The Treatment (23 page)

I
T WAS A BLUE-CHECKERED LAUNDRY BAG
with plastic handles and it didn't contain Ewan's remains. Caffery carried it slung over his shoulder, back down the tracks like a weary sailor on shore leave carrying his kit—it bumped on his back and left a grimy patch on his T-shirt. Night had come, the moon was out and he had to move slowly, feeling his way through the nettles with his feet. At his garden he fished inside his saturated T-shirt for the key on the tape. He was dragging, disappointed, but he wasn't going to give up. He knew that Penderecki had sent him to find this bag for a reason.

The house was cool; the French windows stood open, and he could smell cigarillo smoke, so he knew Rebecca was there. He didn't shout up to her or go upstairs to check the bedroom. He didn't want to speak to her at this moment. Instead he went into the living room, swung the bag from over his shoulder and emptied the contents. He stood, looking at what was on his floor for a few minutes, then went into the kitchen. The wine in the freezer was almost frozen; he rattled the huge chunk of ice, rinsed a glass, opened the bottle and poured. The glass immediately clouded with condensation and his fingers stuck to it when he touched it. He swallowed it whole, not tasting it, refilled his glass, lit the remains of the spliff he'd left in the ashtray, and went back into the living room. He sat on the
sofa, hands on his knees, staring blankly at what Penderecki had intended him to find.

By far the largest percentage of all child pornography was homemade—historically little had been made for commercial distribution, and at one point or another Caffery had seen examples of it all. His time in Vice had been before the big split, before Obscene Publications, the “dirty squad,” had become the dedicated pedophile unit and farmed its adult porn concerns out to Vice. In his day the responsibilities of the two units had often overlapped. He had seen most of what lay on his living room floor before.

Copies of
Magpie,
the magazine for the Pedophile Information Exchange Network; a stack of Dutch, German and Danish magazines—
Boy Love World, Kinde Liebe, Spartacus, Piccolo.
Two scuffed copies of the book
Show Me,
and three editions of the glossy Dutch publication
Paidika—the Journal of Pedophilia.
Then a pile of zip disks secured with an elastic band. Passwords for news groups, and a photocopied list, a message splashed across the top: “WARNING WARNING WARNING!! If any of the usernames below try to join your chat room log off IMMEDIATELY.” At the bottom of the laundry bag, wrapped in Somerfield carrier bags and taped with brown parcel tape, was a stack of unmarked videocassettes. Spliff in his teeth, he ripped off the tape and shook out the videos. He plugged the first into the VCR, found the remote control, started the tape and sat back on the sofa, holding a lighter to the joint. The screen flickered—he knew what to expect. It was years since he'd looked at this kind of thing, years since Vice, when he'd had to look at these images and had spent each night lying awake at night, trying, like most officers new to the unit, to find a place in his head to put it all. Or, failing that, to build something around them. And the biggest fear—the fear they all had, but would never share—
what if, what if … oh, Christ, what if I'm aroused by it?
Tonight he knew what to expect, and it wasn't the pictures he was afraid of. His heart was thumping not out of pity for the children he was going to see bullied and tormented for the camera, his
heart was thumping for the chance that he might see Ewan.

The tape rolled and the screen showed the scratching, the white flecks of magnetic interference.
Would you recognize him?
Nothing at the beginning. He sat forward with the remote control and skipped forward through the tape. The screen continued to flicker. On it went, on and on, with no image until, with a sudden creak, the tape butted up against the rollers. He'd come to the end. There was nothing on this tape. He ripped it out of the machine and plugged in a second one, started it, fast-forwarded it. Again he got all the way to the end and found no image.

“Jack?”

He looked up. “Go back to bed, Rebecca.”

“What's going on?”

“Nothing—really. Go to bed.”

But he'd piqued her interest. She was barefoot— wearing only a pair of his gray boxer shorts and a short-sleeved vest she padded into the room, trying to look over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Really, Becky …” He stood up, holding out his hands, ushering her away from the stuff on the floor, from the video. “It's nothing. Go back to bed, eh? Go on.”

She blew air out of her nose. “Will you come up too?”

“Yes,” he said, without thinking. “I'll bring you a drink. I promise.”

“OK.” That quelled her. She turned obediently on her heel and went back up the stairs and Caffery sat for a moment staring at his hands, wondering what to do. Eventually he got up, got two fresh glasses of wine and went upstairs. In the bedroom she was lying on the bed with her hands under her head. The lamp was on and her hair was loose, running down over one shoulder. She had taken off her vest and was smiling at him.

Right
. OK. Don't overreact. He put the glasses down on the bedside table and sat at the foot of the bed. “Re-becca—look.” He couldn't make the complex adjustment she wanted—not now. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” She rolled onto her front and walked toward him on all fours. She pressed her hands flat
on his chest and kissed his shoulders, hicked the sweat stained base of his neck.

“I'm busy downstairs.”

“That's OK.” She wrapped her arms round his neck. Her hair smelled of cigarillo smoke and something flow-ery—she pressed herself against him, her smooth breasts soft against his arm, and in spite of himself his heart dilated helplessly. “Becky, please …” She buried her face in his neck and trailed her fingers down his stomach, where the muscles fluttered weakly. She pushed her hand inside his trousers. He reached down and took her hand. Held it away from him. “No. Not now …”

She sshed him and wriggled her hand out of his grip, put it back inside his shorts.

“Becky.”

“Ssh—it's all right.”

She pulled her hand out of his trousers, sat up and rolled the shorts down to her knees, kicked them off her feet, and turned on one knee. She placed her hands flat on the bed and bent over in front of him on the bed—her back to him, her hips jacked up in the air. He stared at her, disbelieving, not knowing what to say or do. There was something so primitive—so crude. He knew he didn't stand a chance. He stood, unbuttoned his trousers and dropped his shorts, kicked them aside and stood behind her. “Move down a bit.” He dragged her hips toward him. She leaned forward to help, her chin touching the bed, reaching between her legs to guide him. “I won't last—”

“Sh—it's OK.”

He fell forward and kissed her back, her hair was in his mouth, he reached around to find her breasts, his heart expanding hard upward. She was so pliant. He got his cock inside her, wrapped his arms around her waist, then, suddenly, as clear as a bell on a cold day, he heard her say: “Stop.”

He stopped, opened his eyes. She was staring up at him, looking up over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide and serious.

“
What?
” He trembled with the effort of not moving. “What's the matter?”

“Stop. I've changed my mind.”

“You're joking.”

“No is no.” She looked at his face. “Honestly, Jack—I mean it.”

But it was too late. Something in his stomach, something that was close to opening anyway, broke. He grabbed her by the hair, wrenching her head back, and pushed himself into her as hard as he could, his heart pumping like a pile driver.

“Jack.” She tried to crawl away across the bed but he held her. He heard her sob. He knew her face was slamming into the bed and that there was blood—a line of blood in the corner of her mouth, he saw it but he couldn't stop. She was crying, tears running down her face, but he didn't stop. He didn't stop until he had come. Then he thrust her head back down, pulled out of her and padded into the bathroom, where he stood in the shower, his head bent, one hand on the wall, the warm water pouring over his neck, and began to cry.

Carmel Peach hadn't been mistaken about the photographs taken in her house. They were currently on a roll of film, tucked inside a bag, a bag constructed from an old bomber jacket, and lying on the floor in Roland Klare's bedroom.

Klare had spent a long time going through the photography book, in great detail, making copious notes as he worked, listing the things he needed. Now, late in the night, he was consulting the list as he hunted through the rooms for the makings of a darkroom. He had already made his biggest find, earlier this evening: a cumbersome negative enlarger that had been stored for some months behind a pile of magazines. He had found it in a dustbin at the back of a photographer's suppliers in Balham—it was cracked and the timer was broken, but in Klare's world nothing,
nothing
was beyond rescue. Now the enlarger had been resurrected and was safely installed in the bedroom cupboard, the place that was going to serve as a darkroom. It was a big prize.

However, as he continued his hunt through the rooms,
through the various boxes and corners of his flat, he was starting to see a problem. Klare collected things quickly, so quickly, in fact, that he frquently filled up a room within a matter of weeks, and periodically had to have a clear-out, taking everything from one room down to the dump and redistributing what remained in the flat in the cleared space. Sometimes he was careless, got himself agitated and ended up dumping things he hadn't meant to, and now he was starting to think he'd thrown away some of the things that he needed. Although he had a sealed plastic developing tank (this he'd got from the same bin as the enlarger; it looked like a Tupperware container and was cracked but mendable—
Make a note of that—need some glue, some Araldite)
, an old washing-up bowl for washing the prints in, tape to light-seal the cupboard and plenty of discarded cat litter trays that could serve as print developing trays— although he had all this, when he ran an inventory against the list he realized there were still things missing: some print fixer, developer, stop bath, a safelight. As he stared at the list a nervous tic started in the corner of his eye. Stop bath—the book said he could make that from vinegar if necessary, but a safelight? A safelight, fixer and devel-oper—these were things he could only get from a supplier. Face twitching with frustration, he wandered around the flat muttering to himself, checking and checking again that there'd been no mistake, that there weren't bottles hidden in some dark corner. But no—if he was going to get these photos developed he'd have to go down to Balham and maybe even spend some money.

Out of the living room window the moon was bathing Brockwell Park in silver, but Roland Klare, immensely discouraged now, wasn't interested in the view. He drew the blind, dropped down on the sofa, clicked on the television and sat for several hours, staring blankly at it.

H
E WENT TO SHRIVEMOOR
. It was the only place to go. He was composed enough to put a suit in the car for the next day, to put the malt whisky into a carrier bag on the backseat, and to pack most of Penderecki's stash away in the downstairs cupboard. The videocassettes and the zip disks—those he took with him.

The offices were empty. He switched on all the fluorescents, rinsed a mug in the kitchen, filled it with the malt and went into the SIOs' room, where he sat and watched the snake of car headlights down below.

Well, Jack, now look at your pretty little CV….

It had been rape. Hadn't it? Everything had been a green light until—No. He could turn it inside out, reinvent it, excuse it, but the hard fact remained—it had been rape. He had hurt Rebecca, her mouth had been bleeding. Maybe it meant she was right, and maybe that was what she wanted, to prove that he was out of control. He sighed and put his head in his hands. There were so many games to play. So many obstacles.