Path of Needles (6 page)

Not what we’re used to seeing, is it, love?

No. No, it wasn’t.

Heath had already moved on, wasn’t looking at Cate any longer. He was outlining who would be questioned, which lines of enquiry followed up. They were beginning with the people who would have been last to see Mrs Farrell’s child, her friends from the dance, a boyfriend, maybe, anyone who might potentially have witnessed her abduction.

‘Assuming she was abducted,’ said Heath. ‘She may just have gone off with someone she knew, possibly another of her friends; but it’s also quite possible she was selected at random. The parcel was delivered to her mother’s house, it’s true, but whoever did this might have got the address out of the girl.’

Cate tried to imagine a schoolchild doing this to Chrissie, taking pliers and pinching them around the girl’s fingernails, stretching them around her toe. She found she could not.

‘PC Corbin.’

She looked up, startled. The SIO’s voice was suddenly loud; people were shifting in their chairs to look at her. She thought again of the way they’d rushed into the scene, found herself reddening. ‘PC Stockdale and – Corbin, I believe. Please be so good as to let us know if you have anything to add; any observations about your attendance
at Angela Farrell’s property and indeed, at the dump site.’

A few of the ranked detectives exchanged glances – and smirks – as the latter was mentioned. She swallowed. There
was
something she wanted to say, she just wasn’t sure she was capable, at this moment, of saying it. Then Stocky shifted at her side and cleared his throat, and the group’s eyes passed from her, and Cate took a deep breath.

‘PC Stockdale, sir,’ he said, needlessly. ‘Nothing to add about the scene: you’ve covered everything. But I have a theory about the case.’ He paused, coughed. Then he proceeded to outline what he’d said to Cate after they’d left the site, about the hair, the crown, the nails, the feet. That it was all about vanity: the mirror, the dye, the bottle. ‘It all fits, sir,’ he concluded, and there was silence as the room’s attention passed to Heath.

The SIO stared at Stockdale as the silence stretched out, then gave a terse nod. ‘As I stated previously,’ he said, ‘we’re not ruling out the possibility that we’ve got a weirdo on our hands. If I find it necessary, we’ll have a professional profiler review the case.’ He placed the emphasis on the word ‘professional’. ‘Until then, we’re looking at the most obvious lines of enquiry.’

He started to turn away, twisted his head back again, slowly, when Cate raised her hand.

‘Yes.’ Heath started straightening the notes on the table in front of him.

‘PC Corbin, sir.’ Cate hesitated, forced herself to speak louder. ‘Sir, the scene in the wood reminded me of something.
It was the way Chrissie – the victim – had been posed. The way her hair had been cut, the crown and the mirror.’

Heath was staring down at the desk, but Cate could feel Stocky’s gaze on her. She knew it wasn’t an encouraging look, could see from the corner of her eye that he did not seem pleased. ‘I know it may sound odd, but anything we think of at this stage—’

‘Do continue,’ said Heath.

‘It reminds me of a fairy tale.’ Cate paused as a ripple passed around the room. Stupid: of course she had been stupid, should never have spoken out, should have listened to her own instincts. Stocky must have been right, it
was
about vanity, of course it was. Everything fitted. With her idea, so many things didn’t: the severed toe, the fingernails. Still, it was too late, she had no other choice than to press on. ‘Her hair was dyed black,’ she said, ‘and the mirror – it was old-fashioned, an old looking-glass. And the way she was left in the woods. It made me think of Snow White.’

As soon as she said the words that image rose before her again, the way she’d been seeing Chrissie Farrell in her mind, a young child, her hair falling over her face as she smiled over a bedtime story. There
had
been a reason for it. She knew exactly which story Chrissie’s mother would have been reading to her child, if only she could hear them as well as see them. Suddenly she was sure it
did
fit. She didn’t understand how, but it felt right.

Heath was already turning away. ‘Noted,’ he said. He swept up his notes without further comment and was gone, walking from the room without looking back.

Cate turned to Stocky and found he was still staring at her. She could see the trace of disappointment in his eyes, and perhaps something else. ‘Fairy tales, Cate?’

She gave a wry smile, shrugged. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ She was relieved when his mouth twitched.

‘Okay, so we’re looking for a gang. Seven height-challenged fellows, one with a constant cold, another a little stupid, one decidedly miserable. Should be easy enough to spot.’

Cate laughed, raised her hands and let them fall, and he subsided; or she thought he had. Instead, as they made to leave, he started up a low whistle, the chirpy refrain from the ‘Heigh-ho’ song. Cate tried to smile once more, hoping no one would hear him, that it wouldn’t catch on. Thankfully, he satisfied himself with chuckling as they left. And Cate told herself that he had been right, it
was
funny; but she could still see the contempt on Heath’s face as he stared at her across the room; feel the sting in his final dismissal.

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: T
WITCHERS 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
.’

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.