Free The Treatment by Mo Hayder

into the mug. There was a driedcoffee rim halfway down.
    “Och, come on, Jack, I'm trying to help. In my clumsy way.”
    “I know. Look, I'm sorry. I get a bit …” He put a fist to his chest.
    “A bit tight here about it, eh?” She downed her whisky and refilled her mug. “I know, I
do
know. But if you made an allegation against Penderecki, Jack, the case'd be reviewed and someone else could stay up all night and worry about it.”
    He shook his head wearily. “Nah. That's OK.”
    “Been suggested before?”
    “I've lost count of how many times. He's too clever. He'd turn it around and before you know it I'd be the one in the frame—malicious allegations, harassment, yaddayadda.”
    “And not because you know you'd never be allowed near the case?”
    “There is that, yes. That detail hasn't escaped my attention.”
    “You're a wee bampot, if you don't mind me saying.”
    “Thank you. I'm going to assume that's a compliment.”
    Souness smiled a small smile. “I just don't want this Peach thing bollixing with ye more than it has to. Don't want it touching your personal life. That's my small concern.”
    Caffery tried to smile back. This was the time he should say it—that he probably shouldn't be on the case at all, that she was right, that already it was spilling over and getting out of control. Instead he wiped his forehead, finished his drink and said, “Ewan was nine, Rory is eight— I hadn't even made the connection.” He stood, went to the door and called DC Logan into the SIOs' room. Logan came in, raising an eyebrow when he saw them sitting together.
    “Sorry.” He coughed pointedly, as if he'd interrupted something.
    “I want to add something to the intelligence search— you know how to use CRIS, don't you?”
    “Sir.”
    “And tomorrow get the locals to go back into the col-lator's records for ten years with the same key word: ‘troll. ’ Find out if anyone knows anything about a nonce in Brockwell Park called the troll.” He stopped. He'd only just seen it. Logan was trying to hide a smile. “Hey?” He put his face closer to Logan's. “What is it?”
    “Nothing, sir.” But before he dropped his eyes Caffery saw him glance briefly at Souness—at the top buttons of her shirt undone, at the opened bottle of scotch. Caffery's tie was off and Souness's boots were on the floor. “Nothing,” Logan said again, coloring, and turned away. “CRIS and the collators. A fifty/twenty on its way.”
    When Caffery closed the door and turned round, Souness had her elbows on her knees, her face dropped in her hands, and was laughing so hard her shoulders wereshaking. “Can ye believe it?” She looked up, her face shiny. “Och, I love it—I
looove
it! I'm getting laid by the Met's pinup boy.” She wiped her face. “Look at me! Diesel dyke stamped all over me, but they still need a compass and map. It's like a giant panda walked into the room— they'd go, ‘Yeah, looks like a giant panda, smells like a giant panda, but it can't be a giant panda. I mean, what the fuck would a giant panda be doing here? ’ ”
    In spite of himself Caffery caught himself smiling. Later, he stopped her before she left the office. “Danni, I know I've made you late for Paulina, so thank you for talking to me.”
    Caffery's little Victorian cottage was quiet. He parked his battered old Jaguar carefully next to Rebecca's black VW Beetle and went inside, unknotting his tie. She was still awake in spite of the hour—there was warmth and noise coming from the living room at the back of the house and in the hall a pair of green metallic slingbacks, heels scuffed, lay toppled over, the words “Miu Miu” fading and worn on the inside. He paused before he opened the door, as he always did these days, wondering what mood she would be in.
    She was doing a shoulder stand on the sofa, giggling and watching her bare toes wriggle. She wore khaki shorts and one of his gray T-shirts; a bottle of Blavod leaned drunkenly