The Treatment Read Online Free PDF

some of the other officers went home to catch a precious hour or two's sleep before sunup. Caffery had now been awake for twentyfour hours but he couldn't relax. He went into the SIOs' room—found a bottle of Bell's under the desk, slugged some into a mug and sat at the desk jiggling his knees andtapping his fingers on the phone. When he couldn't stand it any longer he picked up the receiver and got through to ICU.
    But the consultant, Mr. Friendship, was losing patience: “What part of no don't you understand?” And he hung up.
    Caffery stared at the dead receiver. He could redial— spend twenty minutes bullying the hospital staff—but he knew he was up against a brick wall. He sighed, put down the receiver, refilled the mug, put his feet up on the desk and sat with his tie undone staring blankly out the window at the Croydon skyscrapers lit up against the sky.
    This case might be the one he'd waited his life for—he already knew that because of what had happened to his own brother, more than a quarter of a century ago—
    Quarter of a century? Is it really that long, Ewan? How long before they can't get any DNA at all? How long before a body disappears into the surrounding soil? Becomes silt …
    He knew that he was going to have problems with it. He had felt them already, in the quiet interludes of the day, multiplying like bacilli.
    Ewan had been just nine. The same age as Rory. There'd been an argument—two brothers in a tree house arguing about something unimportant. The older boy, Ewan, had shuffled down out of the tree, walked off in a sulk down the railway cutting. He was dressed in brown Clarks sandals, brown shorts and a mustard-yellow T-shirt (Caffery knew these details were true—he remembered them doubly: once directly and once from reading them later on the police appeal posters). No one ever saw him again.
    Jack watched the police search the railway cutting, determined one day that he would join them.
One day, one day, I'll find you, Ewan.…
And to this day he lived in the same little South London terraced house, staring out across the back garden and the railway tracks to the house still owned by the aging pedophile whom everyone, including the police, suspected of being responsible for Ewan's disappearance. Ivan Penderecki. Penderecki'shouse had been searched but no trace of Ewan was found, so Penderecki and Jack Caffrey lived on, like a bitter married couple, locked in a wordless duel. Every woman Caffery had ever slept with had tried to pry him away, tried to loosen the complex fascination between him and the big Polish pedophile, but Caffery had never wasted a moment considering the choice—there was no competition.
Even with Rebecca
? Rebecca, too, wanted him to forget all about Ewan.
Is there no competition with her?
    He swallowed the scotch, refilled the mug and took the
Time Out
from his tray. He could call her—he knew where she'd be. She rarely slept at her Greenwich flat—“Don't like to be with the ghosts.” Instead she often came late to his house and simply went to bed, her arms wrapped round a pillow, a Danneman cigarillo smoldering in the ashtray next to the bed. He checked his watch. It was late, even for Rebecca. And if he called he'd have to tell her about the Peach case, about the similarities, and he knew what her reaction would be. Instead he tipped the chair forward and opened
Time Out.
    On the now infamous sexual assault last
summer, Morant says: “Yes, the experience
informed my work. I suddenly realized that it's
easy to look at fictionalized rape in a film or in a
book and think you've understood. But in fact
these are mere representations and act as safety nets
against the brutality. I decided it was patronizing to
give mocked-up representations.”
    Adopting this mantra, in February she stoked
controversy and media frenzy when it was revealed
(strategically leaked?) that the molds of battered
and mutilated genitalia in her “random” exhibition
(inset) were casts