The Treatment by Mo Hayder Read Free Book Online Page B

shake again, rubbing her arms convulsively. “It was so fucking horrible. I was soft—so bleeding soft that I just sat there like a fucking frightened mouse for them three days. I never knew he was going to take Rory. If I'd of known what he was going to do …”
    “You weren't a coward, Carmel. Just look what you didto your arms trying to get out. You tried as hard as anyone could have been expected—” Caffery stopped, suddenly self-conscious.
Don't—you'll only make things worse.
Quickly he found his attaché case on the floor. “Look, I know how difficult this is but we need you to sign something. It's not a statement, just a couple of release forms. We found a picture of Rory, a school picture, and we'd like your permission to reproduce it—to show people. And I've taken some of Rory's clothes and his schoolbooks.”
    “His clothes? Schoolbooks?”
    “For the dogs. And—”
    “And?”
    And to scrape. For his own DNA so we have a hope of identifying him. Since, although I'm not going to say it, I think, Mrs. Peach, that your son's probably already dead.
    It was one of the hottest Julys London had seen and Caffery knew what could happen to a body in forty-eight hours of this heat. He knew that if Rory wasn't found before tomorrow morning there was no way he would allow a relative to identify him.
    “And?” she repeated.
    “And nothing. Just for the dogs. You can sign it now, if that's OK.”
    She nodded. He handed her the forms and a pen.
    “Mrs. Peach?”
    “What?” She signed the papers and held them limply over her shoulder without turning.
    “I'm having trouble getting Rory's age. Some of the neighbors say nine.” He took the papers and put them in his case. “Is that right?”
    “No. That's not right.”
    “No?”
    “No.” She rolled over to look at him. For the first time he saw her face full on. Her eyes, he realized, looked dead, the way his mother's had after Ewan. “He's not nine until August. He's eight. Only eight.”
    Downstairs Caffery paused to thank Mrs. Nersessian. “It's my pleasure, darling. Poor thing, don't even
ask
me to imagine what she's feeling.”
    The tiny living room was immaculately clean and choked with possessions—a silver punch bowl on the polished table, a collection of Steuben glass animals on the glass shelves. On the plastic-covered sofa a dark-eyed girl of about ten, in shorts and red-striped T-shirt, stared mutely at Caffery. Mrs. Nersessian clicked her fingers. “Annahid, go on. Get your little
dvor
upstairs. You can watch your videos but keep the sound down. Rory's mama's asleep.” The child slowly peeled her thighs from the plastic and disappeared from the room.
    Mrs. Nersessian turned to Caffery and put her hand on his arm. “Nersessian. That's an Armenian name. Now, you don't meet an Armenian every day and you need to know before you come into an Armenian household that you got to be prepared to eat.” She slipped into the kitchen and began fussing around, opening the fridge, getting her good crockery from the shelves. “I'm going to get you a little pistachio
loukoum,
” she called through the door. “And some mint tea and then we'll say a little prayer for Rory.”
    “No—I just came to thank you, Mrs. Nersian—”
    “Ners
ess
ian.”
    “Nersessian. I'll pass on the tea if that's OK, Mrs. Nersessian. We're trying to beat the clock on this.”
    She reappeared in the doorway holding a tea towel. “Come on, darling, you need to eat. Look at you—no fat on you. We all need to eat at a time like this—keep our spirits up.”
    “I promise I'll come back and have some tea with you—when we've found Rory.”
    “Rory.” She pressed a hand over her heart. “Just the mention of his name! Poor soul. But God is protecting him. I feel it in my heart. God is watching him and—
An-nahid
!” she said suddenly, her eyes fixing on something behind him. “Annahid! I
said
—”
    Caffery turned. “The troll did it.” The little girl was standing