The Treatment Read Online Free Page B
Author: Mo Hayder
on the edge of Brockwell Park,” he said evenly.
“Just to give you some geography, that tower you can just see in the distance is Arkaig Tower on Railton Road, which the divisionals know and love as Crack Heights.”
The camera tracked down the path to the doorstep of number thirty and turned to pan across the street, the little scrap of grass opposite, the neighbors' faces shocked white ovals against the evening sky. Any point that could be observed from the Peaches' house could also be a vantage point for a potential witness. The camera recorded everything then swung 180 degrees and faced the house head on. The number 30 in gold screw-on numerals filled the screen.
“All the doors and windows were closed.” The camera ran itself around the splintered front door—opened with the Enforcer battering ram—zooming in on an intact lock. “The territorials had to batter their way in. The only thing not locked was the back door—we think it's our point of entry. Watch.”
They were inside the house now, the camera flooding the hallway with halogen light. Slightly worn wallpaper, a gray cord carpet protected by a heavy-duty plastic runner. Two framed prints cast long, bobbing shadows up the hall and a child's turbo water gun lay on its side on the bottom step. Up ahead, at the end of the hall, a doorway. The tape blurred for a moment, helical scan traces across the screen, and when the picture steadied the camera had gone through the doorway and was in a small kitchen. A glazed terra-cotta chicken eyed the camera beadily from next to the bread bin, and the checked curtain covering the door wallowed in the breeze revealing a broken pane, flashes of the darkened yard, a glimpse of the trees in the park beyond.
“Right. Important.” Caffery rested his elbow on the monitor, leaning over to point at the screen. “Glass on the floor, door unlocked. This is not only the point of entry but also the exit point. Intruder breaks window and lets himself in—we think this is sometime after seven P . M . on Friday evening.” The camera zoomed through the broken window and out into a small yard beyond: a carousel clothes dryer, a child's bike, some toys and four overturnedmilk bottles, their contents rancid and yellow. “The intruder then stays in the house with the Peach family until Monday afternoon, when he's disturbed—at which point he picks up Rory Peach and leaves through the same door.” The camera pulled back into the kitchen and panned the room, pausing at a set of bloody drag marks on the doorpost. Caffery tapped the remote control on his leg and looked around at the silent faces, expecting a reaction. But no one spoke or asked questions. They were staring at the blood on the screen.
“The lab thinks his wounds aren't fatal at this point. The received wisdom is that the intruder carried him out of the house—through this broken fence here and into the woods. He's probably found a way to stanch the blood flow, maybe a towel or something, because the dogs lost him early. Right.” The camera was moving. “Good, now I'm going to show you where the family were found.”
A woman's face came briefly in and out of shot: DS Quinn, the crime-scene coordinator, the most experienced CSC in South London. After she and Caffery had orchestrated the video she had returned to the kitchen to ensure that the glass from the break-in was carefully photographed and removed. Then she had called the Specialist Crime Unit biologists down from Lambeth. While Caffery was with the helicopter crew, the scientists had come through the house, dressed in protective suits, applying their specialized chemicals: ninhydrin, amido black, silver nitrate.
“Alek Peach—that's Dad—was found here, handcuffed at the wrists to this radiator, and by the ankles to this radiator. You can tell the position he was in from the mark he's left.” Caffery pointed it out to the team—a large dark stain on the shag-pile carpet, stretching between the two
“Just to give you some geography, that tower you can just see in the distance is Arkaig Tower on Railton Road, which the divisionals know and love as Crack Heights.”
The camera tracked down the path to the doorstep of number thirty and turned to pan across the street, the little scrap of grass opposite, the neighbors' faces shocked white ovals against the evening sky. Any point that could be observed from the Peaches' house could also be a vantage point for a potential witness. The camera recorded everything then swung 180 degrees and faced the house head on. The number 30 in gold screw-on numerals filled the screen.
“All the doors and windows were closed.” The camera ran itself around the splintered front door—opened with the Enforcer battering ram—zooming in on an intact lock. “The territorials had to batter their way in. The only thing not locked was the back door—we think it's our point of entry. Watch.”
They were inside the house now, the camera flooding the hallway with halogen light. Slightly worn wallpaper, a gray cord carpet protected by a heavy-duty plastic runner. Two framed prints cast long, bobbing shadows up the hall and a child's turbo water gun lay on its side on the bottom step. Up ahead, at the end of the hall, a doorway. The tape blurred for a moment, helical scan traces across the screen, and when the picture steadied the camera had gone through the doorway and was in a small kitchen. A glazed terra-cotta chicken eyed the camera beadily from next to the bread bin, and the checked curtain covering the door wallowed in the breeze revealing a broken pane, flashes of the darkened yard, a glimpse of the trees in the park beyond.
“Right. Important.” Caffery rested his elbow on the monitor, leaning over to point at the screen. “Glass on the floor, door unlocked. This is not only the point of entry but also the exit point. Intruder breaks window and lets himself in—we think this is sometime after seven P . M . on Friday evening.” The camera zoomed through the broken window and out into a small yard beyond: a carousel clothes dryer, a child's bike, some toys and four overturnedmilk bottles, their contents rancid and yellow. “The intruder then stays in the house with the Peach family until Monday afternoon, when he's disturbed—at which point he picks up Rory Peach and leaves through the same door.” The camera pulled back into the kitchen and panned the room, pausing at a set of bloody drag marks on the doorpost. Caffery tapped the remote control on his leg and looked around at the silent faces, expecting a reaction. But no one spoke or asked questions. They were staring at the blood on the screen.
“The lab thinks his wounds aren't fatal at this point. The received wisdom is that the intruder carried him out of the house—through this broken fence here and into the woods. He's probably found a way to stanch the blood flow, maybe a towel or something, because the dogs lost him early. Right.” The camera was moving. “Good, now I'm going to show you where the family were found.”
A woman's face came briefly in and out of shot: DS Quinn, the crime-scene coordinator, the most experienced CSC in South London. After she and Caffery had orchestrated the video she had returned to the kitchen to ensure that the glass from the break-in was carefully photographed and removed. Then she had called the Specialist Crime Unit biologists down from Lambeth. While Caffery was with the helicopter crew, the scientists had come through the house, dressed in protective suits, applying their specialized chemicals: ninhydrin, amido black, silver nitrate.
“Alek Peach—that's Dad—was found here, handcuffed at the wrists to this radiator, and by the ankles to this radiator. You can tell the position he was in from the mark he's left.” Caffery pointed it out to the team—a large dark stain on the shag-pile carpet, stretching between the two
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