Path of Needles

by Alison Littlewood

  Of course, Cate hadn’t told him about how Alice thought she’d found the tree. She had only told him about the tooth and the fairy tale, though from the expression on his face, that had been more than enough. She hadn’t wanted to see that look in his eyes; even as she spoke she realised that it was the second time she’d found herself covering for Alice. And of course she was supposed to be offering her support to her contact – but was that really the reason she’d done it?

  Heath’s steely eyes, Alice’s dreamy expression: she felt caught between the two of them. For now though, it was only her, and a job to be done. She turned onto a side road, slowed and started looking at the house numbers. She heard a dog barking even before she saw the right one.

  The animal was as Alice had described, short and squat and deep in the chest, its fur entirely black. It probably had some pitbull somewhere in its lineage. It was an unlikely pet for an older woman – perhaps her son, Gary Wilson, had made the choice. It strained on its chain as Cate stepped out and opened the gate. It wasn’t barking now, nor snarling; its tongue lolled against the black frills of its lips.

  ‘Not so fierce,’ she said to it, and it wagged its tail.

  The woman who answered the door didn’t say anything when she saw Cate; she just stood in the doorway, waiting.

  ‘It’s the police, Mrs Wilson,’ Cate said, and showed her badge. ‘I wondered if I might have a word?’

  The woman squinted. ‘Police, is it? Eh?’

  ‘Could I come in?’

  The woman pushed the door wider and Cate stepped inside, seeing gaudily flowered wallpaper and a carpet with a faded strip pointing the way to the lounge. She smelled something sharp and herbal, and beneath that, a slight mustiness.

  ‘I understand you were walking in the woods,’ Cate said. ‘Could you tell me something about what you were doing there?’

  The woman pulled a face. ‘Why wouldn’t I be in the woods, love? I always go to the woods. That’s where I take my walk. I like a gin, see, it’s medicinal an’ all, and I need the juniper berries to go in it. It’s how my mother took it, and her mother before that.’ She held out her hands. ‘It’s for the arthritis, see.’ Her hands were loosely curled into fists, her knuckles lumpen. ‘No one’ll tell you, but gin’s good for arthritis. Me mother swore by it.’

  ‘Not the juniper berries?’ Cate asked mildly. She wasn’t looking at the woman’s hands, though; she was staring into the corner of the room where a birdcage stood on a high stand, covered by a faded tea-towel.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s not the juniper berries that are good for arthritis?’

  ‘Oh – aye, love, maybe them too, eh?’

  Cate smiled. ‘I wondered if you saw anything while you were out walking?’

  ‘Oh no, love, not me. Terrible thing though. No, I mind my own business. I just get my berries, that’s all. Maybe you should ask our Gary.’ She peered more closely at Cate. ‘You single?’ she asked suddenly.

  Cate waved the question away.

  ‘No, no one is these days, are they? That reminds me; I did see someone. Nice girl, she was. In her own world, like.’

  Cate covered her smile. ‘All right, Mrs Wilson. Do you ever gather anything else in the woods, by the way – herbs, medicinal plants, anything like that?’

  ‘Not me, love, I wouldn’t know what to do with ’em. Probably poison myself. No, it’s just for me gin. I try sloe sometimes, but it’s not the same. My arthritis, see.’

  Cate nodded, then gestured towards the corner. ‘What’s in the cage, Mrs Wilson?’

  ‘Oh, that, love, them’s me budgies. I always cover ’em up while I have me cup of tea, or they make a hell of a racket. They know I’m not paying ’em attention, see. They like attention, they do.’ She didn’t stop talking as she approached the cage. ‘You can have a look, but they’re not right friendly with strangers.’

  She whisked the tea-towel off the cage as if performing a magic trick. There was a pair of budgies in the cage, as she had said. They were green. They turned their faces towards Cate, their eyes bright but devoid of understanding. One ruffled its wings as if in a shrug, stretched out one claw.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson. You’ve been extremely helpful.’ Cate led the way down the hall, said goodbye. Once standing alone in the garden she cast her eyes around, this time looking for any trace of the plant that Heath had mentioned in his briefing: Conium maculatum, poison hemlock. There was no sign of anything like it, only a stunted tree reaching out its limp branches over the grass.

  *

  Bernard Levitt had a bungalow on one of the housing estates at the other side of Sandal. The estate was neither old nor new, and full of other bungalows that looked more or less like it; some had dormer windows that spoke of loft conversions, while others had porches or extensions bolted onto the front or side. All were well kept, the lawns carefully mowed, the paint more or less fresh. It was commuter belt incarnate, the sort of place where the sight of a police car would set curtains twitching and tongues a-wagging.

  Cate took care to close the car door softly, smiling around as she walked up the path. It wasn’t likely but she glanced around the garden anyway; there was no Conium there either, only tired hydrangeas and a rockery studded with alpines. She knocked loudly, realising as she did how quiet the estate was. It was so quiet she jumped when a voice spoke, not far away: ‘Please, come around the back. I was just clearing up.’

  She looked at the corner of the house but couldn’t see to whom the voice belonged, so she followed the path around and stepped on to the driveway. A clean, dark blue saloon was parked there, and behind it stood the regulation three wheelie bins. She squeezed through the gap between them and the side wall of the house before rounding the corner to see a broad garden.

  ‘Back here.’ The voice was thin and a little high. Levitt was stocky, wore thick glasses and the kind of haircut his mother might have done for him, and his face was shining with sweat.

  Cate saw what he carried in his hands and she started.

  It was a dead bird, a wood pigeon, pale wings hanging limply from its body. It hung loose in his hands. Levitt saw her looking, took hold of one wing between his thumb and fingertip and stretched it out. ‘Columba palumbus,’ he said. ‘Beautiful things. Quite beautiful.’

  He gestured towards the end of his garden. There was a wooden strut running from a small shed to the fence and from it hung bird feeders, all shapes and sizes, strings of nuts and transparent globes containing grain and other substances Cate didn’t recognise. There was a birdhouse too, large and intricate, with multiple holes and arches carved into it; and a birdbath set into the ground. The largest structure was an aviary, which had been built onto the side of the shed.

  Levitt coughed and stepped towards her, then bent and picked up a hessian sack that had been lying on the ground. He put the bird into it, gently easing it into the opening. As he did so, his mouth twisted, in distaste or sorrow, Cate wasn’t sure which.

  ‘It’s the cats, you know.’ Now he looked disgusted. ‘Do you like cats?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  He nodded, as if she’d given a satisfactory answer. ‘They kill hundreds of birds each year. Hundreds, possibly even thousands – you wouldn’t believe how many cats there are on this estate.’

  Cate thought of the closed doors, the apparently empty streets. She doubted she’d be surprised at all.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m being rude.’ Levitt turned towards her and held out his hand to shake. ‘Ah – wait.’ He wiped it on the back of his trousers, half-heartedly held it out again before letting it fall. ‘Well – no. Can I help you with something?’

  ‘I’m a police officer, Mr Levitt. I’m investigating the body that was found at Newmillerdam. I heard you liked to spend time in the woods there and wondered if you might have seen anything.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I have been spoken to before, you know. I walk there quite often; someone already asked. Still, since you’re here – can I offer
you a drink? Lemonade, perhaps?’

  It was so like something a child’s mother might ask that Cate had to bite back a laugh. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said.

  Levitt kept speaking to her from the kitchen, his voice accompanied by the sound of cupboards opening and closing, the chink of glasses and the pouring of liquid. He came in at last, one glass in each hand, and set them on the table. Cate took hers and sipped. It was Bernard Levitt who started talking again. ‘You know, they say cats are the only creatures that torture their prey,’ he said. ‘They’ll play with a bird for hours before they kill it. Pin it down, claw at it, watch it trying to get away. It’s a terrible thing.’ He sat down.

  ‘Besides humans,’ said Cate.

  ‘What?’ He turned to her, took hold of the frame of his glasses, as if that would help him see what she meant.

  ‘The only creatures that torture their prey, besides humans.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear, I see what you mean. Well, I suppose you would know.’ He shot her a sidelong glance. ‘The things you must see. I mean, to say something like that, you must have—Terrible. Terrible.’

  ‘You say you’re a bird lover,’ Cate said. ‘So, you’ve been watching them down in the wood?’

  ‘That’s right. I take my hide down there. I suppose you’ve heard about the blue bird? It’s quite the sensation. I’m sure you watch the news.’

  ‘I wondered if you’d seen anything else, Mr Levitt, while you were there. You’ll have heard about the murder case. I know you’ve been asked already, but I’m here to check if you’d seen anything unusual, anything that might give you concern. Anything at all might turn out to be important, you know, even if it doesn’t seem so at the time.’

  ‘Well now, let’s see. No, I don’t think I have. No, I’m pretty sure – but I’m very focused, you know. I tend to go off the beaten track, so to speak, where I know it’ll be quiet. That’s when the birds come to me.’ His face fell. ‘I never have seen it yet, though. I’m hoping it’ll still be around. There’s no reason it shouldn’t survive this long, not in springtime. It might even be nesting somewhere.’

  ‘So you haven’t seen anything – anyone else out there?’

  ‘Well, no, I’m afraid I haven’t really seen anybody. Oh wait. No, there was someone: a young lady, pleasant, blonde. She was walking in the woods on her own. Other than that, no, I haven’t seen anyone at all.’

  *

  Cate got back into the car and sat there for a moment, lost in thought. Just when she had the interviews wrapped up, there Alice was again, in the middle of everything. She was already wondering whether to mention it to Heath. What on earth had Alice been doing when Levitt saw her – was she too looking for her blue bird? It was as if she was retreating into her fantasy world. Hopefully that wasn’t because of the things she’d seen.

  She frowned, thinking of Alice chasing after the blue bird, Mrs Farrell sweeping the cloth from her budgie’s cage; Levitt turning towards her, the limp wood pigeon in his hands. There seemed to be birds everywhere she went today.

  But lots of people kept birds; it didn’t mean anything. Now, if ever, was the time to prove to Heath she had a sensible head on her shoulders.

  And then something else came back to her, another voice: at first she thought it was Alice’s, then she knew it wasn’t.

  I shouldn’t mention it really, only there was this bird.

  It had been a young girl’s voice.

  It was sitting on the wall, an’ it were bright blue.

  It was the girl she’d spoken to after the school dance, when she was trying to find out what had happened to Chrissie Farrell.

  Just sitting there. Pretty, though. It was really pretty.

  And then she remembered Matt Cosgrove; the teacher’s blank, empty eyes. I remember standing there for a bit, at the door, he’d said. It was a nice night. I was – I was distracted, I think.

  Had he too been watching the bird?

  A sound made her jump. She reached for her radio, then realised it was her mobile. She fumbled for it, answered the call: it was Dan.

  ‘You need to get down to Newmillerdam,’ he said. ‘They’ve found something.’ He paused. ‘Heath wants you at the scene. Apparently it was you who came up with the lead.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The police officers were back, along with the photographers and the SOCOs and the police tape, the whole sorry parade. They bustled amid the once-peaceful wood, the locus of their activity a single dark green tree.

  The juniper stood roughly the height of a man, dwarfed by the surrounding giants of beech and ash. Its fat purple berries were held out in clusters like small fists, some kind of benediction perhaps, or an apology. Its branches stirred in the late-spring breeze, and when they did, the whole tree swayed.

  The tree was swaying because there was a gaping hole at its foot where the ground had been excavated. Fresh earth was piled to one side, alive with the movement of insects and worms emerging from the dark.

  It was only when Cate stood on the very edge of the hole that she could see the thing that had become entwined in the roots, so darkened by time that it looked like a natural outgrowth of the tree. It silenced her.

  The thing was a child. Tree roots had meandered between its ribs, sending tendrils into the space where its heart had been. Everything was the same colour, as if the child had become tree, and tree, child. Its face was turned away from her sight, as if it had been burrowing into the ground like some woodland animal. The skull had cracked, half hidden by the soil that clung to the bone. It was not clear if the damage had been inflicted deliberately or by the pressures of the earth.

  There was nothing else, nothing to suggest it had been posed, nothing at all except the ragged strips of cloth in which it had been wrapped.

  Cate heard someone approach and stand at her side. They didn’t speak, and for a moment she didn’t look at them. She imagined it would be Dan, but when she turned, it was Heath.

  He met her eye, gave a slight nod. Then he put a hand on her shoulder.

  The touch surprised her and she drew away. His hand fell to his side; she couldn’t tell if he was irritated. His expression didn’t change.

  ‘So. We found something.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Your friend – Hyland – was right. There is more going on here. The body in that hole – it didn’t land there yesterday. How old is that tree, do you think? We’re going to have to cut it off her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘The pathologist thinks it’s female, but we can’t be sure yet. We can’t even turn the head to see if the teeth are missing. But it is possible that this is where they came from, even if they were removed before it was buried. The ground hadn’t been disturbed when we got here; no one’s been digging here recently.’ He paused. ‘She had an alibi, you know.’

  At first, she wasn’t sure who she meant; it was Alice who’d sprung into her mind. Then she realised. ‘Mrs Cosgrove?’

  ‘She was at work all day when the Robertson woman was taken. Her colleagues vouched for her. She went out for lunch and, lucky her, met a friend; she paid her share on credit card. It looks tight. And this body—’

  He didn’t need to explain the rest. The child’s body looked as if it had been there for years; it could be at least as old as Mrs Cosgrove or her husband. And the police had no one else. This find – Alice’s find – had blown everything wide open.

  Alice. Again, she was in the middle of everything. How had she known about the tree, really? Her story of following the bird was ridiculous. But then, how could the girl be connected to this body, other than by her knowledge of the fairy story? Alice was younger than either of the Cosgroves. It didn’t make sense.

  She looked up to find Heath watching her. This time she noticed the lines around his eyes, the strain about his lips.

  ‘Ms Hyland told me the story of the juniper tree,’ he said, echoing Cate’s thoughts. ‘Strange, isn’t it? This body is obviously earlier than the oth
ers. If it is connected to a story, like them, this could be our killer’s first victim. And if it is – it seems his reasoning must have been different. If we can find how or why the child was killed …’ His voice sounded weary, but it had an edge to it.

  ‘It was lucky Alice Hyland found the tooth,’ he said, ‘hmm? Anyone else might have assumed it was nothing but a coincidence.’

  *

  Cate left Heath and went to catch up with Dan. He wasn’t waiting by the perimeter, though four white-hooded SOCOs were gathered nearby. She approached, searched each of their faces and frowned. He wasn’t among them.

  She found the register of attendees to the scene and scanned the list, saw that she was right: he had already gone. There was nothing left for her to do here, and she felt hollowed out, exhausted.

  She signed herself out, but instead of heading straight for the car park, she found herself veering towards the place where Little Red had been discovered. Two bodies found in the same stretch of woodland – that wasn’t what they’d come to expect. She wondered if there might be some similarity in the scenes that they’d missed. Had a particular type of tree once stood where Little Red had been dumped? She didn’t think so.

  Cate reached the edge of the arboretum. It was quiet here, and still. It looked as if more of the fallen trees had been cleared away, but she couldn’t be certain; perhaps the wardens had abandoned their work here for a while.

  She walked across the space. At first she couldn’t see any sign that the girl had been there. There was nothing to see, but how many people would come and stand here anyway, telling her story once again? It was like Alice had said: It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for the stories, would it? Without that she’d be nothing but a dead girl dumped in the woods. At least this way someone cares.

  Yes, they cared. Had been made to care.

  Alice had been made to care.

  She frowned. Yes, Alice had been made to care, had been made to share her expertise, to get involved.

  What else had she said?

  You need to look at old cases. This might have been happening for years.