Path of Needles

by Alison Littlewood

  ‘Oh, yes. Ostensibly it’s to help with enquiries, but I’ll wager he’ll be feeling exceptionally helpful, if only to get round his wife.’ He chuckled.

  Cate glanced at the clock. She guessed they’d wait until Cosgrove was home before speaking to him. Plucking him out of a classroom wouldn’t just be part of their investigation, it would be making a statement, and one that would probably land them with a harassment suit. Still, if anyone saw him getting into a police car it would probably be enough to finish his career for good. And if it was him—

  I hope you’re watching this now, Chrissie, wherever you are: watching with your eyes wide open.

  The door to the incident room opened and Heath appeared. Cate caught his attention and he scowled, glanced at his watch. ‘Five minutes,’ he said, and retreated.

  ‘Wish me luck.’ Cate clutched the folder tightly and turned to follow the senior officer.

  *

  Heath glared down at Cate. He’d led her into his office, pointed her towards a chair, then remained standing while she recounted her findings so that she was forced to look up at him. She decided he’d probably done it on purpose. It didn’t strike her that someone like Heath would do anything that wasn’t deliberate.

  He still didn’t speak, and she wondered if he was waiting for her to say something else; but there was nothing else. She pressed her lips together and caught her hands between her knees to keep from fidgeting.

  ‘Good investigating, PC Corbin,’ the senior investigating officer said, slowly. He sighed. ‘Kids’ stories. Very good.’

  Cate paused. ‘The stories weren’t really meant for kids. They’re folk tales, really, some of the oldest stories known—’

  He cut her off with a look. ‘It is of interest,’ he said, ‘particularly the part about the toe.’ He fell silent, and Cate realised it wasn’t deliberate this time; he was thinking. ‘You’ve heard we’re watching Cosgrove?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But this could be important, possibly even the reason the killer singled her out: as you say, they could have known she was the one who was going to be the school beauty queen. Cosgrove might have had that information. It’s more likely a simple case of sleeping with her and her threatening to tell, of course, but we need to follow up every lead. And he teaches English, I believe. So he might have had the knowledge.’ He paused and looked at her, musing. ‘Good work. Look, I’ll be cutting back on uniforms before long – we won’t need the numbers. But you should stay on this. I want you on attachment to CID. I’m going to request that you join the investigating team, at least for now.’

  Cate stared at him. But he hated her, didn’t he? She’d trampled all over the body dump site. The import of what he’d said struck her and she took a deep breath. It was a real case, real police work; she hadn’t envisaged being involved with anything like it for years yet. She had a sudden image of herself locking up her flat for the last time and moving on to something new.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She tried to keep from smiling. Then she remembered Len Stockdale sitting outside, his gruff cynicism when he talked of CID, the barely concealed excitement when he’d seen Chrissie Farrell’s body. Here first. There had been that note of triumph in his voice. And there was his certainty when he spoke of vanity, of some loner who couldn’t bear to see a young girl in her heels and make-up. Now she would be on the case, following up her ideas, while he continued with the same old routine.

  But Heath hadn’t finished. ‘I want you to suggest some lines of questioning – to me this time, please, not DI Grainger.’ He let that sink in. ‘I’ve got someone picking up Cosgrove, but at least for the time being he’s “helping with enquiries” – he misled us on an alibi, that’s all, and there are a dozen reasons he might have done that. We need more before we can make a collar. Unless he cracks under the pressure and ‘fesses up, of course.’ The corner of his mouth twitched.

  Cate nodded. Maybe he would crack under the pressure, not just from the police, but from his wife: Hell hath no fury.

  The door opened and a voice spoke directly behind her. ‘Sir, there’s been another one.’

  ‘Another what?’

  ‘A body, sir, dumped in the woods. Another girl. It’s a different location, but it sounds like it could be connected.’

  ‘Shit.’ Heath let out his breath in a long hiss.

  Cate got to her feet. It was one of Heath’s detective constables standing there – she thought his name was Paulson. He glanced at her, looked away again.

  ‘Same place? Same MO?’

  ‘Not quite, sir, but it sounds like it’s another weird one – she may have been posed, like the other girl. This one’s deeper in the woods – a place called Newmillerdam. It’s a few miles from the first.’

  ‘You know the place?’ Heath asked Cate.

  She nodded. ‘I just came from there. It’s—’

  ‘Then you’re with me.’

  ‘Boss?’ Paulson’s tone was incredulous.

  Heath silenced him with a look. ‘And hurry up. We want to get there before the press start trampling all over it, not to mention the bloody ramblers.’

  He paused and Cate thought at once of her own trampling over the first site. She expected him to make some sarcastic comment, but he didn’t.

  ‘Well, Cate? This is your chance. You in or not?’

  But she didn’t move. ‘It’s not that, sir – what about Cosgrove?’

  ‘All in hand. Paulson, you’re staying. Cosgrove will be in before long – DI Grainger leads, understand? I want you to get into his ribs, concentrate on the evening of the dance, where he went, what he did, when he did it – and what the hell he was doing when he said he was back home with the wife. And take your time. Got that?’

  Paulson nodded, but he didn’t speak. His skin looked a shade paler. Cate felt his gaze on her back as she followed the SIO from the room, walking past the desk where Len Stockdale was still sitting. She gave him a brief nod. His eyes were narrowed, and he showed no sign of acknowledging her at all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Newmillerdam was directly between the estate where Angie Farrell lived and the road to the Heronry where her daughter had been found. The name applied alike to a small village and the lake by which it stood. Unlike the spot on the road where the Farrell girl had been found, the route through Newmillerdam was relatively busy: the A61 cut between the waterside and the village, giving drivers a view of the lake surrounded by trees. Nestled at the waterside was a small, decorative boat-house, built in the nineteenth century so the upper classes could enjoy the view while hunting and fishing. There was a pub at each end of the lakeside stretch of road, and at one side there was a large car park. At weekends it would be thronged; now it was about a third full, and Cate recognised a few of the vehicles huddled together close to the trees. Beyond them, the car park led directly onto the path that wound around the lake. That was the route most visitors took: a wide, even footway ideally suited to mothers with prams or pensioners out for a gentle stroll.

  Heath swept into a parking space and yanked on the handbrake, ignoring the pained squeal of cabling. He got out without a word, already focused on the harassed-looking PC standing at the edge of the trees. ‘That way?’ He jabbed an outstretched finger towards a narrow, overgrown path that Cate had barely noticed. The PC nodded and stepped aside and he stalked past, hissing over his shoulder, ‘Ask for ID next time.’

  Cate followed him, and immediately brambles clawed at her ankles. This path was nothing but a dirt line between swathes of livid undergrowth encroaching upon the little piece of ground between them. She could hear traffic on the road quite clearly still, and yet the tall, stately trees rising all around her held a sense of presence that made it seem distant. Cate almost felt, if she listened hard enough, she would be able to hear them breathe.

  Then she heard another sound, not one she would have expected in this quiet place: someone up ahead barking, ‘Clear the area, please.’ An elderly couple came into vie
w, darting looks back over their shoulders. Heath stood aside to let them go, and they stared at him before continuing towards the car park.

  ‘There are other pathways coming into this area,’ said Cate. ‘You can head into the woods from pretty much anywhere around the lake. You wouldn’t need to take a path, not if you knew where you were going. It’ll be a nightmare to secure.’

  Heath didn’t answer. Between the trees, white shapes were moving: scene-of-crime officers, ‘SOCOs’, wearing protective overalls to avoid contamination. Heath registered their presence at the site and checked on progress. The doctor had already left, having certified death, and the photographers were just finishing, releasing the scene to the SOCOs. He grabbed a couple of the white suits and threw one to Cate. As she pulled it on he jerked his head: Hurry up.

  Heath strode on ahead, up a wooded slope, and they emerged into a large, flat clearing where the trees, a mix of native oak, ash and birch, had recently been felled. The ground was littered with a mass of tangled branches and broken twigs merging with long-dead bracken. Here and there stood young trees, each surrounded by a little fence with a sign at its foot: HOLM OAK, GOLDEN HOLLY, SNAKE-BARK MAPLE. On the very edge of the clearing was a bench ornately carved with the word ARBORETUM. It was a collection of trees amid the trees, an open air museum for unusual specimens to be cultivated. Cate had heard about this new arboretum; somewhere close by was an older one that had gradually been subsumed by the main woodland. She noticed some of the local tree wardens were standing around the edge. From the look on their faces, she guessed they had found the body.

  The SOCOs were in the middle of the arboretum, up to their knees in old wood. They were trying to erect a tent around the place, but were being hampered by the fallen branches, and it wasn’t yet covered. Heath got as close as he could, and Cate followed in his wake. There was a flash of red on the ground: blood? Another step and she could smell something sweetish and unpleasant. The brief buzz of a fly was lost beneath Heath’s low whistle and she went to his side.

  At first she couldn’t make sense of it. For a moment she thought there was blood everywhere, then she realised it wasn’t blood at all: it was a red cape, half covering a young girl who was lying on her side, her face turned towards the ground. Her hair was hidden under a hood drawn up over her head. This time the similarity to a fairy tale was inescapable: it was Little Red Riding Hood lying amid the fallen trees, her eyes turned away from whatever she had found there.

  Cate’s gaze went to the girl’s arms. Where they emerged from the cape there was something bright, an unnatural sheen, and she caught her breath. The skin below the elbow had been ravaged; there were specks of blood, and everywhere, what looked like metal pins had been pushed into the flesh.

  ‘Jesus.’ Heath bent down, peering at the body, and Cate took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate. The resemblance to a fairy-tale character was obvious, reinforced by the old-fashioned wicker basket that lay just beyond the reach of the girl’s hand. She was Little Red, taking gifts to Grandmother; the basket’s contents were covered with a red-and-white checked cloth; a half-crumbled loaf of bread jutted from it along with the neck of a bottle. For a moment Cate wondered if it too was filled with blood, but it was larger than the one that had been sent to Chrissie’s mother. Then she saw it was a wine bottle, and the foil seal was intact. Next to the girl’s body, these things looked incongruously domestic. Breadcrumbs were scattered around the basket and she wondered if birds had been drawn to the feast. She hoped they hadn’t started on the girl’s body.

  She leaned in and looked at Little Red’s face. This girl didn’t look anything like Chrissie Farrell. Even under the pall of death, Cate could see that she was gaunt, with the fine lines around her lips that betrayed a habitual smoker. Her face was bruised, unless it was some sort of discoloration. And unlike Chrissie’s, her eyes were closed. There was something else that struck Cate as being different, too: she knew she had seen something without really taking it in. She looked back at the girl’s arms, studying them more closely this time, and she saw it: beneath the crusted blood from the pins were marks that were older still. Then it was obvious: she had the track marks of a drug user. And her thinness – no, this was no Chrissie Farrell. Chrissie had been healthful, beautiful, cared for. This girl was not.

  Heath’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘talk about fairy tales, Cate. So what killed her, do you think? Is there a big bad wolf around here somewhere, or did story time at the library just get seriously out of hand?’

  Cate never got the chance to answer; one of the SOCOs stepped forward and took hold of the edge of the girl’s cape. He raised it, and Cate saw there was blood after all, getting tacky where it had been exposed to the light. A fly crawled from beneath the fabric and lifted itself into the air as the SOCO turned the cloak back further.

  Cate took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The smell was stronger now, pervading everything, embedding itself deep in her throat.

  The girl’s belly had been torn open – that was why it smelled so strongly. The stomach contents had spilled amid the entrails, and there was more blood, gelatinous and bright, and the pale gleam of fat. Amongst everything were yellow-white blowfly larvae, clustered like balls of sticky rice.

  The SOCO let the cloak fall back again.

  Cate looked up to find Heath’s eyes fixed on her. ‘Feel all right, Corbin?’

  She was surprised he’d asked; she nodded. Yes, she was all right: it was bad, but on the face of it, she had seen worse. It was what lay beneath this scene that was disturbing, like something stirring the surface of dark water.

  ‘I think you’d better get your expert down here.’ Heath’s voice was unexpectedly quiet. ‘We’re going to need her to take a look. ASAP.’

  Cate stared at him. She remembered the way Alice Hyland had reached for the photograph of Chrissie Farrell’s body, obviously not liking to touch it; her reluctance, as if the paper itself was tainted.

  ‘No time to be squeamish, Cate,’ he said, as though reading her mind. ‘It’s no good waiting for reports or photographs. If she can help, she needs to do so fast.’ He nodded towards the path. ‘Go and find a uniform, get them to fetch her.’ He met her eye. ‘I’m going to want you to stay on-site.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alice was staring into her mirror when she heard someone banging on the door. She jumped, startled. She had been whispering something under her breath, barely conscious of what it was. Now she realised: Mirror, mirror, she had been saying. She hadn’t been able to get Chrissie Farrell out of her mind since she’d seen the policewoman’s photograph: the fairest of them all, with her wan skin and pale eyes, staring up at nothing. She shuddered, suddenly reluctant to answer the door. Inside, her fairy tales stayed where they belonged, close and yet distant: safe. In order to reach their magic Alice had only to open a book. The things that Cate Corbin had shown her … She frowned. She knew the tales had their own power, but to see them intrude on reality in that way … she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to know who was knocking at her door. She stood there, staring into the mirror, brushing back her pale blonde hair.

  Then the banging came again, blam-blam-blam, and she knew she couldn’t ignore it. If she had ever had a choice about becoming involved, it had vanished when Cate put the dead girl’s picture into her hand.

  It wasn’t Cate at the door. This time it was a policeman standing there, glancing over his shoulder as if impatient to be gone. Alice’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is it?’ Her voice came out harshly, making her think for a moment of the rooks that lived in the woods at the back of the house.

  He frowned. The skin around his eyes was raw-looking, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time. He introduced himself as PC Nicholls. ‘Ms Hyland, we need your help, if you’re willing,’ he said. ‘There’s something we need you to look at.’

  Alice was silent as the policeman eased the car down the lane and turned onto the main
road. She couldn’t take in what it was he wanted. The silence was awkward, and she felt he was waiting for her questions: where were they going, exactly? What was it he wanted her to see? She didn’t ask anything. After Cate’s earlier visit, she didn’t want to know. She stared out of the window, only half conscious of their whereabouts as they headed past Newmillerdam Lake. A stab of sunshine found its way through the clouds and reflected back from the water. The day which had begun so clear had changed, and paleness closed over the blue like scar tissue. She looked at the wing-mirror on her side of the car and saw the faint outline of her face layered beneath another reflection, of the clouds overhead. It made her feel like a ghost. The fissure where the sun shone through blanked out half of her forehead and her left eye, and she shuddered.

  The car slowed and the policeman flicked on the indicator. They hadn’t even left the lakeside; she had thought they would be going further, the Heronry perhaps, somewhere else not so close to home.

  Everything happened quickly then: he pulled in near an unmarked van. The rear doors were open and someone was sitting on the baseboard, easing white overalls up their legs. A uniformed policewoman was standing at the edge of the woods, watching their arrival.

  Alice just sat there while PC Nicholls got out. Her limbs felt heavy, almost as if she were being pushed down into her seat. She glanced at her reflection again: Mirror, mirror. Then her door opened and the officer was there, waiting for her to step out, and after a moment, Alice did. She suddenly wanted to ask all the questions he’d no doubt been expecting earlier and she opened her mouth, but he was already turning towards the trees. Alice looked up and saw their dark crowns, heard their soughing as a breeze caught the topmost branches. It occurred to her that she could have refused to come – they surely couldn’t have made her – but now it was too late. She followed him, passing into the cool shadow of the trees.