Path of Needles (8 page)

‘Schoolgirl stories,’ he said, and sucked in air between his teeth. ‘Funny, that’s pretty much what the man himself called it.’ He glared at Cate.

‘Perhaps one of the other witnesses—?’

‘I doubt it.’ He jerked his head. ‘Slippery bastard.
Anyway, he’s got an alibi, of sorts. Drove straight home after the dance, woke up his wife when he got in. ’Course, that’s only his wife, but we’ve got nothing on him. Now he’ll probably get a brief, just in case we come sniffing.’ Heath stared into space as he said this last; it was almost as if he’d forgotten Cate was there.

She murmured something about getting on with her report, and he didn’t look at her as she went inside. It occurred to her that if Cosgrove had got wind of the rumours that had started buzzing around the school, not to mention the mothers’ grapevine, they couldn’t really blame him for getting a solicitor.

Is he a paedo?

Of course, the pressure of knowing they were onto him might also make him slip. And if he
was
their man, it couldn’t hurt to have people wary of him.

Underneath, though, the case felt as insubstantial as the rumours about Matt Cosgrove’s sex life. As far as she’d seen they had nothing to go on, no other suspects and no meaningful evidence. She remembered the way Chrissie’s mother had said Cosgrove’s name, seizing upon it as if it could bring her daughter back: her desperation. It was that thought that made up her mind for her; that, and the niggling feeling she still had low in her stomach, curled there like a worm in the bud.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was early and Alice threw open the bedroom window. There was a nip in the air, but she wanted to breathe in something of the outside, to look out and see nothing but trees. Her room had the most beautiful view in the house, and the early morning was the time to see it.

This morning there was no blue bird perched in the apple tree. She was half glad – she still hadn’t shaken off her guilt – but half disappointed too. The thought of twitchers scouring the woods for the rare sight she had seen so easily from her window lent it an exoticism that before she had only sensed.

She shook her hair back. The sky was a pale but perfect blue; it would be sunny yet cold, like yesterday. Beyond was the woodland, the heart of it still dark, almost black, fading to an almost colourless grey in the distance. Somewhere, a bird cried. It wasn’t the varied chatter she had heard before but the strident scrape of a crow, a harsh and isolated sound that made Alice think of lonely places,
abandoned places. That in turn made her think of the body that had been found only a few miles away to the south. She had heard about it on the news. If she headed to Newmillerdam, around the lake and through the woods, then crossed the open fields, she wouldn’t be far from where it had happened. The report had been vague, saying only that the death was suspicious, and Alice wondered what had happened to the victim; what had been
done
to her.

She grimaced, turned away and headed for the shower. The hot steam in the tiny bathroom was welcome, but it soothed rather than invigorated, inviting her back into sleep. She ran through the work she needed to do that day. She had essays to mark, and she looked forward to seeing her students’ thoughts and ideas about the fairy tales they had been reading. That was always the beauty of it for Alice, the way each story changed with the teller, the way each listener could interpret it a little differently. Still, this was her third year running the course and the novelty was beginning to wane. There was a tendency to find the same ideas and interpretations threading through the essays she was handed each week, something she would have to try to shake up.

She pulled on jeans and a checked shirt, tied her hair into a pony tail. She could get the marking done first – over breakfast, probably – and then go for a walk. She thought she might head around the lake today rather than through the woods: she would stick to the path.
Then she paused as she heard the sound of wood scraping stone.

It was a gate opening, the gate at the front of the house. Alice padded downstairs, went into the lounge and looked out into the narrow lane; she found herself involuntarily drawing back so she was hidden by the curtains. Odd: there was a policewoman walking towards the door. A second later there came a sharp tap.

It was probably a mistake; the police had the wrong address, or were maybe looking for someone else. A sour taste flooded her mouth.
Bad news
. She thought of her mother, a single intimate moment that pierced her; bending to kiss the old woman’s forehead, seeing her white scalp through the thinning hair, a reversal of the way her mother had once kissed Alice. She hadn’t been able to take care of her, had had to put her in a home. But wouldn’t the staff simply have called her, if there was something wrong?

She wouldn’t find out what had happened by standing here, unmoving in the early-morning chill. She pulled open the door and saw the policewoman was probably not much older than her, maybe even a little younger. She looked up now, as if surprised to see Alice standing there: definitely the wrong house.

‘Alice Hyland?’ she asked.

Alice frowned. All right, the correct house, but there had to be some other mistake. ‘Is something wrong?’ she blurted.

The policewoman started to shake her head, then she asked, ‘Could I come inside?’ and Alice’s stomach turned to water. The policewoman must have seen something in her face because she tried a smile. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I just wanted to ask you a few questions. I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’ She held a folder in her hands and now her fingers tapped against it.

Alice led the way through to the kitchen at the back of the cottage. The policewoman followed, gave her name as PC Cate Corbin and said that yes, she would like tea. Alice switched on the kettle, got mugs out of the cupboard, heard the hiss as the water began to boil. She still wanted – no, needed – to know that the news wasn’t bad, maybe wasn’t even meant for her at all, although the everyday act of making tea was comforting; surely someone with bad news to impart wouldn’t allow it to be delayed in such a fashion.

‘Nice view,’ a voice said at her shoulder, and Alice let out a hiss of her own. She hadn’t realised the girl had followed her, and hadn’t heard her approach over the sound of the kettle. Is that what they did – tried to unsettle people? But she hadn’t done anything wrong.

‘Sorry,’ the policewoman said, ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

When Alice turned, the girl tried a smile. She didn’t appear to be trying to tell Alice anything, wasn’t bursting with questions; still, her eyes were serious and there was a directness to her gaze; Alice didn’t doubt she could be pushy if she wanted to be.

‘Was there something you wanted?’ The words came out more bluntly than Alice had intended, and she softened it with a smile. She picked up the mugs, handed one over.

‘There’s nothing to be concerned about,’ said the policewoman. ‘I’m here because I think you may be able to help me with some information – in a professional capacity, that is.’

Alice frowned. ‘I’m a university lecturer,’ she said, ‘up in Leeds. I – I get the train.’ After a pause she added, ‘I study literature.’

‘I know. Could we sit down, Miss Hyland? It’s a rather sensitive matter. It’s nothing you need worry about, not personally, though it is rather serious.’

Alice gestured towards her pine table and the policewoman set down her mug, slipped into a chair and placed the folder in front of her. She drew the mug closer but she didn’t drink from it. She sat there as if she were strangely reluctant to continue. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Miss Hyland,’ she began.

‘Alice.’

‘Thank you. Call me Cate.’

It felt odd, being on first-name terms with this stranger in uniform, but Alice nodded.

‘I’m here because I have an idea about a case I’m working on and I thought you might be able to clarify matters. Really, you could say I’m here on a hunch. I’m looking for information in connection with a murder investigation.’

Alice started, but Cate held up a hand, as if to settle her. ‘I was hoping you could help me. The victim was found in a very particular – pose, let’s say. Certain items were placed around her. I’m not at liberty to tell you what all of those were, but maybe some of them might mean something to you.’

‘To me? Why would they?’ Alice blinked. She had seen the news about the body found in the woods – was that what the policewoman was talking about? She’d been shocked by it, and that was where, for her, it ended. She had never met the girl who’d been found; she didn’t know anything about her.

But the policewoman was moving on, already describing the scene: a young girl, little more than a child, dumped at the edge of the woods. A mirror had been placed in her hand and her hair dyed black. She had been a beauty queen – the crown was still on her head. Her fingernails had been pulled out and a part of her – Cate didn’t elaborate – was sent back to her mother.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Alice, raising her hands and letting them fall again, ‘but I don’t know why you’re telling me any of this.’

Cate stared at her a moment, as if making an assessment. ‘I didn’t altogether want to show you this, but I did get clearance, and – to be honest, you’ll probably only see what I’m getting at if you look at a picture.’ She began to open the folder she’d brought.

Alice started quickly shaking her head. ‘Wait a minute
– are you saying there’s a picture of a dead body in there? I don’t want to see it.’

Cate paused. ‘I realise this is all rather untoward, but you really may be able to help us. Cases like this – they can be open to many interpretations, and those interpretations will influence the lines of enquiry that are taken. This is – well, let’s say it’s a different interpretation. I think it’s worth looking into, even if it comes to nothing.’

Alice frowned. She had no idea what the girl was talking about. Interpretation of a murder? What did that even mean? She shook her head, but somehow she didn’t stop the policewoman when she slipped a single picture from the file and laid it on the table. She kept the rest covered.

Alice didn’t want to look at it, but it was impossible not to let her gaze creep over the picture. She could see a pale, hazy figure, a splash of colour surely too bright to be blood. She was seeing it in fragments, individual details, small things her mind could take in, nothing more. Then her eyes went to the girl’s face and she swallowed. The girl looked pitiful. Her skin was stark against the bright red lips and black hair –
ebony
was the word that came to mind, and that did make her think of something.

‘What part?’ she asked. It came out more sharply than she’d meant; she supposed it was shock, from looking at the photograph. Death – at least this kind of death – was something she saw on TV or read about in books; it wasn’t something that intruded into her life. Now she was seeing
for herself that it could be brutal and merciless, torturing and maiming before it ended.

‘What do you mean?’ Cate sounded puzzled, and yet a little hopeful too.

‘You said something was sent to her mother. What was it?’

Cate paused before she answered. ‘A bottle,’ she said. ‘A bottle of her blood.’

Alice frowned. ‘Strange,’ she said then, ‘No. No, it’s stupid. It looks – it can’t be.’ She pushed the picture back across the table, covering it with her hand. She had looked at it – been
exposed
to it – for nothing. ‘It’s almost like something out of a fairy tale,’ she said, ‘but the blood – no, it doesn’t really fit. And the dress isn’t really the right colour. The hands – no.’

‘It reminded you of something.’

‘Only for a moment. The way she looks, her hair black, and all—’
Ebony
, she thought. ‘It looks a little like Snow White, when she was sent out into the forest with the huntsman, but it isn’t quite right – it doesn’t quite fit. And – for a start, if that was how it was meant to be, the bottle of blood would have been stoppered with her toe.’

The sight of the policewoman’s face froze her. After a moment she said, ‘There
was
a stopper.’

‘I can’t say, Miss Hyland.’ Cate’s reply was quick, but her tone told Alice everything.

‘There was, wasn’t there? Only you didn’t expect me to know.’ Alice crossed the room and picked up a satchel by
the door. She opened it and leafed through the papers inside. ‘Where is it? “Cinderella” – “Hansel and Gretel” – no.’ She pulled out a sheaf of notes, riffled through them and sighed in exasperation. ‘It doesn’t matter. I know the variant. It’s Italian, I think. The queen orders Snow White to be taken out and killed by a huntsman because she’s jealous. She’s no longer the fairest of them all, and we all know how she hated that. And she orders that part of the girl is brought back, to prove she’s dead. Of course, the mirror was really the stepmother’s, but—’

Cate broke in, ‘She ordered the huntsman to bring her a bottle of blood?’

Alice nodded. ‘Stoppered with the girl’s toe, yes. In Italy, anyway. That’s where that variant came from, I think.’

‘Variant?’

‘That’s right. Fairy tales date back centuries. They’re from the folk tradition; they were never really meant to be written down. They were passed from mouth to mouth, usually by women – there was a whole tradition of oral storytelling. It’s wonderful, really – each teller would add their own detail, put their own experiences into the tales they told, and each listener – well, they could hear something different in it each time too, according to their own background and experiences. It’s fascinating. And yet the stories have something that remains essentially
theirs
, you know? They’re powerful. Some say it’s because they’re archetypal, that—’

‘So a variant is …?’

Alice smiled. ‘Sorry. I get carried away on the subject. It’s my specialism. My – enthusiasm, I suppose. Whenever the tale is told, it’s a little different, you see, and each different telling is called a variant.’ She paused. ‘So in this particular version, the huntsman had to send back a bottle of blood. In other variants he had to send back different things. It gets pretty gruesome’ – her eyes flicked to the table – ‘in other versions, the stepmother demands the lungs and liver, and she has them boiled in salt water and eats them. In another she wants the heart – always popular, the heart – and in another, I believe it’s her intestines and a blood-soaked shirt. You have to remember, some of these stories came from brutal times. Life and death – they were close, you know? They weren’t hidden away from us by undertakers and hospitals or—’ Alice glanced at the picture and looked away. ‘Sorry.’