The Treatment (55 page)

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 onto the landing, his hands leapfrogging over the spooling aluminum. 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 newly 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 into 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 center 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 gray 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 just pulled them on. “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 he pulled his foot back, 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. “
I 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 center of the room, twitchy as a circus tiger.

“Jack—what the
fuck
do ye think you're doing?”

The rain clouds, by midafternoon, 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 his 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, stay in control 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 she should keep calm. She had spent the morning homemaking, 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 answerphone 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 stom-ach—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/Mon-day/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 Jack would have no reason to play the tape unless she told him to.
You could just leave it that way—you could bury it forever—he need never 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 finished unpacking, cleaned the kitchen, put in a load of washing, ate a sandwich for lunch and then went 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 one of his shirts on over her underwear and went out 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 onto 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 light-headed. “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—”

“
What?
”

“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 onto 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 were 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 lowlife shite—a child killer, ac-tually—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 hap-pens—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 steps, 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 went back upstairs.

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 were 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 upended it. Penderecki's child-porn collection tumbled out onto 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.