CHAPTER FIVE
The blue feather was sitting neatly in the palm of Alice Hyland’s hand. It was smooth and slightly curled and she held it up and peered at it, saw the perfection of each individual barb, the way they came together to form a smooth curve at its tip.
She shifted her gaze from the feather to her laptop screen, which displayed a news report: TWITCHERS IN A TWITCH, it said. The journalist had been enjoying the puns the story afforded. Birdwatchers flock to West Yorkshire after rare bluebird sighting.
They weren’t sure what kind of blue bird it was, and Alice wondered, if they could see the feather that rested so lightly on the palm of her hand, whether they could work it out. There was a picture of a pair of birdwatchers – twitchers – a man and a woman. The man wore large round glasses that looked in themselves a little like binoculars and they had identical smiles. There was a picture of a bird too, and it was small, like the one she’d seen, but not so brilliant; not nearly.
Alice bit her lip as she read on, remembering the way she’d slammed the window on the small, fragile creature. She might have killed it. She wondered what the twitchers would have said to that – she imagined being caught in a flare of flashbulbs while carrying the poor thing to her wheelie bin, the man with the jam-jar glasses and his frizz-haired wife wearing identical expressions of horror.
She went to her window. Her first impression had been correct: a bird such as the one she’d seen had no place in England. Bluebirds were from North America, where the Navajo had considered them sacred, associating them with the rising sun. There were other myths too, ones that associated it with happiness, prosperity, good health – and the birth of springtime. That brought a smile to her face. She looked up into the branches of the apple tree, the blossom just coming in, tight parcels tinged with pink and tipped with the promise of white flowers.
The news report said the circumstances of the bird coming to England were a mystery, that it could have escaped from some private aviary. Alice looked through the apple tree’s branches, seeing the darker treetops beyond her garden. Newmillerdam. The bird might be out there now, hungry and cold. Or maybe nothing remained but feathers like the one she held in her hand, discarded and scattered where some fox had seized it. She should have let it in. The poor creature had only been seeking a little warmth, and she had slammed the window closed.
L’oiseau bleu. A symbol of hope, of life: of springtime. A prince in disguise. A lost creature that had stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale and come looking for a home, fixing her still with the thought of its bright black eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
Cate hadn’t expected she would see Mrs Farrell again, and judging from the expression on the accompanying detective’s face, he didn’t think she was needed either. Apparently though, despite her distress, Angela Farrell had remembered Cate, and had asked if she was going to be there. It was out of respect for Mrs Farrell’s state that Detective Superintendent Heath had agreed – no, insisted – on her attendance.
Mrs Farrell’s face was raw, her eyes watery and somehow exposed-looking, her puffy skin accentuating the shadows under her eyes. She had applied make-up anyway, black lines that wavered above her eyelids and smeared almost to nothing beneath them. She was sitting in the lounge, in the same place Cate had last seen her. She was clutching a damp tissue, her nails bitten ragged, and Cate thought she had aged overnight.
Detective Constable Dan Thacker stood in the middle of the room, where Mrs Farrell had once cast aside her party shoes. He wasn’t looking at Cate, had barely acknowledged her presence; his eyes were fixed on Mrs Farrell. He was tall, stooping a little so that she could see the raw skin where the back of his neck had been shaved. His jaw was set.
Cate glanced around the room. Little had changed, the curtains were still drawn, and she wondered if Mrs Farrell had opened them since the day her daughter did not come home. Her eyes flicked to the mirror that hung over the fireplace. The words ‘Mirror, mirror,’ ran through her thoughts and were gone.
She still hadn’t been able to put Heath’s contemptuous look out of her mind.
‘So you left the dance,’ Thacker said in a low, smooth voice. ‘Can you remember what time that was?’
Mrs Farrell glanced up at him, then away, as if she’d barely understood the words, was merely acknowledging the sound of them. She mouthed something Cate couldn’t catch.
‘Mrs Farrell? It might help, if you can remember.’
Her hands fidgeted in her lap. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
When he spoke again, Dan’s voice was softer. ‘Did you see her again before you left?’
She shook her head and he sighed.
Cate left her seat, knelt by Mrs Farrell and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry we have to go over these things,’ she said. ‘Really, if we didn’t think it might help, we wouldn’t ask you. What happened when you last saw Chrissie? Do you remember what she said to you?’
The woman glanced up at her. ‘She – she told me to stop treating her like a kid.’ She paused, bit her lip. ‘She was with her friends. She’s always like that with—’ She broke off.
‘It’s all right. Take all the time you need. You know we’re going to do everything we can.’ She felt a pang when she said that: They, she thought. They’ll do everything they can.
Mrs Farrell put a hand to her face. ‘She kissed me,’ she said. ‘She kissed me on the cheek.’ Her fingers were kneading the place, as if she could bring the touch of her daughter back.
‘And who was she with?’
‘No one, not then. She didn’t want her friends to see her talking to me. You know what they’re like at that—’
At that age, Cate finished silently. That was what the woman had been about to say, and then she had realised that her daughter was never going to grow up, would never be any older.
Dan cut in. ‘We understand, Mrs Farrell. So she said she was going to spend the night with Kirsty Gill. We’ve spoken to Miss Gill, and it seems she had a disagreement with your daughter. She seems to have felt, at the time, that your daughter had been made queen of the dance unfairly.’
Mrs Farrell met his eye, as if he had reached her at last, drawn her out of wherever she had been hiding. ‘She was the queen of the dance,’ she said. ‘Chrissie was beautiful. Of course she won. She was always going to win.’
‘And there appears to be some jealousy. Not unusual at that age, but do you know whether Chrissie had any particular enemies at school? Anyone who would want to hurt her?’
Mrs Farrell’s face crumpled. She started to speak, compressed her lips. Slowly, she nodded; then she shook her head.
‘Mrs Farrell?’
‘There was always jealousy.’ She gulped at the stale air. ‘There were a few girls who didn’t like her. She talked about someone called Sarah. Deborah Wainwright. Tanya Smith. A few of them, it changed all the time. Chrissie was so pretty – of course, they were jealous. Anyone would have been.’
‘And Kirsty Gill?’
Slowly, she shook her head.
‘So Chrissie’s argument with her friend must have been sudden. Something that could have blown up out of nowhere.’
Tears welled in Mrs Farrell’s eyes. She glanced at DC Thacker, then at Cate. It was as if she was trying to read them both, and finding she could not. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re saying—’
‘I’m not saying anything, Mrs Farrell,’ Dan said. ‘I’m just trying to find out what might have happened to her.’ He changed tack. ‘So, when she didn’t come home—’
Mrs Farrell put her hands to her face, pressing the damp tissue against her skin. She kept them there, shook her head. ‘I thought she was safe, with the others. I never thought – I thought she’d gone with Kirsty. It’s what she said. I should have stayed. I know I should have stayed.’ She looked up, grasped Cate’s arm, turned to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, gasping out the words, as if they were something she had to say, as if they would bring her daughter back. ‘I’m sorry.�
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Cate waited until she had gathered herself. After a while the woman slumped in her seat and threw the tissue aside, instead mopping at her eyes with her fingers.
‘Is there anyone else who harboured any ill will towards her?’ Cate asked. ‘And what about the girl’s father – where is he?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s been in Spain for years. Chrissie went out to stay with him a few times. Not for a while, though. He’s coming back now, for the—’ Her eyes went distant.
‘What about anyone you thought might have been watching her, or following her? Were there any online acquaintances she’d spoken about?’ Dan said.
‘I don’t know. Chrissie thought making friends online was lame.’ Mrs Farrell let out a spurt of breath, the nearest she could come to a laugh.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll follow it up anyway, Mrs Farrell, just in case. We’ll need her computer, with your permission.’
Dumbly, she nodded.
‘And you’re quite sure she wasn’t seeing anybody?’
‘There were a few boys, no one special. She never seemed that interested. She finished with the last one months ago. It wasn’t anything serious. Chrissie wasn’t—’ She glanced up, a sharp movement this time, and looked away.
‘Mrs Farrell?’
‘Oh God,’ she said. The colour drained from her face. ‘There was someone at the dance – I’d forgotten.’
‘What is it?’ Dan prompted.
‘Jesus.’ She looked around, her eyes wild, as if looking for the answers. ‘Him,’ she said. ‘Oh God, him.’
‘Who, Mrs Farrell?’
Her mouth worked. ‘Cosgrove,’ she said, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘That’s it. He said his name was Matt Cosgrove.’
‘Who is he?’ Dan said.
‘Her teacher.’ Angie Farrell’s eyes had an unhealthy gleam. ‘I heard someone talking at the dance about him, some girls. I thought it was just gossip, you know.’
‘And they said?’
‘He was seeing someone in her class. That he was sleeping with someone.’ Mrs Farrell put her hand to her mouth. ‘But not Chrissie. Not my girl. She wouldn’t have done that. She was better than that, valued herself. She was going places, my Chrissie. She would have said no. She wouldn’t have let him—’ Her voice ended in a wail. ‘Oh, God. He must have made her. And when she said no, he – he did that to her—’ Her voice rose, and she scrambled to her feet.
‘That bastard,’ she said, turning to Cate. ‘I thought he liked me, but he didn’t, I saw him watching her, and I knew, I should have known. That bastard.’ Her voice broke and she started to cry, jagged, ugly crying, and the tears spilled down her face and she let them fall.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cate headed back towards the police station. It had been a ball-breaker of a day, as Stocky would have put it. A number of uniforms, Cate among them, had been sent out on grunt work. Even a newcomer like her knew that the first forty-eight hours in a murder case were the most important, and CID had mobilised to gather information; they were using uniform to fill in the gaps, talk to the less promising witnesses and report back to log the information. She knew it was on the periphery of the investigation but even so she couldn’t help feeling energised by the process, to still have some small link to the case.
She hadn’t been able to put the image of Chrissie Farrell out of her mind, a young girl laid out in a thin dress, helpless, exposed to the cold and the insects and the birds. It felt good to be doing something to help. Although … for now, CID needed to know as much as possible as soon as possible; as soon as that phase was over, Cate would be back on the beat. She’d be dealing with neighbours’ disputes or bag snatches or stolen cars. And that was fine, she couldn’t expect anything else at her level, and yet—
Chrissie Farrell’s eyes had been open. She had been looking up at the empty sky, waiting for the rain to fall into them; for the crows to come.
Cate shook her head, trying to dispel the image. The things she’d seen didn’t normally get to her, not like this, but then it was obvious that there was nothing normal about this case. And yet CID already had a suspect, had pounced on what the mother had said about Mr Cosgrove. According to the rumour mill at the station they thought they’d got him signed, sealed and delivered, neat as a parcel pushed through a letterbox, wrapped in a brown-paper parcel and layers of white tissue.
She wondered if someone like Heath was really the type to jump to a rapid conclusion about anything, then remembered the way he’d looked at her in the briefing; pushed the thought away. She still couldn’t imagine him as someone who’d be easily led down one path or another. Those eyes of his; they made it seem he was seeing through everything.
Over the last few hours, Cate had gained the distinct impression that the school had a rumour mill of its own. CID had been there earlier, talking informally to Cosgrove and some of the other teachers who’d been at the dance, along with Kirsty Gill and Chrissie’s closer friends. But from what she’d gathered, it was Cosgrove’s interview that seemed to have stuck in everyone’s minds.
Cate had been questioning some of the kids who had been there on the night of the girl’s disappearance, along with some of the bemused parents, and it seemed every one of them had their own question to ask: the same one, in the main. They’d all had the same shine in their eyes when they asked it, too – a shine that came from excitement, not from sorrow. They’d all wanted to know the story Cate couldn’t tell:
‘What’s with Mr Cosgrove?’
‘Is he a paedo?’
‘Was he doing her?’
It seemed – unless it was just another rumour – Matt Cosgrove had taken exception to the same question being asked by CID at the school, resulting in raised voices and his storming out of the room they were using. Unfortunately for him, that hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Cate wondered if CID were having more success than her. The sense of rumours circulating and growing made her uneasy – at some juncture they would have to locate the source, unpick it, find what kernel of truth lay at its centre. Certainly the girls she’d questioned hadn’t been aware of Chrissie seeing anybody, hadn’t noticed her with anyone out of hours other than her friends. The only thing she knew of that had lent the story wings was Cosgrove’s apparent indignation upon being asked the same question – which wasn’t necessarily surprising. Now the witnesses seemed to expect the police to answer the question: no one had any answers of their own.
It might not be what CID wanted to hear, but Cate was beginning to think the rumour was being carried only on its own breath. She wondered what they were making of it now; found herself imagining what it would be like to really work a case like this one. She felt a shiver of excitement in spite of herself. For now, she was working the case, if only in a small way. Mentally she ran through the people she’d been speaking to about what had happened on the evening of the dance.
The closest she’d come to getting anything on the teacher was with the last girl she’d seen – Sarah Brailsford, her name was. At first, she had seemed different; she had actually noticed the teacher watching Chrissie Farrell during the dance. What was it she’d so eloquently said? ‘He was, y’ know, eyeing her up.’ On pressing, though, the girl had added: ‘I thought he liked me too,’ and she’d looked away, as if she could mask the sudden jealousy in her eyes.
That chimed with something and Cate let her thoughts drift, trying to make a connection. What came into her mind was Mrs Farrell.
I thought he liked me, but he didn’t, I saw him watching her.
She frowned.
Cate hadn’t spoken to him, but now she found herself wondering about Mr Cosgrove. Was he really so attractive? What impression would she have gained from him? If he’d done this, cut and broken and destroyed the girl, would Cate know? Would she be able to feel it somehow?
She shook her head. If that was how it worked, they wouldn’t need the investigative team. One look at Heath’s pale eyes and the murderer would f
all into their lap. All it suggested in reality was that Matt Cosgrove was a popular teacher, someone that schoolgirls liked to gossip about and flirt with. But sleeping with one of them? There was nothing to prove it. Any vague intimation had dissolved into nothing as soon as Cate tried to pin it down. And when it came to the facts, it seemed the girls’ favourite teacher had hung around to the end of the night to see everyone away safely – doing his job, his duty, while Chrissie had gone off on her own.
Of course, Cosgrove might have spotted her later, when he was driving home in his car. Would the girl have refused a lift from her teacher? Cate doubted it. He was in a position of trust, and it was a long way home, especially in Chrissie’s heels. She wondered what kind of state the victim’s feet were in. If she’d set off to walk, it was unlikely she’d have escaped the odd chafe or blister, something to show for it on her feet.
Like a missing toe.
Cate shook her head to clear it. How had Chrissie been planning on getting home? Had her friends even thought twice about where she might have gone? It was nothing but a blank; although that wasn’t to say Cate hadn’t discovered anything at all. Sarah Brailsford had seen Chrissie flounce off, ‘worse for wear’. Her nose had wrinkled as she’d said it, and then she’d straightened her expression; as if she hadn’t liked Chrissie, had felt a moment of scorn, only to remember that the girl was dead.
There was always jealousy, Angie Farrell had said. Then she’d named names, the girls who didn’t like her daughter: someone called Sarah. There had been no surname. Had she meant this Sarah? It was certainly possible, but as the sobbing woman had said, school was like that; it changed all the time. Now, though, it might help them: Sarah had still been keeping an eye on Chrissie and her clique when they’d headed off into a quiet corner and Kirsty Gill had pulled a small bottle of something – Sarah thought it was tequila – from her bag and passed it around.
Path of Needles Page 5
