Mo Hayder - The Treatment

Thank you to the following who made time in their lives to help me: AMIT, Beckenham: DCI Duncan Wilson and DC Daisy Glenister (also Andr Baker and John Good at OCU Eltham). The Air Support Unit, Lippits Hill: Inspector Philip Whitelaw, PC Terry White, Paul Watts, PC Howard Taylor and Richard Spinks. The Metropolitan Police Pedophile Unit: DCI Bob McLachlan and Marion James. HMP Holloway: David Lancaster (Governor) and Senior Officer Peter Collett. South London Scientific Support Command Unit: Dave Tadd. Also: D Supt Steve Gwilliam, Adrian Millsom, Neil Sturtivant, Ashley Smith;

D. Heywood of the Neurology Department, Yeovil District Hospital; everyone at the Intensive Care Unit, King's Hospital, London (especially Maura Falvey); the West Somerset Coroner's Office and all the staff and students at Bath Spa University, Faculty of Humanities. A special thank-you to DI Cliff Davies at the OCG, who gave of his time with faultless generosity.

Thank you also to Jane Gregory and Lisanne Radice, Deborah Cowell, Steve Rubin, all at Transworld, Rilke D., Norman D. and the wise women: Margaret Murphy, Caroline Shanks, Linda and Laura Downing.

Most of all, a big heartfelt thank-you to the ones who keep me sane: Mairi Hitomi, my wonderful family and Keith Quinn.

Also by Mo Hayder

BIRDMAN

Mo Hayder is the author of the critically acclaimed Birdman. She lives in London, England.

W HEN IT WAS ALL OVER, DI Jack Caffery, South London Area Major Investigation Team (AMIT), would admit that, of all the things he had witnessed in Brixton that cloudy July evening, it was the crows that jarred him the most.

They were there when he came out of the Peaches' housetwenty or more of them standing in their hooded way on the lawn of the neighboring garden, oblivious to the police tape, the onlookers, the technicians. Some had their beaks open. Others appeared to be panting. All of them faced him directly, as if they knew what had happened in the house. As if they were having a sly laugh about the way he'd reacted to the scene.

Later he would accept that the crows' behavior was a biological tic, that they couldn't see into his thoughts, couldn't have known what had happened to the Peach family, but even so the sight of them made the back of his neck tingle. He paused at the top of the garden path to strip off his overalls and hand them to a forensics officer, pulled on the shoes he'd left outside the police tape and waded out into the birds. They took to the air, rattling their petrolly feathers.

Brockwell Parka huge, thrown-together isosceles of forest and grass with its apex at Herne Hill stationrambles for over a mile along the boundary of two very different parts of South London. On its western perimeter, the badlands of Brixtonwhere some mornings council workers have to drop sand on the streets to soak up the blood and, to the east, Dulwich, with its flower-drenched almshouses and John Soane skylights. Donegal Crescent lay snug up against Brockwell Parkanchored at one foot by a boarded-up pub, at the other by a Gujarati-owned corner shop. It was part of a quiet little council estate, rows of fifties terraced houses bare to the sky, no trees in the front gardens, window frames and doors painted chocolate brown. The houses looked on to a horseshoeshaped piece of balding grass where kids skidded their bikes in the evening. Caffery could imagine the Peaches must have felt relatively safe here.

Back in his shirt sleeves, grateful for the fresh air outside, he rolled a cigarette and crossed to the group of officers next to the Scientific Support Command Unit's van. They fell silent as he approached and he knew what they were thinking. He was only in his midthirtiesnot a senior-rank warhorsebut most officers in South London knew who he was. One of the Met's Young Turks, the Police Review had called him. He knew he was respected in the force and he always found it a bit freaky. If they knew half of it. He hoped they wouldn't notice that his hands were trembling.

Well? He lit the cigarette and looked at a sealed plastic evidence bag a junior forensics officer was holding. What've you got?

We found it just inside the park, sir, about twenty yards from the back of the Peaches'.

Caffery took the bag and turned it over carefully. A Nike Air Server trainer, a child's shoe, slightly smaller than his hand. Who found it?

The dogs, sir.

And?

They lost the trail. At first they had itthey had it good, really good. A sergeant in the blue shirt of the dog handlers' unit stood on tiptoe and pointed over the roofs to where the park rose in the distance, blotting out the sky with its dark forests. They took us round the path that scoots over the west of the parkbut after half a mile they just drew a blank. He looked dubiously at the evening sky. And we've lost the light now.

Right. I think we need to speak to Air Support. Caffery passed the trainer back to the forensics officer. It should be in an air-drying bag.

I'm sorry?

There's blood on it. Didn't you see?

The SSCU's dragonlights powered up, flooding the Peaches' house, spilling light onto the trees in the park beyond. In the front garden forensics officers in blue rubberized suits swept the lawn with dustpans, and outside the police tape shock-faced neighbors stood in knots, smoking and whispering, breaking off to huddle around any plainclothes AMIT detective who came near, full of questions. The press were there too. Losing patience.

Caffery stood next to the Command Unit van and stared up at the house. It was a two-story terraced house pebble dashed, a satellite dish on the roof and a small patch of damp above the front door. There were matching scalloped nets in each window, and beyond them the curtains had been drawn tight.

He had only seen the Peach family, or what was left of them, in the aftermath, but he felt as if he knew them. Or, rather, he knew their archetype. The parentsAlek and Carmelweren't going to be easy victims for the team to sympathize with: both drinkers, both unemployed, and Carmel Peach had sworn at the paramedics as they moved her into the ambulance. Their only son, nine-year-old Rory, Caffery hadn't seen. By the time he'd arrived the divisional officers had already pulled the house apart trying to find the childin the cupboards, the attic, even behind the bath paneling. There were traces of blood on the skirting board in the kitchen, and the glass in the back door was broken. Caffery had taken a Territorial Support Group officer with him to search a boarded-up property two doors down, crawling through a hole in the back door on their bellies, flashlights in their teeth like an adolescent's SAS fantasy. All they found were the usual homeless nesting arrangements. There was no other sign of life. No Rory Peach. The raw facts were bad enough and for Caffery they might have been custom-built to echo his own past. Don't let it be a problem, Jack, don't let it turn into a headfuck.

Jack? DCI Danniella Souness said suddenly at his side. Ye all right, son?

He looked round. Danni. God, I'm glad you're here.

What's with the face? Ye've a gob on ye like a dog's arse.

Thanks, Danni. He rubbed his face and stretched. I've been on standby since one o'clock this morning.

And what's the story on this? She gestured at the house. A wain gone missing, am I right? Rory?