The Treatment

Thirty-three.

What pitched her out of that long, trancy sleep? The voice? Benedicte thought so. A man's voice, murmuring. She opened her eyes. A bluebottle was picking its way carefully through the crust on Smurf's nose. She stared blankly at it, lying on her side, trying to decide if she was dreaming or really hearing a man's voice in the kitchen below.

Hal? Was it Hal? What's happening? She raised her head. Maybe the troll had gone. Maybe Hal was talking to Josh. Yes, that's what it sounds like he's gone and I missed it because I was asleep. She rolled on to her front and fanned her hands out on the splintered boards. The skin on her arms had taken on the papery, transparent look that dried honesty got she almost expected to see the little veins in her hands turn blood-black and noded like seeds. Her throat was so dry it seemed no longer a functioning part of her body, but a long, living welt running under the muscles.

Another sentence spoken from below.

Hal?

Moving painfully she shuffled sideways and dropped her face into the gap between the boards. Everything was taking longer than it should, every move made her vision swim, the edges of light and matter blur. She wriggled her hand out until it cupped the light fitting. The light was on, she could feel the heat of it against her palm as she applied a silent, steady pressure downwards on it. With a quiet sloosh it fell down into the room below, circling wildly on the wire. She lay for a moment, panting, exhausted by the effort. I'm ill, she thought. He's killing us. Gathering all her energy she inched her face into the gap, and immediately she could feel different air on her face, dry, full of the kippery smell of an animal's bedding.

My God. Is he still here?

And then she saw. She wanted to jerk back out of her hole but she found she couldn't move. She was transfixed.

Hal was gone. Only the man-shaped stain where he had been. And in his place the upholstered armchair that belonged next to the window in the living room. Sitting in the chair, facing away from her, into the family room, just ten feet below her, the troll. He had stripped down to a T-shirt and was crouched on the chair like a bird, his hands between his legs.

Silently, carefully, she sucked in a breath. You should have known should have known. All the lights in the two rooms were on, the curtains were drawn. A camera lay on the floor next to him. He hadn't heard her push the light through because he was intent on watching something out of sight in the living room. His face was creased and reddened, there was a diamond point of saliva on the lower lip, and now that she looked closer she saw his belt and flies were open and he was using one hand to massage himself. Oh, God. A bubble of nausea rose in her throat. Oh, God the bastard. He stopped masturbating for a moment to spit on his palm and Benedicte got a glimpse of the little white pudding of his penis -not even hard.

"Do it," he murmured. "Do it."

What's he watching? Christ, what's he watching? Can Josh see?

"Just do it," he was saying. "Do it now." His bottom lip was loose and moist, his loamy hand a blur, the saliva lengthened downwards from his mouth. Who's he talking to? Ben closed her eyes, the darkness in her head switching and flickering. Am I imagining it? Is this still a dream? My God, Josh. Where's Josh?

From the living room came a wail. Her eyes snapped open. That was Hal. Screaming something in a thick voice she couldn't understand: Tcan'tdoitlcan'tlcan't-Ican't. PleaseGODkillmeinstead…" He wrenched in a breath and this time she heard the words clearly. "KILL ME. Please. Kill me instead."

"Get off. Get off." The troll got down from the chair and kicked something that lay on the floor just out of Ben's view. Something heavy. He began to pull the belt out of his jeans. "Get off." He wrapped the belt around one fist, pulling the other end taut. The jeans slid down to his ankles, his legs bowed out like a mountain goat's. He dropped to his knees.

My God, what's he doing? He looks as if he's going to…

She could see only his lower body, the jeans crumpled around his feet, dirty grey Y-fronts. But there was something in the tension of his buttocks, something that made her think of an animal feeding. The way a cat's hindquarters would twist when it was…

When it was chewing something

A thin cry. The troll's buttocks twisted again. Now Benedicte understood. Josh. "NO!" She jammed herself blindly forward into the hole. "No! Leave him alone!"

A sudden silence. The feet below became still.

"I mean it. Leave him alone or I'll kill you. I'll kill you."

Silence. All she could hear was the swollen knocking of her heart. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, his face shot up next to hers she could smell his breath, see blood on his teeth. Ohmigod. She jolted back. Jammed her ear against the edge of the boards, the pain boomeranging her back into the hole. No." She scrabbled for purchase, the plasterboard cracking, her free leg cycling crazily, trying to get a foothold on the carpet, expecting the foul breath on her at any second. She could hear him panting, almost as if he was afraid -What's he afraid of? got a hurried, hectic glimpse of his eyes, panicked, nervous, his hands up to his mouth as if she terrified him, then sniff, sniff, sniff, and he started whimpering, lips quivering, and this time, with the last of her strength, her hands scrabbling weakly at the carpet, she wrenched herself out of the hole, back into the room, and even as she did she heard the doorbell ringing in the hallway.

Caffery stood on the doorstep, the rain pattering down around him. He was breathing hard. He had walked around the perimeter of the Clock Tower Grove building site, passing heavy machinery and a saturated bundle of electrical conduit Champ, I'll never be able to look at conduit again without thinking of Champ until he could see Clock Tower Walk beyond the security fencing. All the houses were unoccupied, all except number five. Number five's curtains were drawn, and when he saw that he started to move a little faster, breaking into a trot along the little brick street, slamming his thumb on the doorbell.

"Mrs. Church?" He rang again, the heel of his hand flat against the bell. The house was silent. Standing on tiptoe he looked through the garage door. A lemon yellow Daewoo was parked in the gloom. He knew he might be wrong. He remembered the woman who had answered the door to him here, more than a week ago. He remembered her talking about the smell in her house, just as Gummer's wife had done, just as Souness had done at the Peaches'. He remembered the dog. He lifted the letterbox.

"Mrs. Church?"

And then, on the air in the hallway, he smelt urine. My God, an animal's in there. Food containers littered the hallway. A TV played somewhere in the back of the house. And at the top of the stairs something had been spray-painted in red.

He dropped the letterbox and turned, reaching in his pocket for his phone, his heart racing.

"Jack, listen," Souness was adamant, 'don't go in, Jack, don't go in. Wait for us. Are ye listening to me?"

"I won't. I swear."

He meant it. He put the phone in his pocket, and stood on the doorstep, his jacket held over his head to protect him from the drizzle, shifting tensely from foot to foot, looking up at the house then back along the road for the area cars. Minutes ticked by, and suddenly, from behind, came a noise. He shot to the letterbox in time to see something bolt out of the kitchen, through the hallway and hurtle up the stairs. Blurred and huge, he was carrying something in his arms and immediately Caffery knew that there was blood. He ripped off his jacket, wrapped it around his arm and rammed his elbow through the glass panel, loosened the bolt under the Yale, flicked the catch down, and now he was in, racing into the kitchen, flinging the door back on its hinges. The kitchen was hot full of that familiar smell -Jesus, what's happened in here? the lights were on, the curtains closed, and here, lying on the floor, shaking and covered in his own dirt, lay something

Caffery assumed was Mr. Church. Oh, Christ Church saw him and closed his eyes, turning his head away. Ignore him, find the child. The boards overhead groaned and sighed and Caffery snapped his head up. Now he knew what Klare was carrying.

"Police!" He threw himself into the hallway, grabbed the banisters, swung himself around, slamming his feet into the stairs, clearing two at a time. At the top of the first flight he stopped, hands out, pulse thundering.

"Here." A woman's voice. "Here." He spun around. The landing was dark and silent, it smelt of urine -ahead of him another staircase led up into the gloom, behind him was a door, to his left a door, and to his right a door, the word Hazard scrawled across this one in red.

"Mrs. Church?"

"Here." Her voice was weak. "Here…"

"Keep still I'll be right there."

"My little boy '

"It's OK just hold on."

She started to sob but Caffery had to turn away. Assess your areas of responsibility. Not her she's OK it's the child you want. The landing above creaked. He whipped back to face the staircase. Where's the fucking light switch? He patted the walls, found nothing. Another board creaked and now he heard, as clear as sound over water, a child crying above. Not calling or screaming but weeping, as if he didn't expect to be heard. What was his name? What was his fucking name? Come on now -think. He put his hand on the stair rail and there, at eye level on the wall, hung a framed photograph, a little boy feeding a goat. Grinning. And suddenly he had it. Josh.

"Josh?" he shouted up the stairs. "Josh. I can hear you. This is the police it's OK now, Josh. Just you keep still, OK?"

The crying stopped. Silence. He took a deep breath and quietly mounted the first two steps. "Josh?" Nothing above him, only a breathing so faint he thought he was imagining it. "Josh?"

Something toppled from the darkness above.

Jesus

He flattened himself against the wall, wasn't quick enough and was hit square in the stomach, the impact shooting him back down the stairs. He grabbed vainly at the walls, slammed against the bathroom door, his phone spinning out of his pocket and away down the next flight of stairs. Silence. He blinked. lJosh?" The boy had landed at the foot of the stairs about a yard away. Naked, winded and shocked. He had brown packing tape on his mouth. "Josh?" Caffery hissed. "You OK?" The child looked up at him, frozen with shock. Tears had made white tracks on his face and his wrists were taped. "Here." Caffery got to his feet and pushed open the bathroom door. "In here. Go on. Quick." He didn't have to be told twice he scampered inside in a crouch, a naked, bloodied little savage, tilting and tipping as if he was drunk. There was enough light to see a raw hole in his back. A bite. Caffery's heart sank. "Keep the light off," he hissed. "I'll be back." He pulled the door closed and turned back to the stairs.

"KLARE, YOU FUCKER."

He waited. Nothing.

He turned for the stairs, taking one at a time, stopping to listen to Klare moving around overhead. What the? The buckle and creak of aluminium. The loft ladder the fucking loft ladder. He threw himself forward up the last stairs, moving too fast to stop and take in the surroundings: a tiny landing, a door open into a bedroom beyond, the ladder rising up into the attic, Klare half-way up, trying to crawl slyly away. "STOP, YOU FUCKER He charged at the ladder and Klare sprang up the next few rungs, moving fast, Caffery behind, grabbing at his heels, their combined weight making the ladder creak. Klare was through the hatch and in the attic, and Caffery lost him for a moment, saw the underside of his trainers disappear away from the hatch, smelt him, heard the joists wheeze under his weight. Fuck. He launched himself up the last few rungs, into the darkened loft, the rain pattering on the tiles above, Klare disappearing in the gloom at the far end yes, of course, of course, that's where you'd go next door a quick breath of rotting food in his lungs as he followed, slammed into the rough breeze-block wall, found the gap and ducked through it in one, ripping his trousers, banging his head against the breeze blocks, dropping instinctively into a crouch in the adjoining attic, his hands out.

No light. It was completely black in here. He was still for a moment, getting his breath back, listening for Klare's breathing. At the far end of the attic a sudden shaft of sunlight shot into the darkness, illuminating Klare from below. He had ripped up the attic door.

"Stop!"

But he was standing astride the hatch, dropping the ladder on to the landing, his hands leapfrogging over the spooling aluminium. Caffery picked his way agilely across the joists, his heart slamming away -you're closing the reactionary gap here, remember your training reactionary gap it's there to save your life, if you close it you have to know exactly why and what you expect. Is this a good place to

Klare was quick: without a sound he had turned and dropped out of sight, so fast he almost didn't touch the ladder. "Stop!" Caffery was seconds behind, sliding down the ladder, battering his knees on the rungs, landing in a nearly finished hallway, cord carpet, magnolia-painted plasterboard and a glimpse of a bathroom, the sink and toilet still swaddled in plastic. On his right Klare's head disappeared down the stairs, crashing into brittle walls, plaster shaking out on to the air, leaving behind his yeasty smell. Caffery bolted after him, reaching the first landing and spinning back against the wall to face the next flight, clearing three steps at a time, landing on the ground floor with his foot half turned under him, getting his balance back, the cardboard taped on the floor by the builders slithering away under his feet, as Klare darted ahead into the kitchen, Caffery after him again, screaming and yelling, "You fucker," into the kitchen, identical to the Churches' next door, and at last Caffery slid to a halt in the doorway, breathing hard.

Roland Klare was at the back door, gripping the handle, one foot rammed against the base, his centre of gravity slung back as he tugged. The door was locked.

"STAY THERE!" Caffery yelled. Assess your areas of responsibility, Jack come on, a bit of fucking discipline what's your focus in this environment? The subject, the door "JUST STAY THERE!"

Klare turned, panting, his grey T-shirt riding up over his stomach, his soft woman's hair stuck to his face. "No He held his hands up. "No! Don't touch me!"

"What d'you mean don't fucking touch you? I'm going to arrest you, you little shit."

"No!" His jeans were unzipped, hanging loose as if he'd pulled them on in a hurry. "No no no please please please don't." He took a step back, covering his ears. "I didn't mean it." He sank down suddenly under the sink, his hands over his face. "I didn't mean it."

"You didn't mean it? I don't fucking believe this. You didn't mean it? What did you mean, then? What did you mean, then, eh?" He stepped forward and gave Klare an experimental kick in the side. Klare sighed a little, but didn't try to resist, so he did it again. "I said what did you mean?"

"Leave me alone." His face crumpled in self-pity. He dug his nails into his hair. "Don't '

"What did you mean when you left an eight-year-old to die? Eh? What did you mean?" He kicked him harder, once in the side and once, when Klare turned slightly away, in the kidneys. "I'm talking to you, you piece of shit. What did you mean?"

"Please don't, please don't." He wiped tears from his face and rubbed his eyes. "I didn't mean to. I had to -it's the only way I never meant to '

"You already fucking said that!" He gave him two kicks in quick succession, one in the chest and one in the face. This time when his foot came away blood rushed out of Klare's nose. "You already fucking said you didn't mean it. You stinking piece of shit." He swung himself away, walking up and down the length of the kitchen, pressing his nails into his palms. Klare was blathering blood was running down his chin, splashing on the floor. "What did you mean when you left that poor fucker lying next door in his own shit? Eh?"

"Please no, it's not my fault, I had to for the treat '

"Shut up." Caffery ran back across the kitchen, almost skidding on the blood, and with all his strength booted Klare in the ribs. '7 said shut up!"

"Jack!"

He turned, panting, sweat on his face. Souness was standing in the hallway with two TSG officers in their Kevlar tunics and riot masks. Her face was white. She stared at Klare, basted in blood, and back at Caffery, standing frozen in the centre of the room, twitchy as a circus tiger.

"Jack what the fuck do ye think you're doing?"

The rain clouds by mid-afternoon, were so heavy and low they seemed to be touching the chimneys, electric lights had come on in windows, as if evening had come early to London. Rebecca was lying in Jack's bed, half asleep. She hadn't slept well last night after Caffery's call at 11 p.m. she had walked around with the TV on in the background telling herself not to get worried about him, telling herself he knew how to stay in control, that he wasn't a child, that he could, he really could, keep calm and look after himself. She only had two vodkas and no one had called to say, "Miss Morant, you'd better sit down." So she supposed everything was OK. She had spent the morning home making, a proper little housewife, driving the Beetle down to Sainsbury's and coming back in the rain with bags full of fruit and wine. When she came in the answer phone had been blinking. There was one message. She wasn't in the habit of listening to Caffery's messages she wasn't that obsessive but while she was in the kitchen unpacking the shopping the phone rang again and this time she heard the whole thing: "It's me, again. Just wanted to make sure you got the last message about Monday. Monday at one o'clock."

Rebecca had paused, a bag of tangerines in her hand, and stared down the hallway. That was Tracey's voice. Not now, Tracey, not when it's all starting to work for us. Slowly she put down the fruit, went into the hallway and stared at the machine. Biting her lip, she pressed the button. The first message played back. It started with a silence. Then, as if she'd got her courage, Tracey Lamb said: "It's me, Tracey, right? Uh with what we was talking about, yeah? I'm getting bailed on Monday, so if you want to know some more about, y'know She paused, and Rebecca could hear her drag on a cigarette. "I'll be back at my place at one o'clock you know where it is."

A tiny nibble of anxiety somewhere in Rebecca's stomach horrible because today she was so determined to keep on track. She listened to both messages again then wrote in felt-tip on the back of her hand Tracey/Monday/1.00pm. Then she rewound the tape. Tracey's message would stay there until another call wiped it, but the light wasn't blinking and Caffery would have no reason to play the tape unless she told him to. You could just leave it that way you could bury it for ever he never need know it might all just disappear… now Penderecki's gone he might just forget it all and be safe and… "Oh, shut up, for God's sake."

She looked at the kitchen. Maybe a glass of something to keep you calm? But no. No she wasn't going to backtrack. Instead she had finished unpacking, had cleaned the kitchen, put on a load of washing, eaten a sandwich for lunch and then gone upstairs. In the bedroom she took off her jeans and T-shirt, lay down on Jack's bed and drifted off to sleep.

She was still there drifting in and out of her dreams when his car pulled up later that afternoon. He was much earlier than she'd expected. She jumped up, surprised, and stood in the window, the curtain hooked up on her arm, blinking and rubbing her eyes as he got out of the Jaguar. He stopped for a while at the gate and stared at the front door with an odd, preoccupied look on his face, as if he was trying to work something out as if he was trying to remember a telephone number or recall something someone had said. Then the rain lifted on the wind, driving sideways, making the trees in the front garden hiss and bend and Jack shook off the stasis, came inside and she could hear him in the house, throwing the keys on the hall table and coming up the stairs. Quickly she pulled on one of his shirts over her underwear and went on to the landing. The bathroom door was open and he was bending over the toilet, his hands propped on the cistern, as if he was going to vomit.

"Jack?" He didn't turn. "Jack? Are you OK?"

He shook his head. She put her hand on his back and saw that the rainwater running off his trousers on to the floor was veined with red. There was thinned blood on the tiles.

"Jack?"

He spat into the toilet. "Mmm?"

"There's blood on you, Jack."

He looked down at the floor. "Yes that's blood."

"Are you are you bleeding?"

"No."

"No?" She felt suddenly lightheaded. "Then oh She covered her mouth with her hand. Downstairs someone was ringing the doorbell. "Jack? God, no, Jack what happened? What've you done?"

"It's OK. I stopped '

"What do you mean you st '

"I stopped. Before I could '

"Before you could what}'

"Before I could oh, fuck He dropped his face. The doorbell rang again, longer this time. "Get the door, will you?"

"I warned you."

"Becky '

"The door."

"The door?"

"The front door."

"Oh God yes. OK." She ran down the stairs, heart racing I need that drink, I need that drink -and, Jack, I'm definitely not telling you about Tracey now I'm going to lie She opened the door and found DCI Danniella Souness standing on the doorstep, red in the face, huffing and puffing and stamping her feet.

"Danni '

"Becky Souness stepped inside without waiting to be asked, dripping rain on to the floor. "Where is he?"

"What? Oh She put her hand to her head. "He's up there in the bathroom Danni, what's going on?"

Upstairs Caffery spat into the toilet again and wiped his mouth. He had wanted to kill Klare. When his foot met flesh and gristle it was Penderecki's kidneys he was connecting with. When Klare screamed and tried to protect himself, it was Penderecki's screams, the screams he had never had the pleasure of hearing. He was angry enough to kill and it wasn't going away -it was still there, stretched taut across his stomach like a new muscle.

"Are ye puking?" Souness came and stood next to him, her arms folded.

He shook his head.

"What then?"

"Just feel like it."

"Aye I'm not surprised. I'd be puking me face up too if I'd just left my oppo in the lurch like this."

"I need a drink." Rebecca was in the doorway, her voice shaky. "Maybe I should get us all a drink?"

"No, Becky, not just now." Souness put her hands on her thighs and bent over to look at the side of Caffery's face. "I've something to deal with here. This one. He walked out on me."

"I had to." He straightened up a bit, wiping his mouth and taking deep breaths. "You know I had to."

"Not when I'm in the middle of it, Jack Klare's down at Brixton factory and I need you down there. I can't do this on my tod."

"No. Take me off the case."

"What?

"Take me off the case."

"Ooof!" She looked around the bathroom with her hands open, as if she was asking the walls, the mirror, the basin, to join in her disbelief. "What shite is this you're spouting now?"

"You saw what I just did." He pushed past her and went to the sink, turning on the tap and scooping water into his mouth. "You can't let me get away with what I just did."

"What did he just do, Danni?"

"You saw what I did, Danni."

"Aye. I saw a piece of low-life shite – a child-killer actually I saw him resisting arrest. And ye know something funny, I double-checked with the TSG officers, asked them if that's what they saw, and you know what? I was right I wasn't imagining it. It's exactly what they saw too."

Caffery shook his head. "No, Danni."

"Sometimes it happens when someone resists arrest they're bound to get a few fucks thrown into them. It happens especially to the lowlifes like that."

He looked at her steadily in the mirror above the sink. "You really think you can defend me?"

"I think so."

"You said you wouldn't."

"Aye Paulina'll tell you all about me and my promises. It's a wee luxury I allow myself for all my hard graft."

"Right." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He needed to show her he wanted to explain how much this case had pushed him, in visible and invisible ways. He wanted her to understand just how far his obsession could take him. "Wait there."

He clattered down the stairs, swinging into the hallway, and pulling away all the things in the cupboard under the stairs until he found the taped-up box at the back. It was all going to come out now. He was going to crash into it, face first, get it all over. He raced back up the stairs.

In the bathroom Rebecca was silent. Souness had put the lid down on the toilet and was sitting astride it, her feet pushed back as if she was in the saddle, drumming on the seat between her legs with her knuckles, drumming out the beat of a rock song in her head. He set the box on the floor, felt in his pocket for his Swiss Army knife, flicked it open and slit the tape.

"What's this?" Souness stopped drumming. "What have we got here?"

He didn't answer. In the corner he saw Rebecca cross her arms and frown. He opened the top flaps of the box and up-ended it. Penderecki's child-porn collection tumbled out on to the floor, rolling out and tiding up against the edge of the bath. One magazine fell at Rebecca's feet, open to the black-and-white image of a prepubescent girl. She was holding a vibrator to her cheek as if it was a teddy or a flower. Rebecca looked at the photograph silently for a moment, and then, not looking up or speaking, she used her toe to close the magazine and sat down on the edge of the bath, her face in her hands.

"This." Caffery straightened up and looked at Souness. "This '

No one spoke. Rebecca massaged her scalp compulsively, staring at her bare knees. Souness crossed one boxy leg over the other, drew her jacket closed and crossed her arms.

"See? See all this?" He kicked the pile of magazines and videos. "That's why Paulina's been so interested in me. I kept it all to myself. It's Penderecki's. I should have surrendered it to the unit but I kept it to myself because I thought it might tell me something about Ewan '

"Jack," Souness interrupted.

"What?"

"I know."

"What?

"I said I know. I know all about Tracey Lamb. I've known since yesterday."

"Then why didn't you He broke off. "Paulina did tell you. You do know the paedo unit's on to me."

"Ahh no. That's where you're wrong. Paulina's on to you. But not the unit." She sighed and crossed her arms. "She gave the unit Lamb's name but she never said where she got it from told her DCI she got it as a tip-off on the hotline. She's a good girl, Paulina. She knows how I feel about ye. And she knows what ye went through with that piece of shite Penderecki." Souness stood and leaned over to the small window above the toilet. She opened it and let a flash of dripping green light into the bathroom. "One of those, was it?" She nodded to the railway. "One of those over there?"

He sighed. "Yes."

"And that," Souness rested her pillowy breasts on the sill and leaned out a little further, seeing it all for the first time, 'that's the railway line. The last place wee Ewan was seen?"

"Yes." He leaned past her and closed the window. "Danni."

"What?"

He looked at her closely. "Let me off the case."

"Oh, for Christ's sake…" She dropped her chin and rubbed her scalp with the palm of both hands. She did it rapidly, harshly. When she lowered her hands and looked up there were bright red patches on her scalp and face. "Right OK, OK. Let's leave it for tonight. Give us all some time to calm down. I can handle Klare." She put a hand on his arm. "Have some leave, OK? When you've cooled off come in and we'll go through your arrest statement and get that squared. I don't want the funny firm looking at you they look at you and pretty soon they're looking at the whole unit. And this' she kicked the pile of magazines on the floor 'this, I don't want to hear any more about this. I know you'll do the right thing." She sighed and hitched up her trouser waistband. "Now, that drink, Becky, hen…"

Rebecca took her hands from her face and looked up. "Changed your mind?"

"What do you think?"

Souness didn't speak much while she drank the Scotch and Coke from Caffery's best crystal tumbler, standing in the living room at the french windows. She looked like a squire surveying his land, one hand in her trouser pocket, tipping her weight up on to her toes from time to time, looking out past the dripping garden to Penderecki's house. "Thank you, Becky." She handed back the glass when she'd finished. "Thank you."

Afterwards, when she was alone, Rebecca poured a glass of wine, and took it to stand in the same place, standing and staring at the garden, at the beech tree where the tree-house had been. The rain pattered down outside; the fresh smells of earth and the green juice of the garden came in through the windows. Her stomach was tight. He's got to do something he can't go on like this.

"Becky?" He was standing in the doorway, looking more exhausted than she'd ever seen him. So exhausted that the skin around his eyes almost seemed inflamed as if he was holding back an enormous pressure. "Are you all right?"

She didn't answer. Just keep quiet you don't have to say anything.

"Becky?"

She bit her lip and turned away. She was aching now. She went into the hallway and pressed the answer phone button. Caffery came to stand behind her and Tracey Lamb's voice filled the little house:

"It's me, Tracey, right? Uh with what we was talking about, yeah? I'm getting bailed on Monday, so if you want to know some more about, y'know I'll be back at my place at one o'clock you know where it is."

Rebecca turned back and saw Jack's face was white. White. A little flicker in his eyes. Before she could stop him Jack had stepped past her and in one movement swept the answer phone on to the floor. It lay cracked and tangled in wires, blinking and frantically winding itself back and forward. He kicked it once against the skirting-board, turned and went into the kitchen, threw open the fridge, filled a tumbler with wine and sat down at the table.

She hurried after him, sitting down opposite and trying to cover his hand with hers but he shrugged her away. He looked God, he looks terrible. "You were right," he said. "You were right about me. About Bliss."

She sat back a little, shocked. "OK," she said cautiously, trying to stay calm. "You mean what I think happened, happened?"

He drank his wine down in one swallow, refilled his glass and looked out of the window at the dripping garden. He seemed to forget she was there for a moment. His hands, she noticed, were trembling.

"Jack? Did you hear what I '

"Yes."

"Yes what? Yes, you heard me? Or yes, what I thought happened, happened?"

"Yes, I killed him. And you're right I'll probably do it again. And yes, it's because of Ewan." He stared at his thumb. The black thumbnail. His stigmata. His blood stuck in the place it got stuck in twenty-five years ago and refused to flow. "You're right."

She put her hand to her head. She was starting a headache. "Jack look." She took a deep breath and leaned forward to him, taking his hand from where it sat curled lightly around the tumbler. "Look, you've done the right thing, OK? Danni's going to take you off the case."

"And what about her?" He nodded into the hallway, to the answer phone "What am I going to do about her?"

"I don't know. That's for you to decide."

He pulled his hand away and sat in silence for a long time.

"Jack?"

He didn't answer. He was imagining Tracey Lamb walking out of the court on Monday, coming towards him over the daisy-spotted abbey lawn with her rabbit's smile, holding out her hand for the money, and as he thought it he knew that he'd want to hurt her, do to her what he'd just done to Klare. He couldn't tolerate any more of what Penderecki had already put him through. "That stuff upstairs," he said suddenly, staring down at his thumb. "It'd be enough to stop her getting bail on Monday if I gave it all up."

"To Paulina?"

"No. She can't cover for me any more."

"Then?"

"The CPS. I'll send it anonymously. It might keep her in prison at least until '

"Until you cool down?"

He nodded.

"Odysseus," Rebecca said gently.

"What?"

"Odysseus it's your grand Odyssean gesture. It's you tying yourself to the mast. Resisting the sirens."

"I don't care what it is I just care that it works."