“And,” Alvarez pushed her hair behind her ears, “the defendant has no offenses for the last eight years. Miss Lamb was given police bail and appeared on time today for the Narey hearing. There is absolutely nothing to suggest that she might fail to appear again. Um …” She scanned the papers in the Narey bundle. “She has been living in the same place for thirty years, and the alleged offense took place over twelve years ago. And my learned friend, the prosecution, has already indicated that he won't be obstructing or asking for conditions.”
“Just a moment, just a moment.” The judge scratched his head. “This is a very serious offense we're talking about. This isn't a shoplifting charge. We need to think about it very carefully.”
“Sir,” Alvarez said, “leave to speak to my client?”
“Oh, well.” He threw his pen on the bench and leaned back, one elbow on the arm of the ornate chair. “I suppose so.” He flapped a hand at her. “Go on. Go on.”
At the dock Alvarez stood slightly angled away from him, one hand resting on the handrail. She looked up at Lamb with bulging eyes. “I want to offer him some security,” she whispered. “Do you know anyone who could put forward something—”
“I thought you said I was going to be out of here.”
“You are, you are, I just didn't expect this.” She bit her lip. “Look at the prosecution—they didn't expect it either. Now, I need something to offer him. Do you have someone who could put some money down on your be—”
“No, I fucking haven't.” This was all wrong. If she wasn't bailed then Steven … he'll get out of that rope— won't he? Won't he get out? But when she thought about him tugging at the flex, chewing it madly, she knew there was a chance he wouldn't. “You never said I wasn't going to be out of here.”
Alvarez lowered her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Tracey, just think, please—is there anyone who—”
“Miss Alvarez?” The judge was getting impatient.
“Yes, sir. I'm just trying to establish if I can offer any security.” She turned back to Tracey, her head bent closer. “Are you sure you can't—”
“No. I just said no.”
“Miss Alvarez, I don't know if anyone will be able to offer your client security, but it's academic anyway.” He cleared his throat, pressing his fingers to his lips. “Because I have a feeling that Miss Lamb—I have a feeling she might be tempted not to turn up for the next hearing.”
“That ain't true!”
“Sir!” Alvarez went quickly back to the bench. “Sir, the defendant came to court today, sir. She was perfectly aware of the seriousness of the charges, and yet she still came to court. I'm sure Miss Lamb would comply with any conditions you'd like to impose. She would be prepared to report at such times as you think appropriate. She would keep residence at her home address.”
“Look,” the district judge shook his head regretfully, “it's not for me to teach you your jobs, but this is a serious offense.” He shook a Biro in Lamb's direction. “She's got previous convictions.”
“Yes, but not related to this.”
“She knows the length of sentence …” He waited for Alvarez to subside. “She knows the length of sentence were she found guilty, so.” The judge made a note in the court register, leaned over to murmur something to the jus-tice's clerk, then looked up at the court again. “So—no. No.” He ratcheted his body round until he was facing Lamb. “None of the conditions you could offer me would suffice. So, Miss Lamb, stand up if you would.”
She stood, eyes narrowed bitterly, chewing the gum, hating him.
“I've told you that I can't deal with this case here, and because of the nature of the case and the witnesses who might be called, I think it's safest to transfer the proceedings to somewhere where they can give video evidence if need be—do you understand?” He didn't wait for her to answer. “In the meantime, because I feel there's a serious risk that you might simply decide not to return to court, I'm going to remand you in custody. You can come back and see us here one week from today—that's the third— and we'll have another look at the situation. Thank you.” He turned back to the court clerk and raised his eyebrows. “Shall we continue?”
Morning. Her arms were weak as water and there was something new: a strange wavering of the air as if the room were splitting in two. In the night Smurf had vomited up something that looked like coffee grounds in water and when Benedicte saw the flat eyes, the crusty mucus around Smurf's mouth she knew. She put an arm around the dear old neck and pressed her lips against the ear. “Smurf, I'm so sorry.”
Benedicte had found Smurf twelve years ago as a shiny puppy at Battersea Dogs' Home and brought her home on a red canvas lead. She had danced around her ankles at the bus stop, rear end fishtailing from side to side with excitement, claws ticker-tackering on the pavement. Smurf made washing day hell. Every pair of socks disappeared. She liked to doggy-paddle in the sea with Josh when they went to Cornwall, and since they weren't sure when she was born they gave her Valentine's Day for her official birthday. Now there was ammonia on her breath and her breathing was labored, her lips puffing out with each breath.
“I love you, old Smurf.” She lay next to the dog and pressed her face against the velvety head, feeling the eye blink, the soft rusty smell of the fur, the rasp of the graying muzzle hairs. She kissed the dog once, just under the ear where the skin was soft, and Smurf shifted slightly, sighed. She half lifted her tail and dropped a thin paw on Benedicte's bare foot.
There is no point in trying, at the end is only evil, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, you can't build a wall strong enough.
When she looked up, half a minute later, Smurf had stopped breathing.
Caffery woke early, before he meant to, with Alek Peach's face in his head. Rebecca was next to him, asleep. He rested his head on his arm and watched her breathing in and out, her little pixie face quite smooth and untroubled. He thought about last night and wondered if he should wake her and do it all over again. But Peach's face came back suddenly, and when he couldn't fade it or get rid of it, he rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom.
Something unspeakable had happened at number thirty Donegal Crescent, and he was starting to think that Alek was the primary living victim. He forced it along his mind as he showered, had coffee, ironed a shirt. Rebecca was still asleep when he left. He didn't wake her, and regretted not kissing her all the way to Shrivemoor. But by the time he got to the incident room, it was still Alek he was thinking about.
He went through the two DCs' statements from yesterday and set their parameters for day two. “Call me for anything, OK? Absolutely anything.” When they had gone he asked Kryotos to chivvy up General Registry with Peach's paper record. She had it by 11 A.M. “You ready for this?” She sat down in the SIOs' room, the docket on her lap. She looked astonishingly healthy that morning, as if all the light in the room were reflecting from her skin. It made him feel even more tired. “I found out who the victim of his indecent assault was.”
“Go on, then.”
“Carmel Regan. His wife. She was two days short of her thirteenth birthday and he was nineteen. Her dad didn't like it, obviously, shopped Peach. They stuck together even while he was doing time. And something else.”
“Oh, God.”
“Quinn got some preliminary results from the stuff in the attic.”
“And?”
“They don't match Peach's profile.”
“Yup. Thought that's what you were going to say.” Caffery laced his hands together, rolled his head from side to side as if to get rid of a neck crick. “God,” he said, after a while, scratching his neck. “Damn and fuck, Marilyn. I can't believe this is happening—the wheel's coming off.”
“I know. And there's more.”
“More?”
“They reran the DNA tests on whoever raped Rory, and—”
“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Don't tell me.”
“It came back the same as last time. Exactly the same. Alek P
each.”
When Souness arrived at the incident room Caffery was waiting for her at the door. He'd been thinking about it. Thinking the impossible. “We need to go and see Alek Peach. I think I know what happened. And I think we should appoint a SOIT officer for him.”
“SOIT? But that's for—”
“For victims of sexual assault. That's right.”
Tracey Lamb's name was on the board in the reception wing of Holloway Prison. It said she had a legal visit that afternoon at two o'clock. At one forty-five they took her with the other girls down to the holding cell: “Cunts' Corner,” it was still called, just as it had been the last time she was here.
“You're in room one.” Room one: that made sense— the one with the TV for video evidence, nearest to the screws' station so they could keep her under their noses. “Here's your drawer.” Lamb scowled at the officer, held wet fingers to the end of her roll-up to stop if from burning, and slung it in the drawer to smoke later. “And the rest.” The officer rattled the drawer. Obediently Lamb reached into the breast pocket of her T-shirt for her rollups. She had a tiny amount of tobacco—as a remand prisoner she was allowed thirty pounds a week, and that had to buy toiletries and all her tobacco.
Three K. Just think—three grand, straight through your fingers.
“Come on, room one, let's be having you.”
She was shepherded out of the cell, down the glasslined corridor and into the room where Kelly Alvarez waited with her papers spread out on the table.
“Hi, Tracey.”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“I want to just tie up some loose ends about your bail next week—I want to be ready for them this time. Want to have a package to offer.” She gleamed across at her client, anxious for a response.
Tracey sat down opposite and scowled. “You never told me I might not get bail today.”
“I know, I know. I'm sorry about that, Tracey.”
“I'd of skipped if I'd known this was going to happen.”
“Tracey, that particular judge has got a reputation for it. I spoke to Prosecution afterward and he was as surprised as I was.” She smiled. Yellow teeth. “But we'll make a new application next week and then there'll be no problem.”
“Yeah?” She raised her chin a little and looked carefully at Alvarez. In a week Steven might not be alive—if he hadn't got out of the ropes he might still be there, bound to the cupboards and the table in the trailer. Seven days— how long would it take? What the fuck would you do with a body? Just leave it there? What did he have for water and food? The Cokes and chocolate she'd brought him this morning, and a little water in the bottle under the sink. “How can you be so sure I'll get out next time?”
“Ah, because I've got some inside info.” She winked broadly. “Today's judge will be on holiday next week and he's got a reputation for denying bail, but it'll be someone else next time and there'll be no problem, I promise you.”
Lamb nodded thoughtfully. Accustomed to looking over her shoulder, spotting the sleight-of-hand in every encounter, her senses were perfectly tuned in to certain frequencies and she could tell that Kelly Alvarez was not suited to this profession. She sensed Alvarez's idealism, sensed how badly she wanted to please her clients and Lamb knew exactly how to make this fundamental flaw work for her. “Did you find out how they got me?” she said.
“They had a video of you.”
“Just one?”
“Just the one.” She held up her copy. “Want to see it?”
“No.” She shifted in her chair. “What am I doing in it?”
“You are …” She coughed neatly into a big fist. “You are indecently assaulting a small boy.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Yes.”
“And? Where are we? What am I wearing?”
“You're on a bed.”
“Leopard-skin cover?”
“That's the one. They'd had it for years.” Alvarez put her head on one side, her eyes sympathetic. “I think it was always going to happen, Tracey. The only good thing is that it's all a long time in the past. They haven't got anything recent—a jury will be convinced you've put it all behind you.”
“No Internet stuff?”
“Uh …” Alvarez started to look uncomfortable at this new direction. “No,” she said cautiously. “The video was the only piece of evidence that's come to light so far.”
“OK.” There are at least four more videos of you in the stuff Penderecki was holding—and a whole pack of Carl's Internet stuff. Caffery might have surrendered all of that if he'd been connected. Lamb rubbed her hands over her face and looked over her shoulders at the screws' station. “Right.” She turned back, leaning forward, her voice lower. “I asked you about DI Caffery.”
“Yes.” Alvarez seemed happy to change the subject. “I was interested in that—I asked Prosecution and he hadn't heard of him.”
“You sure?”
“Certain. I did a bit of asking around and he's with a totally different unit, absolutely nothing to do with the pedophile unit and certainly nothing to do with the investigation. Why? What're you thinking?”
“Nothing.” But of course her thoughts were pounding along. Something in her kept stretching, stretching as hard as it could toward that money—every sinew, every cell. “You reckon I'll get bail next week, then?”
“Oh, yes. I can guarantee you will.”
30
IT DIDN'T TAKE LONG FOR CAFFERY to recognize that Carmel Peach was on medication. During the night, Alek had been moved to an annex room in a new ward, and Carmel sat at the end of his bed painstakingly picking the onions out of a bowl of minestrone soup and placing them in a napkin. She looked as if the pigment had been sucked out of her, as if what was left standing was just the dried-out hide. She had chipped her nail polish into flakes that lay across her T-shirt and jeans, and when Caffery and Souness came into the ward she looked up but didn't recognize their faces. Her mind flicked easily past them and she went back to the soup.
“Alek.” Souness sat down next to him on the bed. Caffery closed the door and pulled down the blind. “Alek,” Souness said gently, “do ye know why we're here, son?”
“To give me more grief?” He was wearing a black and silver Elvis T-shirt, and two or three pillows supported his back. His sideburns had been trimmed, right up to the gray, and next to him, on the side of the bedside cabinet, a child's crayon drawing had been taped. Kenny from South Park, “Rory” written in brown felt tip at the bottom. “You can't hurt me now.” He stared at his big hands, his head drooping. “Not anymore. Just do what you have to do.”
“We're sorry.” Caffery mirrored Souness and sat down on the bed, conscious of the intimacy of sitting so close to Peach. “We're here to say that we're sorry—I'm sorry— but there's still something you're not telling us, Alek. Something happened in your house …” He cleared his throat. “Something happened before Rory was kidnapped. We've got an idea what but we'd like to hear it from you because—”
He stopped. Carmel had suddenly sat bolt upright. Without a word she slammed down the napkin, got to her feet, stuffed her feet into a ragged pair of trainers, the backs pressed down under her heels, and walked jerkily around the room, humming loudly to herself, a snatch of music from a car advert, picking things up and putting them down, opening the bedside cupboard and pulling objects out, noisily rearranging them. Seeing her expression Alek put his face in his hands and shook his head despairingly. Caffery leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, above the noise, “I'm sorry, Alek, if this seems insensitive, but it has to be done.”
“Da-da da da!” Carmel sang the tune out loud. Caffery looked up to find her glaring angrily at him. “Da-da-da-da!”
“Carmel, love,” Peach said, “go and wait outside.”
Furiously, silently, she grappled in her handbag for cigarettes and a lighter, not taking her eyes off Caffery, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. It took him a moment or two, staring at the closed
door, to get rid of that angry, war-mask image. He shifted a little, and glanced over at Souness, who shrugged.
“Mr. Peach …” He tried again, straightening up his voice. “Alek.”
Peach's jaw moved, as if his tongue were a piece of obstinate gristle that he'd like to swallow or spit out. He pushed away the bowl of soup and didn't answer.
“We do understand how you feel. We've got a specially trained officer—he's done a course, a special course for, uh, this sort of thing.”
Peach pointedly turned his head to Souness. “Is that all he's come here for? To tell me about your training schemes?”
Caffery sighed. “I understand why it's difficult, Alek.”
“Oh, yeah?” He turned cold eyes back to Caffery. “You really think you understand, do you?”
“Yeah. I think I—”
“You really think you understand.” He bunched up his fists. “Fucking filth come here and tell me they can understand what happened to me. You haven't got a clue what we went through.”
“What I mean is—”
“No.” He pointed a finger in Caffery's face. “No, let me tell you about understanding.” His head was twitching, the sinews on his neck stood out. “Because I'll tell you this for nothing, I hope one day you do understand. I hope one day the same thing happens to you. I hope you feel this way so someone can come mincing in and preaching to you about under-fucking-standing. You've never had a choice like I had—never.” He dropped back against the pillow, breathing hard. “You haven't got children—I can see it in your eyes.”
Caffery stared at Rory's drawing of Kenny. He knew he was supposed to be feeling sympathy for Alek Peach, knew he was supposed to be terribly, terribly sorry for what had happened to him, but there it was again, that maddening, bright anger moving down his limbs—as if it had been injected like adrenaline from a gland into his heart. All he'd expected from his extended hand of sympathy was straightforward, honest acceptance. He tried again. “Mr. Peach, all I—”