Path of Needles

by Alison Littlewood

  The girl threw herself back in her seat, sighing noisily. ‘Weren’t none of you bothered when I said. How come you’ve turned up now?’

  Cate glanced at the opaque window once more and answered. ‘Your friend’s disappearance might be related to a case we’re working on. I can’t tell you any more than that now, I’m afraid. Do you want a drink, Kiara? Water? Coke?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not your friend,’ she said, ‘so don’t try and act like it.’

  ‘All right, then let’s get to it. You told a police officer your friend was missing. You said she got into a car – you didn’t know what make or colour – and she never came back. You didn’t see the driver either. Right so far?’

  Kiara was staring at the table. She sniffed, and her face relaxed for a brief moment, making her look much younger. Cate spoke more softly: ‘And you didn’t see anything else? – you didn’t get a look at the registration plate?’

  ‘Look,’ the girl said, ‘I was busy, a’right? I just wanted ’em to listen to me. We watched out for each other, ‘er and me – we always did. Only that night it was really clear, like, and there was this bird singing, and all I could think was …’ She paused.

  ‘Was?’

  ‘About ’ow it used to be when I was a kid.’ She almost smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that in a long time – being a kid, I mean.’

  Cate sighed. ‘Help me find out what happened to her, Kiara, please.’

  Kiara flashed her a glance. ‘I didn’t see it,’ she said, so low Cate almost couldn’t hear. ‘I didn’t see a car, like, didn’t see if she got in, a’right? But I ’eard one, so she must’ve done. What else could it’ve been?’

  ‘You didn’t see her get into a vehicle?’

  ‘No. Like I said, I ’eard one. It was speeding up, like it was driving away. And when I went back round the corner, she weren’t there no more.’

  Cate drew a deep breath. ‘You gave her name as Candy. We both know that’s not her real name. You said she was eighteen. I’m not sure that’s her real age, either.’ She found herself looking down at Kiara’s skinny arms, the pale skin, mottled with the same track marks the victim had. What had Alice called it – the path of needles? She wondered how long it was since this girl had made her choice; whether she’d ever really had a choice to make.

  Kiara sat up straighter and put her hands on the table, ready to push herself up. ‘You found ‘er,’ she said. ‘She’s dead, in’t she? That’s what this is, in’t it?’

  ‘I can’t say, Kiara. You understand, we haven’t made any definite connection between this other case and your friend. We need a name – then we’ll see what we can do for her.’

  ‘For my friend, or some other lass you’ve found? You said you dun’t even know it’s ‘er.’

  ‘No, we don’t, I’m not going to lie to you. But if we have her real name, we may be able to track down a relative, or someone else who can help.’

  Kiara sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘She talked about ’er gran once.’

  Cate stared before she spoke. ‘All right. Maybe she can help us work out what happened to her. That’s all we want, Kiara. We’re not looking to cause trouble for you or your friend.’

  The girl scowled. ‘I think she ‘ad a flat in south Leeds, a’right? ’er name’s Treesa.’

  ‘Treesa – Teresa? Teresa who, Kiara?’

  ‘King. It weren’t ’er dad’s name. She called ’erself that for ’er gran. She never ‘ad no dad, not really.’ Kiara’s face reddened, then she pinched her lip between her fingers. It made her look more than ever like a child, and Cate found herself wondering how she had passed from those days to this, how anybody did. Without the harsh eyeliner, her dry skin, the pallor of tiredness, given a good night’s sleep instead of plying her trade in some stinking alley, and the girl might have been pretty.

  She muttered something.

  ‘What was that?’

  Kiara pushed herself to her feet, her chair scraping across the cheap lino. ‘I said you’d better find her.’ She turned, strode across the café and yanked open the door. She looked back once, a brief, angry glare, before heading outside and into the rain.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The old woman lived on the edge of an industrial wilderness, a labyrinth of crumbling concrete, twisted metal and discarded things. It was grey even in the height of springtime, but she rarely looked out of the window: the view was masked by yellowing net curtains that gave the light inside an odd tone, as though from an enraged storm.

  Her house was at the centre of a row of red-brick terraces, and each room was long and thin. Sometimes she could hear her neighbours moving around, their footsteps banging on the stairs, doors slamming. She rarely heard their voices, but when she did they were raised and yet muffled too, as if they could only shout in vowel sounds. She didn’t try to make out the words and she didn’t interfere when the accompanying banging sounds became softer, as though fists were falling on flesh rather than a door or table. It was none of her business. She didn’t trouble her neighbours and they didn’t trouble her. Sometimes they would play loud music into the night and she would lie awake in the dark, listening to it, trying to work out what it was about the muffled cadences she liked.

  She never troubled to play music herself. When her granddaughter had been young, all breathless excitement at every little thing, she had watched her jigging along to music on the television, songs to which the child had inexplicably known the words, and felt like she was speaking some language she’d never learned. She remembered wishing she could ask someone about it, but her daughter – the child’s mother – was long gone by then, and the father had disappeared long before that. Anyway, she wouldn’t have been sure how to frame the question. At those times, the child had been her joy. Sometimes she had looked at her and wondered where on earth she had come from: surely not her own daughter.

  The child had filled these rooms with laughter, seeing delight where the woman saw only walls. Now she was gone too, and only the walls remained. Her grandchild had discovered new things as she had grown: learning what boys were, what life was. They had not been good things for her to learn.

  She pushed herself up from the sofa – it never used to sag that way, and she couldn’t remember when it began to be such an effort – and shuffled into the kitchen. It was small, and she could put her hand on everything she needed just by turning around, but it was hers, and it was a comfort that her things stayed where she had put them now. Perhaps it had been a good thing the girl had gone after all. She could even leave her purse on the sideboard, open to view, and it would not be touched.

  And yet – there were no sounds now except her own, no thrub-thrub-thrub of the music Teresa had liked, music without words.

  She turned on the tap hard, so that the water gushed loudly against the sink. She glanced up at the window and saw shadows moving against the dim yellow light. She blinked. Her eyes were slow to focus and watered continually, as her own mother’s had before she died. She sloshed the water in the bowl, ready for the washing-up. That was what she would do, plain, ordinary things, the kind of things on which her life was built. The shapes outside were coming closer. It could be the council again, going to see the family next door, or the police; she wasn’t sure which and didn’t really care. It was always one or the other, knocking and knocking and trying to get in.

  She jumped as a sharp rap rang out against her own door. She turned and faced the sound as if it was something she could see.

  They would go away soon and leave her alone. She leaned over and turned off the tap, and silence flooded back.

  The knock came again, tight, hard knuckles, and this time she forced herself to move. From the hallway she could see two shapes through the glass panel in the door; it made her think of an occasion – what, twelve, thirteen years ago? – when the bailiffs had come. She had stood against the wall, just like this, keeping quite still so they wouldn’t see her move. Teresa had clung to he
r legs then and she’d put one hand on her head to steady the child, the other over her sweet little mouth. Teresa hadn’t needed it, she had remained quite still, not saying a word. It was as if she had known.

  The letterbox opened with a clatter and a voice called through it, ‘Mrs King? We need to speak to you.’

  It wasn’t a debt collector’s voice.

  ‘Mrs King?’ The voice was a young woman’s.

  For a moment her heart jumped, dully painful, as she thought, Has she come home? But no, it hadn’t been Teresa’s voice. She didn’t want to let the woman in, all the same. She wanted nothing more than her own quiet rooms, the familiar things; and then she walked to the door and turned the key because she knew that when the world came knocking, it wouldn’t leave without taking what it demanded: your money, your television, your sewing machine; your self-respect. Your life.

  When she saw the young girl standing on her doorstep, a young man at her side, she knew; she could sense it. They weren’t in uniform, but they were police. She could smell it on them. Their eyes were already full of sympathy and she could already hear the empty phrases running through their minds. The child, she thought.

  She looked at the policewoman and the policeman standing next to her, threw the door open wider so that it rattled against the wall and motioned them both inside.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alice slipped out of her back door without troubling to lock it behind her and walked through the garden, ducking under the apple tree’s lowest branches. The wood was there, waiting, and she let herself out of the gate and stepped into it. It was late evening, but under the trees it was already dark, rich in shadows. Everything was silent except her footsteps against the grey, hard-packed ground. Outside her gate the beech trees stood like stone pillars, and there was no undergrowth; the path was knuckled with tree roots and stones, everything as grey as the rest in the half-light.

  There was a glimmer of red somewhere up ahead of her, a bright blood colour, and when she saw it Alice knew that she was dreaming. It was the dead girl. She was in the woods now, at one with the trees and the insects and the birds. The path of needles and the path of pins were behind her; she would not find them again. She had no choice left but to wander the lost places.

  Somewhere above, a large bird stirred and a branch wavered. There was the burbling roll of a wood pigeon’s call, the answering cry of something she didn’t recognise.

  There was a reason she had to speak to the girl, she knew that, but she couldn’t think what it was. She started to head after her anyway, then broke into a run. Hard ground gave way to softer earth thick with undergrowth, everything a new, soft green. The trees were thinner, their trunks silver and pale. Ahead of her was another glimpse of red.

  Alice tried to call out for the girl to wait and found she couldn’t speak; there was only a bird’s cry, high and snipping like silver scissors, somewhere on the edge of hearing. She ran faster, through a deep drift of bluebells that looked almost purple in the dim light. A drop of rain fell onto her face and she realised she could smell it in the air, sense it in the gathering blackness: a storm was coming.

  Then she saw that the girl had stopped after all; she was watching her, peering from behind a tree trunk, her face a pale oval. Her lips were pressed into a flat blank line, but Alice had the impression of sharp teeth hidden behind them. Suddenly she wasn’t sure if it was Little Red leading her onwards or the wolf. The girl looked hungry. She pulled the red cape back from one arm. There was a strap wrapped around it and she pulled it tight. In her other hand she held a needle. It was long and sharp and held promise in the droplet that clung to its tip. The girl thrust the needle into her flesh, keeping her eyes on Alice as she depressed the plunger. Her eyes, which had been nothing more than dark smudges, suddenly shone.

  Then Little Red was running again, ducking into the trees while Alice stared at the place she had been. She shook herself, tried to follow, but the trees resisted her, blocking her with their branches, fighting her. She couldn’t see the girl any more. The ground was covered in fallen branches and dead bracken and smothered by a mulch of long-dead leaves. Alice stood still and listened; everything was quiet as a held breath and she felt alone. She couldn’t go back – she hadn’t found what she was meant to see. She started walking again, steadily this time, looking about her. To each side were only the scabbed trunks of birch and ash, but ahead was something different, a sprinkling of white flowers on the ground.

  Alice emerged into a clearing that was coated in fresh soft grass. It was no lighter here and she looked up to see the sky was smudged with cloud and scattered with the first stars.

  When her gaze fell to the clearing once more, she noticed something else. Opposite her, under the edge of the trees, was a wooden hut. It wasn’t some rough-made thing but neat and sturdy, its freshly sawn edges a pale gold against the bark-covered walls. It had no door; instead, there was a simple opening, curtained by dripping rain which had started to fall more heavily, making a hissing sound all around her; it almost sounded like there were words in it. Alice ran, drops falling on her clothes and hair, soaking her, but she still paused at the entrance, before peering in. It was dark inside, but the hut appeared to be empty. As she ducked under the roof, the rain transformed into a solid heavy drumming.

  There was a wooden table inside the hut, with two chairs drawn up to it. The furniture was crudely made and much too big, as if intended for a giant. At first Alice thought that was all, there was nothing else, then she saw something on the table. She heaved herself up onto one of the chairs and leaned over it.

  The thing was a book. Like the table and chairs it was too large, and like them it was made of wood. At first she thought it was only a carving, a solid thing, not something with pages that could be opened, but when she put out a hand and lifted the cover it moved easily. As she turned to the first page, somewhere out in the woods a bird began to sing.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Cate took a seat in Heath’s office. She’d been summoned as soon as she got to the station, ahead of the morning briefing, but Heath wasn’t there; when the door opened it was Dan who walked in. He nodded at her and moved to the other side of the room, where he remained standing. It made her feel out of place, despite the almost-smile he cast in her direction.

  As she waited, Cate found herself thinking of that very first briefing when she’d put her hand in the air and mentioned fairy tales, the way Stocky had whistled the ‘Heigh Ho’ song afterwards, and laughed at her. It seemed a long time ago.

  The door slammed back and Heath entered, walking rapidly, as if he didn’t have time for this; he was frowning, but then, Cate couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t look annoyed. ‘Let’s get to it,’ he said, and jabbed a finger towards the whiteboard. ‘All right, so our second victim’s Teresa King. And you’ve informed the parents?’ He jerked his head towards Cate.

  She stood, went closer. ‘We haven’t found a mother, sir. She abandoned the girl some time ago, apparently. There’s just a grandmother, and yes, she’s been told. She was quiet about it, didn’t seem too shocked, but I get the impression she never would show her emotions, if you know what I mean. She hasn’t had anything delivered to her, no bottle of blood or anything like that.’

  He didn’t respond. ‘The girl was dumped in the woods near Newmillerdam Lake, only a few miles from the first scene. No convictions, which comes as a surprise, judging by the company she kept. A charming young lady by all accounts, not much in common with the first aside from age and sex.’

  ‘Not as such,’ said Cate.

  ‘Corbin?’

  ‘I just mean they could be compared not in their similarities to each other but their similarities to the characters they were chosen to represent. Little Red – I mean, Teresa King – was found in the guise of a girl who’d left the path, who’d chosen the way of needles. The only relative we could find was a grandmother, not a mother or father. And Chrissie Farrell, as we know, was the beauty quee
n, the fairest of them all …’ Her voice tailed away when she saw Heath’s expression.

  ‘Make sure you don’t get carried away, Corbin. We have to treat this as we would any other murder case, by examining the evidence, following the leads we have. Until your friend’s theory gives us a suspect it’s not a hell of a lot of use to us. Yes?’

  Cate subsided, then changed her mind. ‘It does fit, sir – and I know Alice Hyland has this idea it’s a female killer, but Cosgrove does teach literature, so he might have the knowledge. We could check out the specific subjects he’s been covering, maybe try to get a look at his bookshelves. Anything on folklore might show—’

  ‘Cosgrove has an alibi,’ snapped Heath. ‘Signed, sealed and delivered this time. The guy’s barely been out of the house since the first case except to go to the school and back. We’ve been keeping an eye on him. He might as well have been in fucking prison.’

  ‘It’s a big school. He might have—’

  ‘There are no unauthorised absences. We’ve had him under surveillance, plus the school has staff on the gate during breaks to stop the kids sneaking off to the chippy. No sightings of Cosgrove on either count. Now your contact, on the other hand …’

  She looked up again, startled.

  ‘You have to admit it’s odd. She knows all about these fairy tales. She knows the area. She shows up conveniently in time to cast her eyes over the latest girl’s body.’

  ‘We asked her to—’

  Heath held up a hand. ‘Devil’s advocate, Corbin. I’m just pointing out that you can see suspects everywhere. She even knows the other location we have so far – she lectures in Leeds, doesn’t she?’ He paused, allowed that to sink in. ‘And she insists it’s a female killer. Isn’t that what you said?’