Path of Needles (31 page)

She shook her head, confused.

‘I wanted to catch you before you went in to see Heath. The word was out before you got here; I’m really sorry, lass.’

‘So you knew I was off the team, before—’ She remembered the way Heath had looked at her when she walked into his office. Had he even listened to a word she’d said?

‘It’s not the end, lass. You’ll be back on the beat again soon, eh? Back with the rest of us.’

It didn’t matter about her, what her position was or what Heath thought of her; it only mattered that they stopped the killer. She had thought what she’d told Heath would change everything – but was she being stupid after all, caught up in the odd way Alice saw everything? Heath was right; poison was left at the scenes and birds ate it
and died. There was nothing strange about it. And Levitt loved birds, didn’t he? What had she been thinking?

‘I mean it, love. I wasn’t gloating or anything.’ Stocky sounded contrite. He stood, took one of her hands and squeezed it. Cate looked at him blankly and he looked away. ‘I was going to try and warn you about how things stood. He’s bringing her in.’

‘Who? Mrs Cosgrove?’ Cate frowned. Had they managed to connect the teacher’s wife with the child’s body after all?

‘No, Cate, not Mrs Cosgrove.’ Len paused. ‘I think this is why he’s chucked – I mean, dropped you from the team. It’s that contact of yours – Alice. He told you not to trust her, didn’t he?’

Cate caught her breath. ‘You
told
him,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘You told Heath I asked you to keep her off the register.’

‘I
had
to, Cate, don’t you see? When I heard she’d led us to another body – it could have been important.’

‘But it wasn’t,’ she snapped. ‘If it was I’d never have done it. What the hell have you got against her? Alice has nothing whatsoever to do with this, except for the way she’s helped us. Helped
me
.’

He took a deep breath. ‘You still don’t see it, do you, Cate? Think about it: how
did
she find the body? And the thing about fairy tales – it’s
her
. Heath spoke to her about finding the kid and he wasn’t happy at all – he thinks she imagines she’s
in
a fairy tale half the time. Plus, she
knows the area. She had the opportunity and she had the knowledge. Even if you look at the profile – it said it would be someone who has difficulty forming relationships. She lives alone, doesn’t she? Then there’s the way she hung around the scene of the crime, then went off into the woods without a fear in the world. The only thing that gives any doubt is whether she’d have the strength – but she’s fit, healthy. The victims were small, light. And she even said herself the killer was a woman, didn’t she? It’s like she wanted to be caught, or was so arrogant she thought she never would be. It was her –
vanity
, Cate. You see, it always was about vanity, in a sense.’

Cate looked away.

Stocky spluttered with impatience, ‘Don’t tell me you don’t see it. It’s
her
, Cate, everything points to it. If you hadn’t been—I mean, it’s easy to get caught up in things. If you hadn’t been so close, you would have seen it for yourself. The way she’s injected herself into the investigation. The way she just happened to “find” the child’s body.’

Cate shook her head. ‘But it’s about the
birds
. She said so. We have to test them, find out—’

He sighed, turned towards the door. ‘It’s too late, lass, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Heath must be pretty confident: it’s Alice they’re bringing in. They’re heading to her house now.’

CHAPTER FORTY

Alice paced up and down her bedroom, darting looks at the window. She couldn’t settle anywhere. She had found the key for them, she was sure of it, with the finding of the juniper tree; but that was where the story appeared to have ended, at least for her. She had been involved as long as it took to lead them to it, to put a hand on its trunk like some Judas condemning it to death. Now they hadn’t even told her what they’d found there, but surely, whatever it was, she was the only one who could
read
it, at least in the way it had been intended.

She shuddered. Perhaps they hadn’t found anything at all and she really was going mad; or maybe they weren’t telling her for some other reason. The way Cate had looked at her when she’d told her how she found the tree had spoken volumes, far more than Alice had wished to know. She turned towards the window once more.
It was the bird
. The bird had been the start of everything, summoning
her with its insistent singing, leading her to places she didn’t want to go. Why had it chosen Alice – because it knew, somehow, that she was the only one who could understand? She scowled. That probably wasn’t what her students would say. She had been distracted of late, not doing her best, giving vague responses to their questions. She should forget all this, reclaim those things that had been hers: a job she loved, peace of mind.

A sound broke into her thoughts, sharp and loud, something tapping against glass. She stood still and listened: it wasn’t coming from the back of the house, where the apple tree grew. It was coming from the other side, and there was another noise beneath it, a car approaching in the lane, groaning over the uneven surface as it dipped in and out of potholes.

Her gaze went to the feather the bird had given her. She had placed it on her dressing table, though it was so ragged now that if she had seen it in that state on the ground she would never have picked it up. The once beautifully aligned filaments had distorted and twisted and could never be put back together again. Still, its colour hadn’t faded; it was like a fragment of sky brought into her room. She took it, rubbed it against her cheek, slipped it into her pocket.

There was a dull thud, followed by more sharp taps.

Alice followed the sound, going to the window that overlooked the front of the house. As soon as she drew near, she started back: something had passed across the
window, a whirl of wings and air gone again so quickly she couldn’t be sure she’d really seen it. When she hurried to the glass, though, she did see it; and she heard the dull thud of its body striking the window, its wings battering furiously. The blue bird landed on the sill and turned towards her, its beak sharp-looking, and it pecked:
tap-tap-tap-tap-tap
, an imperative sound. Alice clutched her chest, felt her heart beating in a staccato rhythm that matched the bird’s ferocity. Her focus shifted and she looked past the creature into the lane.

A car was coming towards the cottage. There was nothing odd about it, not on the surface; but Alice knew there was
something
. Behind the first car, following close, was another. Both were nondescript, silver: anonymous. She looked closer, peering through the windscreen between flashes of reflected hedgerow and sky, and she caught her breath. She recognised the man who was driving. He had stared at her just the way he was staring now, concentrating as he eased down the narrow lane. He hadn’t been wearing ordinary clothes, though, not then; he had been dressed all in white, the clothing of the police when they entered a crime scene; the same clothing she herself had had to wear. He was with CID.

She drew back inside and ducked out of sight.

Even while she stood against the wall, she couldn’t work out why she had done so. She was
helping
the police, wasn’t she? But then, why had they come to her like this? This was no smiling Cate, no quiet knock on the door, but
instead, a procession of cars so that everyone could see. Her cheeks burned.

She twisted and glanced out once more. As she did the bird exploded into view, blocking out the cars and the police, splaying its feathers.

She had to get out. She didn’t know how she knew that, or why the police had come, or why the bird was here; but somehow it had warned her. She took one more look out of the window. She had parked her own car further down the lane, narrowing it, and the police had slowed to ease past. She didn’t have long.

She ran out of the room, swinging around the doorframe and pounding down the stairs, almost falling in her haste, then ran for the back door. She wasn’t thinking, didn’t know where she was going or what she would do when she got there. Her mind was empty; panic came to fill it, pushing away rational thought.

She went out of the door, pulling it hard after her, but didn’t stop to check if it had closed properly. She ducked low as she ran across the garden. She knew the gate would rattle and so instead she threw herself at the wall and slithered across it on her belly, her top riding up and her skin scraping against the stone. She didn’t stop to look at that either; she ran on, still bent low as she headed into the woods.

When she had gone some distance, the soft dark of the trees began to calm her. She slowed, then stopped, leaned against a tree trunk and rested her face against it, just
letting her breathing steady itself. The bark was rough against her skin. What on earth was she doing? What if they’d
seen
her? They’d probably only come to let her know what was happening, or maybe to ask more questions, and she had run away like a criminal. She should go back. But what if they
had
seen her? She could already imagine the looks she would receive. If they hadn’t turned against her already, they certainly would now. No. If she didn’t go back, she could always say she had just been heading out for a walk, nothing more; that she hadn’t seen them. She let out a long breath, glanced up into the branches of the tree. There, above her, the blue bird looked back.

She started away from the trunk and regarded the creature. For a while it didn’t move, didn’t show any sign of noticing her at all. Then it gathered itself and fluttered onwards, on to another branch in another tree a short distance away.

Everything was silent; she didn’t even breathe. The bird tilted its head, fixed its black eyes on her and opened its beak. For a second she imagined it was about to speak, actually found herself waiting for it. She even felt she knew what its voice would sound like: high and silvery and laced with mockery.

She glanced towards her home. She had to go back or go on. The bird left its perch once more, flew deeper into the woods. After a moment, she followed.

As she walked away from her cottage she tried to tell herself that she
was
simply going for a walk, that was all;
she had every right to do so. This was her home, and she had done nothing wrong. She could walk here anytime she chose. If she happened to step out as the police arrived, it was not her fault. And the bird had just happened to be there too, swooping low into the path before angling upwards once more. But she knew she was only trying to convince herself; the bird’s bright feathers were an undeniable reminder of what she was doing. As if to reinforce her awareness of its presence it began to sing as it flew – high, fluting notes. To her ear it sounded different now. It was like the song of the bird in the tale of the juniper tree:

Kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!

And it
was
beautiful. Alice kept watching it as she walked, stepping over gnarled tree roots.

There were things in these woods, she decided. It kept its secrets hidden from her even while she was inside it; it was a place where anything could happen, wherein lay madness and death, where girls – girls like her – should stick to the path.

She paused, looking down. The tree roots were thick and sinuous, winding across the ground. It was not the path. She realised she hadn’t been on a path for a while. The bird was leading her deeper into the trees. All the same, she thought she knew where they were going.

After a while she saw that she was right. There was the
gleam of anemones pale against the grass, and an open space; she stepped into it, a clearing she recognised. She had no need to look about her; she knew exactly where she was supposed to go. The bird was waiting there now, though the structure didn’t look like the one in her dream; instead, it was an odd assortment of canvas and branches leaning against a tree.

She waited. Nothing happened and nothing moved. There was nothing to be done but walk towards it. The flowers brushed against her feet. She stopped when she was a short distance away from the hut.

The structure had been built around a broad oak. Branches as thick as Alice’s arm were lashed around its trunk. She could smell the sharp fresh sap where they had been cut. Smaller branches wove between them, filling the spaces. Another structure had been built onto the first, a kind of rough porch providing an entrance. That was draped in canvas painted with the green and brown patches of camouflage, and over the door, something was written in dripping white letters:

B
E BOLD, BE BOLD – BUT NOT TOO BOLD

Alice finished the verse under her breath: ‘
Lest that your heart’s blood should run cold
.’

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

It was nothing but a small smudge on the screen, a cluster of pixels Cate couldn’t make out. She enlarged the image and it resolved into a white square with a black line around it, clinical and clear and simple. She frowned at it. The document had come from the Land Registry, and it said the white square was owned by one Bernard Levitt. It lay at the end of a turn-off from the road that skirted Newmillerdam. The road was two narrow lines that led nowhere, the white square the only building on it. All around it was a swathe of green. Bernard Levitt must really value the peace and quiet of his neighbours.

Cate closed the file and pushed herself up from her seat. She didn’t need to make a note of the address; the place was engraved in her mind, that simple white square. As she left the building she saw Stocky doing his endless paperwork; he saw her and tossed his head, but he didn’t stop her and she didn’t wait for him to do so. She wasn’t sure if his gesture had been meant as an apology or a
greeting or something else, but she didn’t look back as she slipped out of the door.