gummer shifted his weight from foot to foot and back again, the corduroys folding and pleating around his feet. "You police, you won't take any help '

"I'm sorry."

"You're all as bad as each other." He rolled the carrier-bag and its contents into a little ball. "You've all got your theories but anyone else comes along you've got to be the kings of the castle, haven't you? Won't listen to anyone else."

"Mr. Gummer, that's not true '

"No wonder no one never reports anything to you." He began to shuffle away. "No wonder kings of the castle."

Caffery stood in the hot sun and watched Gummer's shambolic progress across the tarmac. He waited until he had disappeared around the corner then sighed and turned back to the Jaguar.

Bela Nersessian was in the downstairs lobby waiting for the lift, breathing heavily. She was wearing a sequinned low-necked sweater and tight black leggings, and had three bags of shopping gathered around her feet. Caffery had forgotten she was coming today.

"Bela," he said.

"Afternoon, darling." She held a hand out for the ice-cream. "I'll take that and…" she nodded at the shopping '… if you wouldn't mind."

"Go on, then." He handed her the ice-cream, picked up the shopping and they got into the lift, Bela clutching his arm for support. "I'm yours for as long as you want me Annahid's gone to the cinema with her daddy." When the doors closed she took a handkerchief from her gold-chained handbag and mopped the back of her neck, plunged it into her sweater and dabbed her armpits, her cleavage. She smiled at

Caffery. "Sorry, darling, just need to make myself presentable."

Souness met them at the lift doors. She was worried by Caffery's drawn face. "Are ye all right, Jack?" she whispered, as they led Bela into the SIO's room. "Ye look like ye're going to throw up."

"Yeah. I'll tell you later." He took the ice-cream through to Kryotos then joined Souness in the SIO's room. Settled now, all attention on her, Mrs. Nersessian was in her element. She reached inside one of her bags and found a long packet of Dottato figs and two packets of Garibaldi biscuits.

"Good figs." She peered at them, pressing a varnished nail into the soft flesh. "Yes, perfect. The fig is the poor man's food, Mr. Caffery, full of calcium, good for your bowels too you have clean bowels you have a clean mind, you can think straight. And you are going to need that, straight thinking, I hardly need remind you here." She spread the biscuits across the desk, smiling encouragingly at Caffery. "Come on, now what's the matter with you that you're so thin? Your wife doesn't feed you?"

"Mrs. Nersessian '

"Call me Bela, darling. I might be a mother but I'm not an old woman yet, and you, darling," she leaned over and rested a hand on Souness's wrist, 'darling, call me a busybody but has your husband ever mentioned your weight? Not that I think there's anything wrong with it, some men like something to hold on to, don't they '

"Bela," Caffery interrupted, 'we'd like to talk about Alek."

"Ah, yes!" She turned to him, gold jewellery jingling. "Now there's another one needs to eat a bit more -you should see him. All he does all day is walk all day long wandering around the park. Poor man, poor man, what that family's had to endure." She pressed her hands together in a gesture of supplication and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "God protect us all from what they've had to live through." She dropped her hands and leaned over the food on the desk, scooping a plump fig into her mouth and chewing for a long time, smiling at Caffery over moving teeth. "Course, if I was the police I'd have let them down a bit easier than you did. I'd have broken it to them more gentle. I'm not criticizing you, of course."

"Bela, let's talk about Carmel. How's Carmel?"

"Your man's been round, talking to her, but she just stares at the wall."

"We heard. Does she speak to you?"

"Only to Annahid." She pressed another fig into her mouth, and bent over, her face close to the fruit, inspecting them for the next candidate. "Cries a bit with Annahid, but maybe that's good."

Souness shifted in her seat. "Bela, about Alek, he hasn't worked for a while, has he?"

She looked up as if Souness had suddenly leaned over and slapped her. "The man's grieving? She stared at her, her mouth open. "He hasn't time to worry about work -he's just lost his son."

"I think the Chief Inspector means before '

"Before? Oh…" She patted the top of her lip where a line of sweat had started. "Oh, that. Well, he used to have a disco, see, a mobile disco, and, oh, he loves his records and America he loves America, dreams he's going to live there, reckons he looks like Presley with all that black hair of his. The biggest dream of his life was to take Rory to Graceland. Of course, you can understand all the fuss, you can understand why the family never approved of him marrying Carmel in the first place, but I never held anything against him. Nor Carmel." She waggled a box of Garibaldi biscuits under Caffery's nose. "Come on, darling. Make me happy."

Thank you." He took a biscuit, the last thing he wanted, and rested it on the rim of his coffee mug. "You were saying, about Alek's work, his disco…"

"I'm not saying he was the hardest working man, and then there was all that trouble, which makes it more difficult for him, but let's not go into that -they're not a traditional family, see, her being an odar, not that I'm saying I hold that against him."

"I'm sorry, you said an oh-dah?

"An odar. A foreigner not one of us."

"One of you?"

"Not an Armenian."

"But Alek Peach is}'

"Oh, yes." She blinked. "Not a traditional one, of course, but he is one. Oh, I know, I know…" She touched Caffery's arm with her long gold nails. "He's got blue eyes lots of us have got blue eyes, just like you, darling. Everyone thinks we're Iranian, but we're not. Look at me." She pulled off her tortoiseshell glasses and blinked at him. "See? See?"

"Yes, I see."

"Blue, and what's interesting is…" She replaced her glasses. "What's interesting is our great-grandfathers, mine and Alek's, they were best friends. Fought together against the Turks died together too. Our grandparents were sent to Paris and '

"But Peach- that's not an '

"An Armenian name? No. Of course not. That's what I'm saying he's not traditional, he's ashamed of his heritage is what I think."

"He changed his name?" Caffery could feel Souness's eyes on him, could feel her interest spiking out into the room. "Anglicized it?"

"Only his second name. Not Alek, of course, he kept that because it didn't sound '

"And his real name? What was Alek's real name?" "Oh, you won't be able to pronounce it." She flipped out one jewelled hand dismissively. "If you can't manage Nersessian you certainly won't be able to do

Pechickjian."

When Caffery left Tracey Lamb on the A134 she had no choice but to walk the mile or so home. Like a cunt in me drawers. It was a pale blue day and the distant finger of steam from the sugar factory in Bury St. Edmunds was visible above the trees. Few cars passed, the tarmac was hot under her bare feet, and she passed only one phone box, a little brindled dog sniffing around it. But even if she had 20p to call a cab she didn't have any cash at home to pay the cabbie. Since Carl's death things at the house had got bad. There were only four cartons of Silk Cut left, the Datsun was low on petrol and the dole cheque couldn't even begin to cover everything. And now, it seemed, the Bill were on to her.

Tracey had no one to ask about DI Caffery's visit -the person she would usually have turned to was gone now, her brother Carl. She and Carl had clung together for the thirty years after their parents' deaths in a way that some called unhealthy. They had so many things in common "Even got the same teeth capped." Carl would grin and pull up his front lip for anyone who would listen. He'd lost his in Belmarsh, and Tracey, well, he had to admit he'd taken hers out for her one St. Patrick's Day. Carl had lots of 'friends'. Tracey knew all about his 'friends' she'd met one or two of them when she'd done the videos.

She paused for a moment on the roadside, bent over and dragged brown phlegm out of her throat, spitting it into the ferns. A car went by and hooted loudly. In the back window she saw faces laughing at her. She put her hands on her knees, straightened painfully, and looked up the baking road to where it disappeared into a point on the hazy horizon. She couldn't let herself be fucked around like this when she got home she would find Carl's book and call his friends, ask them what to do next. She didn't like talking to them some of them were insane, even Carl admitted that. Some of them would do it with anything and anyone: "Some of them'd do it with the exhaust pipe of an old Cortina," Carl would laugh. "It'd have to be a good-looking Cortina, of course." But she had to do something.

She hobbled on in the heat, her feet hurting. Apart from the occasional passing car she hadn't seen anyone for over an hour, only a grey-haired old man in overalls, scavenging around the disused industrial poly-tunnels near West Farm. She turned off towards Barnham, past the derelict military houses, bricked-up windows and plywood on the doors, past an abandoned hangar. She was making slow progress -she had to stop every few minutes to catch her breath and bring up some phlegm. Tracey's lungs had never been right, not from the start.

"Nothing to do with the sixty a day, is it, Trace?" Carl would grin when she bent over her little polystyrene cup and hawked gobbets of phlegm into it. "Nothing to do with that."

"Fack off." She'd give him the V-sign and Carl would laugh and they'd both go back to staring at the TV. She missed him, God love him. I miss you, Carl.

By the time she got to the little track that cut across farmland, along the top of the disused quarry, and on to the garage, her feet were bleeding. The garage was a long way from the road, but she kept going, limping now. Every now and then a military jet from Honnington would blast its way across the sky, splitting the air open, disappearing in seconds into the horizon, but otherwise the countryside around her was quiet, quiet and very still in the sun. She knew it so well now, these fields, that fence, that path. Carl had been renting the garage and the house since their parents died when he was nineteen and Tracey was thirteen. She understood his business. She understood all about the pile of smashed car windows, the stolen chassis stamps and the dodgy MOT embosser. There was always a stripped-down car up on blocks in the garage, a pile of moody number plates in the kitchen and a Transit van or an old Ford parked under a tarp out the back Carl would let her have a peek then drop the tarp and put his fingers to his mouth: "Never say nothing about this car, all right, girl? Just pretend you ain't seen it." Every now and then a car would come in that needed vale ting "Urgent valet job': Carl would jump like a whippet at those words and would work all night on some anonymous Discovery or Bronco, the electric lights in the garage blazing out across the countryside. And he collected people, too, the same way he collected scrap metal: they'd come and go, day and night, through the little breeze block house, carrying car stereos and carrier-bags full of duty-frees. Tracey had grown up with the sound of Harleys zooming up and down the driveway. There was always someone around, someone sleeping in the bath, someone curled up in a grubby sleeping-bag in the garage, an ever-changing string of boys who came and went, helping Carl with the re sprays (and other things too, she was sure of that). The Borstal boys, she called them, because they always seemed to be on the run from the borstal. "And that's something else to stay schtum about, Trace, all right?" Everyone in

Carl's circle had done time at some point or another -and that included the 'biter' that DI Caffery had been asking about.

"He was a weird one, him," said Carl. "Always reckoned women were dirty. You should have seen him, he had to put on rubber gloves before he touched any of the boys in case they'd been near a woman." He lived in Brixton and although DI Caffery hadn't said where the little boy had been bitten, Tracey had a suspicion it might have been on the shoulders. But in any case her predator instinct told her that actually it wasn't the 'biter' Caffery was most interested in at all in his questions about him she sensed a cover of some sort and it was only when he began asking about Penderecki's boy that she thought he was getting to what really interested him.

Penderecki's boy. Although Tracey knew what the shifty old Polack had done to the child, she had never been told who the boy was, neither his name nor where he'd come from. But, from the way Carl had built a mile-high wall of silence around the subject, she had always guessed it was because the boy meant something to someone important. She guessed there was money in it somewhere. And maybe, she thought, that was why Caffery was so interested.

She stopped. She wasn't far now. She could see the sun glinting off Carl's abandoned vehicles on the edge of the quarry: an old Triumph, a moss-covered caravan, a picked-clean Ford. Only another ten minutes to the garage, but she stood quite still, the pain in her feet forgotten, hardly registering the clutch of pheasants that rose screeching from the trees. Something was emerging from the dank, unexercised walls of Tracey Lamb's brain. Something about DI Caffery. Maybe, she thought, maybe he wasn't the beginning of her problems after all. Maybe he was the solution.

Roland Klare had spent the morning making notes, considering short-cuts, finding new ways of looking at it, and had finally worked out what he needed: a few sheets of print paper, a litre can of fixer, and some Kodak D76 powder. The photography book was clear: it warned him that he might damage the film if he didn't use a professional safelight, but he had decided to take the gamble anyway and added a twenty-five-watt red lightbulb to his list. He had turned out his pockets and drawers and old cider bottles full of coins, and had got together thirty pounds, all of which he put into a dustbin liner, twisted up and slung over his shoulder.

It was heavy, all that change, and it took him a long time to get to the bus stop. On the bus the other passengers gave him strange looks, sitting at the back with the dustbin liner squat at his feet. But Klare was used to people moving seats to get away from him, and today he sat quietly, his eyes wandering patiently around in his head, until the bus reached Balham.

He got off just outside the photographer's shop, the shop whose dustbins he routinely purged, and before he even thought of going into the front he slipped up the road and around the back. He put down the bag of coins, pulled over an old crate and stood on it, up on tiptoe so he could peer down into the big dumpster. His heart sank. It had been emptied recently. There was nothing in there except an old cardboard Jaffa oranges box. He climbed down off the crate, wiping his hands, resigned now, picked up the bag full of coins and trudged round to the front of the shop.