The Treatment (29 page)

T
HE HALLWAY WAS QUIET
. Not silent: on the landing the electric security timer trundled through its increments, but otherwise the hall was quiet. Not a creak of board or a shift of air. At six-thirty A
.
M
.
the timer clicked through and the lamp on the landing switched off. Builders' sand had been trodden into the stair carpet and someone had been spray-painting on the walls. Visible from the hallway were the letters
painted in red. To anyone mounting the stairs the final letters were visible at the bend in the staircase, across the front of the spare bedroom door:
. The entire graffiti read
. Next to it was the cross and circle symbol representing the female.

Caffery left Shrivemoor before anyone arrived and took all of Penderecki's tapes home. The black Beetle with the lime interior wasn't outside, and when he checked in all the rooms he found himself almost disappointed to see that Rebecca hadn't defied him and wasn't sitting up in his bed smoking a cigarillo. The sheets had been changed; she had washed the old ones and left them in the dryer. Apart from that she had left almost no sign of herself. “That's what you asked for,” he murmured, “and that's what you got.”

He wrapped the videos in two plastic bags, secured them with tape, pushed them to the darkest corner under the stairs and locked the door. He showered, slept a deep,
jet-laggy sleep for two hours—on the sofa, the bedroom smelled of Rebecca—and just before 10 A
.
M
.
drank coffee and got into the car. It was a hot day—he wore a shortsleeved shirt and shades and kept the window open. He knew he looked like a gubernatorial security guard in a Southern state, Texas, maybe.

Carl Lamb had died within the last month. Judging by his criminal and prison record his death had left the world a safer place, but one thing the authorities had never picked up about him was that he had been a nonce. There was no intelligence linking him to Penderecki, and his criminal record had been for breaking and entering, grievous bodily harm, aggravated vehicle theft and a string of credit card frauds. But when Caffery checked where and when he'd done time he discovered that he'd been in Belmarsh at the same time as Penderecki. The stray ends were beginning to come together. Penderecki had meant Caffery to take this journey.

There was a sister still alive, Tracey Lamb, age fortytwo. She had a minor criminal record, had done little bits of time here and there. Caffery wondered, as he drove through Suffolk, through quiet villages coiled with climbing roses, past white weatherboarded dovecotes, cakes of salt lick glittering in the sun, if Tracey Lamb had a tattoo on her right arm.

The roads grew emptier as he reached the poorer end of Suffolk, the north, where it bled into Norfolk. Here the population lived in isolated farmhouses or in crumbling ribbon developments, and the only signs that he wasn't alone on this planet were burned-out cars on the verges and the occasional ghost filling station with rusted-out petrol pumps on weed-covered forecourts. This was Iceni territory, blood and isolation in the air, as if Boudicca herself were shadowing him through her land.
You could do anything out here and no one would know
.

Rebecca's face came to him once, but it was OK, he found he could push her away. He could push her out on either side, out into the slipstream of the Jag, and off into the fields that stretched away from the car into the shimmer of midday.

He almost missed the turning in the trees. It was on a deserted, heat-cracked road, marked by a rusting sign— 4 x 4 tires—hanging from a post. He had to brake and reverse, then swing the Jag into the grassed-over drive. The ground was rutted and trees on either side created a natural alley. He was aware of things squatting out in the nettles: piles of breeze blocks, old, abandoned trailers and chassis, a rusted shipping container as tall as a man, standing up straight in the trees. After a hundred yards or so he stopped the car—safer to continue on foot, safer to let the grass muffle his footsteps—and climbed out. He was immediately struck by the quiet: the only sound was the distant mosquito whine of a jet from Honnington RAF base.

Another hundred yards on and he found himself at the edge of a clearing shielded from the rest of Norfolk by a ring of towering sycamores. Nothing moved. On his right stood a corrugated iron hangar, the words “Sports Cars” in chipped paint on the lintel, the doors open to reveal the decomposing remains of a business of sorts—a crumbling engine hoist, rusting Elf oil cans and a pile of Land Rover roofs. Beyond the hangar, across weed-blistered tarmac, he could see the pebble-dashed walls of a house, square like a nuclear bunker, nettles growing up to the windows. And now that he listened he realized that somewhere a TV was playing. He took a few steps forward and saw, parked against the house—
Jesus fucking Christ
—the Fiat from the video. A sheet of chicken wire lay up against it, it was covered in nettles, the springs in the seat lolled out like spent jack-in-the-boxes, but it was so ridiculously exactly the same car it almost made him feel he was walking into a setup. The video, then, would have been shot from inside that window. He inched a little closer.

The curtains were drawn and he had to get very close to see through the crack. The light from the TV flickered on the walls. It was gloomy inside but he knew instantly that he was looking at the room from the video: full of furniture, the walls decorated with cheaply framed oils, a giltcovered starburst clock, four 200 packs of imported Rothman's on the bookshelf.
This is it—this is it
. And then he saw her.

She was huge, sitting on the sofa in the shaded room, blue light playing across her face. She wore pale nylon knickers and an aging bra. Her legs were too enormous to close—the whorled fat on the insides of her thighs forced them out in a stubby, foreshortened V. Her blond hair, worn with a fringe, was pulled severely back on top of her head and secured there with a black band, revealing small gold earrings. Next to her sat a mug, an ashtray and Silk Cuts.
Is that her? The hair's different.
The woman in the video had been a brunette.
A wig, then—in the video she must have worn a wig.
At that moment she put down her cigarette in the ashtray, lifted a small polystyrene cup to her mouth, spat a glob of brown sputum into it, wiped her mouth, rested the cup on her belly, picked up her cigarette and went back to the TV. As she settled back he saw a tattoo on her arm and a little bolt of hope went through him. He was meant to be here.

The back door was locked, so he went round to the front. The paint was peeling and there was a disposable barbecue on the porch, full of rainwater and flies. He looked through the window and could see the blonde through the door at the end of the corridor, her legs bathed in blue TV light. He knocked on the window. Her legs jerked as if she'd been shot. She bolted upright, things falling onto the floor, and her big, blank face turned wildly to the door. He took a step back, took off his sunglasses and waited. Soon he could hear her breathing on the other side of the door.

“Who the fuck's that?”

“Tracey?”

“I said who the fuck is it?”

“Jack Caffery.”

“
Who?
”

“Jack Caffery.”

“Never heard of you.” The chain was drawn across and the latch was unhooked and now the door opened a crack and her big face appeared in the gap in the door, pale eyes blinking in the sun. “Who the fuck are you, then?” She had pulled on a flimsy pink gown. In spite of the nicotine-stained blond hair this was definitely the woman
from the video. She had the teeth of an old rabbit. “What d'you want, then? I'm not buying nothing.”

“Are you on your own? Is there anyone else here?”

“What the fuck's that to you?”

“Caffery,” he said. “Jack Caffery.”

“Am I supposed to know what the fuck you're talking about?”

“Ivan Penderecki sent me.”

Her face changed. “Eh?”

“Ivan Penderecki. You know who I mean. A friend of your brother's.”

At that she took keys from a hook, took the chain off the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind her and tying the gown closer. “Don't give me all that. He never did send you.”

“No, you're right. He never did because he's dead. I found out about your brother from the videos Penderecki was keeping for you.”

Tracey Lamb's mouth opened a little. She stood with her feet apart, her big ham arms crossed under her breasts, her mouth slack and nasty. “Who
are
you?”

“Detective Inspector Jack Caffery. Metropolitan Police.”

He knew she'd bolt when he said it and he was ready. He stepped straight forward and put his hands on either side of her as she scrabbled to get the keys in the front door.

“
What?
” she screamed, frustrated. “
Get off of me!
”

“Stand still. I want to talk to you.”

“I'm not talking to the fucking filth.”

“Stand still, Tracey!” She abandoned the attempt to get into the house and instead launched sideways, breaking past his arms and charging along the side of the house. But he mirrored her, his hands out, herding her back toward the wall. “I mean it, Tracey.
Keep still
.”

“Fuck off. Keep a-fucking-way from me.” She put her head down. He saw she was preparing to aim a knee at his groin and he stepped sideways, quick as a torero, getting her right hand behind her back.

“No no no.
Never
kick a man in the balls.”

“
Oww!
” Tracey Lamb had been arrested before and was “hold-wise.” She tried to lock her arm at the elbow but Caffery caught her by the hair, repositioned his feet and grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back before she could lock it. “
Owww!
”

“Yes—OK, OK. Try not to struggle, Tracey. It just makes you look even more suss.”

“Get your fucking hands off me.” She struggled and kicked and twisted, and clamped her hand over his, trying to loosen his grip. “You touched my
tits
,” she screamed. There was no one to hear her, but this was knee-jerk con behavior. Even during the arrest they began plotting for the lawsuit they'd serve on the Met. “Touched my fucking tits—”

“Yeah, c'mon, c'mon.” He hesitated a moment, looking around at the clearing.
Where now? Where shall I take her? The car.
“Come on.” He dragged her back down the little drive, his hand bleeding where she clawed at it. A crow or a rook screamed above them and took flight from one of the huge rustling trees. At the car he pushed her roughly into the passenger seat and locked the door. She scrambled to the driver's side, but he was there already, opening the door and getting in, pushing her into the seat. “Back—back. Or do you want cuffing?”

“You bastard.”

“I mean it, I'll cuff you.”

“You fucker.” She puffed her breath out in a sigh and fell back in the seat.

“Good. Now …” He started the engine and turned the air on full. He hadn't broken a sweat but Lamb was redfaced and puffing. “Don't try to get out. Just behave yourself.”

“
Don't
talk to me like that.” She sat forward in the seat shaking a bitten, nicotine-stained finger at him. “I don't care who you are, don't talk to me like that. Filth!” She sat back in the seat, breathing hard. “Should've fucking known to look at you, you were filth. Evil fucking eyes. Typical filth to go round hitting women, that's real filth behavior.”