The Treatment

by Mo Hayder

  Roland Klare had spent the morning making notes, considering shortcuts, finding new ways of looking at it, and had finally worked out what he needed: a few sheets of print paper, a liter 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.

  21

  NEITHER CAFFERY NOR SOUNESS could believe what the computer was telling them. They sat for a long time, chairs a few feet apart, staring at the screen in silence. They had gone into the Police National Computer and come back with a CRO number—a criminal records office number—for Alek Pechickjian. Indecent assault on a minor. Sentenced in 1984 to two years.

  “No.” Caffery shook his head. “Nah—I can't believe it. Just because he's got a record, doesn't mean—”

  “For indecent assault? On a minor?”

  “Jesus—Jesus.” He put his head in his hands, his mind racing. The first of Peach's offenses was pre-1985 and not back-record converted—they had e-mailed the records office for the microfiche to be couriered down—but Peach's second offense, a nominal term for a pub brawl in which a seventeen-year-old's eye had been popped out, had started at the end of 1989, shortly after the assault on Champ and the Half Moon Lane hoax. He stared at the screen in disbelief. All the odd loose ends in Peach's account of the events at number thirty Donegal Crescent— his denial of photographs being taken, his denial that he'd heard Rory at all in those few days, the fact that his wife and son were dehydrated and he wasn't—all the drifting question marks seemed to be settling silently around Caffery.

  He got up and took the photofit of Champ's attacker from the file. Then he took all the crime scene photographs and spread them out on the desk. “What do you think?”

  Souness leaned over the photofit and shook her head. “I dunno. What do you think?”

  “I don't know either.” He turned it one way then the other. “Could be, could be.” He picked up the crime scene photos. “That thump he took on the back of the head, d'you think he could have …” They both leaned forward and looked at the mark that Alek Pechickjian, Alek Peach, had left.

  “If he manacled that end first …” Souness pointed to the photo. “And then the hands—ye know, Jack, he could actually've done it.”

  “No, no, no. Hang on.” Caffery pushed his chair back. They had asked Bela Nersessian to leave for a moment and she was in the incident room with Kryotos; he could see her red hair bobbing up and down, as if she'd like to get a look through the window. He leaned closer to Souness and lowered his voice. “No, look. What are we saying? That he ran out the back when the shopkeeper knocked on the door? Climbed up that tree, dumped Rory, got back to the house and tied himself up—all before the police could …”

  His voice trailed away—Souness was nodding. The shopkeeper had gone all the way back to his shop to raise the alarm and in that period Peach had had more than enough time. Quite enough to make it look as if he'd been attacked. Caffery and Souness had both heard of this sort of scene staging—the manic writing on the wall, that was a popular one. And they had both seen enough to know that people can, if they put their mind to it, push themselves into unimaginable positions, inflict unimaginable injury on themselves. Caffery was thinking not only of autoerotic deaths—sad souls wrapped in tent bags, in rubber masks, faces obscured by used underwear, manacled on pulleys to the ceiling—but of others which could have so easily been mistaken for murder: he had once seen a suicide who had pulled out his own intestines and snipped them into pieces with sewing scissors, another who had set fire to herself in the locked boot of a car. He knew too well how murder can masquerade as suicide and how suicide can masquerade as murder.

  “ ‘Do you like your daddy … ’ ” Caffery said quietly.

  “Eh?”

  “Champaluang Keoduangdy. That's what his attacker said. ‘Do you like your daddy? ’ ”

  “What?”

  “That's right.” He sat up, his blood stirring. Suddenly his dry trip to Norfolk, the tangle he and Rebecca were in, it all began to sting a little less.

  “Hang on.” Souness pulled over the photos and peered at them, her mouth pressed in a little doubting bud. “He was half dead when they found him.”

  “But he snapped back, didn't he? Snapped right back.” Caffery pushed his chair back. “Proper little Lazarus—the consultant was popping veins, he was so surprised.”

  “He'd pissed and shat all over himself—that's some good playacting.”

  “Probably thinking of Gordon Wardell.”

  “What?”

  “Don't you remember?” Caffery took his glasses off. “One of the things that tipped them off was that Wardell never pissed himself in all the time he was tied up. That's how they guessed he'd done his wife. If that wasn't all over the papers, Danni, from Brixton to Birmingham, I'll buy you dinner.”

  She sighed. Shook her head. “It's not in my nature to say this, Jack, but I think you're right.” She stood and hitched up her jeans. “So what do we do?”

  “I'd like some DNA. Wouldn't you?”

  “How long is that going to take?”

  “Christ knows.” Caffery got to his feet. “Anyway, we've got another way.”

  Souness stayed in the incident room to arrange an emergency briefing for the team and Caffery accompanied Bela back to Guernsey Grove. He was so wired and ready to see Alek Peach again, to reassess him in this new light, that when Souness stopped him on his way to the lift, dropping her head and turning slightly so that Bela couldn't hear, and murmured, “Ye were going to tell me something, Jack? Ye had something to say?” he shook his head. “No, that was—that was nothing. Really. Nothing.”

  He was back in the saddle. He wanted to know if, after everything, Peach had been squatting—complacent like a toad—right under their noses. It took him out of himself, made him forget everything. He wasn't tired anymore.

  Explaining to Bela without giving the game away wasn't easy: “Our forensic team have discovered tooth marks on some food in the Peaches' kitchen—it's normal to get the victims to give us a cast of their own teeth, just in case they left the imprint.”

  “Well, I don't suppose he's here.” She let him into her antiseptic house, her bracelets jangling, her face set. “He was off again this morning, crack of dawn.”

  “That's OK.” He put his head around the living room door. It was quiet, just the gold-plated carriage clock in the display cabinet starting up its chime. “If he's not here I'll wait.”

  “See if he's in the garden, darling.” She hung her handbag behind the door. “And I'm going to bring you a little soorj—a little demitasse—keep your spirits up.”

  “That's OK, Bela—thanks, but I'll pass.” He went into the kitchen. Strings of walnuts, steeped in sugar, hung like wood-carved mobiles above the sink. He unlocked the back door and stood on the lit
tle concrete patio, blinking in the sunlight. The garden was neat, the sunken fitting for the carousel clothes dryer dead center in the little square of grass. Annahid's pink Barbie bike was in position up against a newly creosoted toolshed, but otherwise the garden was empty. He closed the door, locked it again and went into the kitchen, where Bela was boiling water in a kettle. “Thanks, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I'm sure. We're trying to beat the clock on this.”

  “You need fattening up. I know they'll all say you look fashionable, but fashionable doesn't mean healthy.” Bela followed him up the stairs, breathing heavily behind him. When she realized he was going to the top floor she plucked at his sleeve. “You're not going to disturb Carmel, darling? I don't think you should, she doesn't need to be reminded. It's not my business, but really, you should have more tact.…”

  But Caffery went ahead and opened the door. The room was filled with smoke and sunshine. Carmel lay on the bed, cigarettes and ashtray next to her, body facing the window, head rolled backward over her shoulder to see who was at the door. Beyond her, staring out at the garden, a cigarette between the fingers that hung out the opened window, was Alek Peach, dressed in a nylon Arsenal shirt and stonewash jeans.

  Caffery hadn't known what to expect. Alek Peach must have anticipated what was coming, he must have heard him downstairs, but he appeared calm and took his time turning round. He took one last drag on the cigarette, crushed it in a pile of dog ends on the windowsill and stood slowly. His big face was redder, more blood-infused than Caffery remembered, but his eyes hadn't lost that hollow, guarded look. If he was surprised to see Detective Inspector Caffery, standing in the door, slightly breathless as if excited, he didn't show it.

  Smurf was limping in a confused circle, panting and whimpering, trying to get comfortable, the old claws making little fricative picks at the carpet. Her leg was oozing a clear sticky fluid and she had relieved herself twice in the corner of the room. Benedicte guessed now that she was searching for water. Me too, Smurf, me too. She lay on her back, letting the trains mark off the hours, running her sore, swollen tongue along the inside of her mouth. She had licked her lips so often that now she could feel the tender raised outline of them. For a moment yesterday she'd believed they were safe—sometime in the morning the doorbell had rung.

  YES! Benedicte's heart had leaped. “I'm here. HERE!”

  Keys in the lock.

  Keys?

  The front door opened and, with a horrible lurch of despair and panic, she understood her mistake. She heard his feet on the stairs, racing up—then the furious pounding on the door. She curled back against the radiator, hands wrapped around her head. Surrendering.

  And he'd done the same thing several times that day, coming and going, using the front door. Slamming it as he left and ringing the doorbell on his return to reassure himself the coast was clear, that no one had arrived to spoil the party. Benedicte knew he was using her keys—she could hear him in the hallway fiddling with the key ring: those irritating Space Invaders sound effects that Josh loved, starship bleeps, rapid fire echoing in the quiet. Every time the troll came back Benedicte curled into a silent, shivering ball. She wasn't going to let him know a thing—wasn't going to let him know if she was dead or alive. And every time he was out she rolled onto her stomach and yelled encouragement through the floor, praying they could hear.

  The trains told her that this time the troll had been gone for more than four hours. What if he wasn't coming back? That meant it could all be over already—and Josh could be …

  Stop it!

  What about the Cornwall cottage agency? Wouldn't they raise the alarm? A construction worker might notice the troll coming and going or Ayo might decide to come over early. Maybe someone would look through the garage window and spot the Daewoo in the garage all ready to go, their packed lunches festering in the heat, popping the lids on the Tupperware.

  Smurf stopped her incessant wandering and lay down in the corner, deflated, her head on the good paw. The wound was beginning to smell, and Benedicte had seen bluebottles trying to land on it so she'd torn the sleeve off Hal's shirt and tied it around the area. But still the flies came, drawn by the scent. It broke Ben's heart—she knew that even if they were saved now, Smurf may not survive this assault on her system—she was too old, far too old.

  “It's all right, Smurf, old girl …” she murmured. “Not long now, I promise.”

  In the car Peach didn't stop complaining. He'd thrown up that morning and he really didn't feel like going any-where—the excuses kept coming. Caffery didn't say a word all the way to Denmark Hill.

  Dr. Ndizeye was waiting for them outside King's Dental School, smiling and sweating. Visible under the open medical coat he wore a T-shirt bearing the logo “Programme Alimentaire Mondiale” in blue.

  “Mr Peach.” He took Peach's hand from his side and shook it. “Come with me.” He took them to the small office that doubled as a tutorial room in his role as consultant dental pathologist. It was comfortable, slightly cluttered. A modern, computerized dentist's chair stood in the center of the room, and on the windowsill an antique goniometer gathered dust. There were few pictures on the walls: some X rays of skulls, a studio portrait of a smiling American (Robert S. Folkenberg, said the gold plaque) and a photo of a woman and two girls in church clothes. A silent nurse in a blue shift was laying out a series of trays on a paper towel.

  “It's a beautiful day,” Ndizeye said, opening the window. “But then, he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and the good, on the just and the unjust.” His eyes seemed to look simultaneously in opposite directions behind the thick glasses, his clown mouth seemed to be smiling and Caffery had to tell himself that Ndizeye wasn't aiming that comment at him. As Peach lay down on the dentist's chair, staring at the ceiling, his hands resting at his sides as the nurse Velcroed a bib around his neck, Caffery found an aluminum chair and sat with his back to the window, sucking Altoid mints and watching in silence while Ndizeye worked.

  “I'll get an impression first, and then we'll get bitewing X rays and an orthopantogram.” Ndizeye circled his hand around his head. “A look at the whole lot. OK?”

  Alek nodded. He hadn't spoken a word since they had arrived. His face was red, as if fevered, but he patiently allowed Ndizeye to try the stainless-steel impression trays for size. “Right.” Ndizeye rinsed the last, largest tray. “That's a U14 so I think we'll go for three scoops. You're a big man, Mr. Peach.”

  The nurse mixed the pale pink alginate with warm water, a smell of something like violets and warm plastic coming from the mixing bowl. Ndizeye folded the mixture into the upper impression tray. “Right, let's just lift these lips up.” He caught Peach's lips on his fingers and carefully seated the tray, allowing bubbles to escape and the tray to settle neatly into the sulcus, the fissure between the cheek and the gum. “And just keep still.” He began to time it, counting off the seconds on his wristwatch. “Only takes a minute.”

  But after only thirty seconds Peach rolled onto his side, his face sweating, groping for the tray, saliva spilling onto his lips. “I'm going to—”

  “Keep still,” Ndizeye tried to keep Peach upright, “big breaths through the nose.”

  “I'm going to puke—” He rolled himself off the chair and put his hands out, stumbling forward, the tray falling on the floor and his trainers slipping in the alginate.

  Ndizeye leaned over and tapped the sink. “Here, over here, not on the floor, please.”

  “Here.” Caffery stood, grabbed his arm and jerked him toward the sink. “In there.” Peach barely made it before a thin, brown, coffeelike fluid came up. He stood at the sink, his body heaving, mucus coming from his nose.

  Ndizeye laughed. He pulled paper towels from a dispenser on the wall and wiped the sweat from his face. “Don't worry—it gets some people like that. I'll spray a little surface anesthetic on the back of your mouth while we do the lower tray.”

  “I don't think I'm w
ell.” Peach clutched the sink and looked up, a rope of saliva depending from his bottom lip. His face was brilliant red, the veins around his eyes startling blue in contrast. “I don't think—”

  “Here.” Caffery hooked him under the arm and helped him back to the chair. He pressed a mouthwash cup and a paper towel into his hand. “Get yourself cleaned up.” “I'm not well.” “We can see that.” “I think I'm going to wait till you feel a bit better,”

  Ndizeye said, tearing another paper towel and going over to the sink. “Yes. We'll wait till you feel better.”

  Peach's eyes were closed. He rolled his head slowly from side to side, having trouble finding a comfortable position for it. He patted his mouth with the towel and sipped the water, then folded his hands across his chest, his hands tucked lightly under his armpits.

  “OK?”

  He nodded weakly.

  “Feeling better?”

  “I think so.”

  Ndizeye wiped the sides of the sink and ran the tap to clear it. He paused, looking dubiously at the brown fluid in the sink. “Mr. Peach? How's your stomach? Have you got pain?”

  Peach nodded. His eyes were small in the bright face.

  “Do you mind if I feel your abdomen?”

  Peach didn't speak as Ndizeye gently pressed it. Caffery could see that the skin was taut, the stomach rigid, like a drum.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you take ibuprofen, Mr. Peach?” Ndizeye leaned near to his face. “Do you take any anti-inflammatories?”

  He shook his head again, groaning softly, his eyes flickering. Ndizeye reached for Peach's hands. “Hot,” he said. “Right.” He kneed a button on the base of the chair and the platform reclined flat. “I think we should get someone up here to have a look at you.”

  One of the photos of the outstanding suspects on the wall of the pedophile unit on the third floor of Scotland Yard showed a woman in half profile, from the waist up, sitting next to a red curtain. An overweight brunette, she was wearing a black bra and her flesh was so dimpled that in the harsh overhead light she looked as if she had taken a dose of grapeshot across her belly.