Path of Needles (19 page)

‘Red in tooth and claw,’ Alice said, and Cate remembered it wasn’t the first time she’d used those words.

‘Of course,’ Alice said, ‘some see Little Red as a replay of older stories still, of ancient myth – the way people used to try and understand the world. Little Red is supposed to be about the death of the evening sun and the coming of the dawn. It’s quite an optimistic interpretation, actually.’ Her eyes went to the window, the sunshine streaming in, and Cate followed her gaze. The apple tree was now a mass of white blossom; it made everything look so peaceful.

For a while Alice seemed to forget that Cate was there, and then she explained: ‘Little Red is the evening sun, shining on Grandmother Earth; the wolf is the night which swallowed her, which desired to keep the earth in darkness; and dawn comes in the guise of a hunter, slaying the night and freeing the sun from its belly, bringing life to the world once more.

‘Some say it grew out of ancient Hindu stories,’ she added, ‘that it’s really about Indra, the sun god, trying to save everyone from a dragon that’s trying to devour the sun.’

‘You didn’t mention that before.’

‘Mention what?’

‘That version of the story. You talked about an Italian one, said it explained the teeth being there.’

‘There are lots of variants – or versions – hundreds of them, from all over the world. I didn’t think it was relevant.’

‘But maybe it is. Maybe we need to look at
all
of the versions, see what was missing as well as what was present.’

‘Maybe.’ Alice sighed. ‘Of course, in that particular story, Little Red and the grandmother come back to life. I suppose
that’s
what’s really missing.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Alice stood in the doorway, watching the policewoman walk down the lane, listening as her footsteps faded. She remained standing there, and after a while she realised she was listening to another sound, higher and sharper; somewhere, a distance away, a bird was singing.

She went through the house, made her way to the back door and opened it onto the garden. Daffodils gleamed in the soft light. Everywhere new flowers were opening, bright splashes of colour. Then another shade caught her eye, a flash of brilliant blue flitting from branch to branch of the apple tree: the blue bird had come back to her. Alice stared, feeling strangely satisfied, and something else: proprietorial.

She smiled at herself. She should do something practical for the creature, set out food for it, instead of just standing here watching; but it was singing now with great gusto, thrusting out its chest and chirruping. It didn’t need Alice, it was something healthy and free that had bestowed its presence willingly, like a gift.

Alice shook her head. She wasn’t Alice in Wonderland, wasn’t in some fairy tale; she was only Alice, and she belonged in the real world. She had chores to do, marking and reading and washing-up.

She went inside, closed the door and found that she hadn’t managed to shut out the blue bird’s song after all; it had followed her, shrill and insistent, into the house. Unconsciously, her hand went to her pocket. She found something that was at once smooth as glass and rough as a cat’s tongue, depending on the way she touched it: the blue feather the bird had given her. It had been with her, all through the woods and the things she had seen, placed in the pocket of whatever she chose to wear, something magical yet close. When she peered out of the window again, though, the bird itself was already flying away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Ellen Robertson opened her eyes and saw the pale butterscotch of the ceiling. She smiled. In some ways the house still didn’t feel like hers, but in other ways it did. This room was one of the things that did; she loved the way the sun slanted through the window in the early mornings, turning everything to warmth. She never felt alone here, despite the fact that her husband had already left for the day; he liked to catch the early train and make a good impression. She hadn’t yet found a job, although if things went to plan, that might not be necessary. One never knew how quickly these things could happen – or, indeed, how long it could take.

The smile faded and she smoothed the sheets down over her body, allowing herself to drift a little longer. After a while a sound intruded, pulling her back to the present. A bird was singing, not some delicate tune but a shrill admonishment that went on and on. Perhaps it was more
than one bird; they could be sitting in the eaves, squabbling together. It might even be a nest, lined with down and full of hungry beaks.

She didn’t know if she liked that thought or not, but she slid out from beneath the sheets and went to the window. The view was of hills and fields, stretching on for miles. Traffic was already whining down the distant motorway, the sound travelling clear across the flat spaces. Then a blue shape flashed past, startling her.

She stepped back. She hadn’t expected to actually see a bird, let alone one of such a strident colour, but perhaps it hadn’t been a bird at all. It could have been a rag flying on the wind, or a discarded sweet wrapper.

She leaned closer and looked down into the garden, and saw it sitting on the wall. It
was
a bird, it was still singing, and it was still undeniably blue. Her eyes widened. Hadn’t there been something on the news about this? It was rare and beautiful and strange, and here it was, outside her window. If she was quick she could take a picture. Maybe she could send it to the newspaper. She hurried towards the study, ducking automatically under the low doorframe; it was something else she had rapidly got used to, that made the house feel like her own.

She had just worked the camera out of its case when she heard the banging on the door. It was loud and as insistent as the blue bird’s song and she jumped, her heart thudding. For a moment she was frozen, staring towards the stairs, wondering if there could have been some
mistake. She wasn’t expecting anybody. No: the banging came again, hard and rapid.

She glanced towards the bedroom. If she went to the door she might miss her opportunity to photograph the bird, but she couldn’t ignore knocking like that; it must mean something. Anyway, the blue bird would probably have heard it too and been frightened away.

She had already started for the stairs when the knocking came again. She couldn’t stop herself jumping as she ran under the door and as she hurried to answer she banged her head against the frame.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Len Stockdale looked up as Cate sat down at her desk. She tried to gauge his expression, but it didn’t spark any warning lights; he looked a little guarded, perhaps even subdued, although his tone was friendly enough.

‘Any developments?’ he asked.

She pulled a face. ‘Not really.’

He opened his mouth, looked as if he was going to make some sarcastic comment – ‘Nothing you can tell me about,’ perhaps – but he resisted the urge and closed it again. Then he said, ‘I hear they couldn’t get anything from the teeth.’

She sighed. ‘The sample was too degraded – too old.’

‘I hear they definitely haven’t found any animal DNA in the wound, either. They’ve packed in trying.’

‘Really?’ She’d known they were doing further tests but she hadn’t heard the results, and she didn’t know they’d given up.

‘Nothing, not even around the claw-marks. Though that
pathologist couldn’t find his arse with both hands. That poor kid. She—’

‘They really found nothing, not even skin cells? If a dog had—’

‘They don’t think it was a dog, Cate.’

She took a deep breath. She had known that news of the investigation would spread through the station, but wasn’t sure how she’d come to be briefed by PC Stockdale, when she was on the case and he was not.

He smiled, though there was no humour in it. ‘Don’t worry, Cate. I’m only in it for the donkey work, remember? I have a wood to stand guard over.’ He met her eye and this time there was something in his expression; Cate remembered the way she’d asked him to ignore Alice’s presence by the lake and she changed the subject.

‘So if the wound was clean … How do they think that was possible? If it was a wolf—’

‘A wolf?’ Len let out a sharp laugh. ‘It’s not a wolf, Cate. They’re only calling him that.’

‘I know, but the killer is doing this to fit the story, and the story had a wolf in it, so—’

‘So.’ He took a deep breath and shifted in his chair. ‘You don’t want to get drawn in too deep, Cate. Keep your head, or you might be blind to it when anything happens that’s outside your way of thinking: when he slips.’

She paused, feeling the weight of experience behind his words. Then she couldn’t stop herself: ‘It
fits
,’ she said, ‘all except for the lack of skin cells or hair from the animal.’

‘Maybe he didn’t use an animal. Maybe he made the marks in the wound another way. He might have wanted it to look like that, but did it in some way that he could keep sterile.’

Cate stared at him and he looked back at her, not speaking. It flashed into Cate’s mind again that Len must surely, at some time, have thought of moving to CID.
Of course
that must be how it had been done. Why hadn’t she seen that for herself? She should have thought of it. As the silence stretched out, it occurred to her that maybe he was right about other things too. Maybe she
wasn’t
seeing things clearly. In another way, though, didn’t it also mean she was right? The killer had wanted to follow the fairy tale, and so he – or she – had created claw-marks without claws.

She tried to cover her confusion. ‘Was there any other trace?’

‘Not that I heard. Oh, but they did find something in the bread. Pesticide, I believe, like at the first scene.’

‘Poisoned bread – for Grandmother?’ Cate didn’t try to hide her incredulity this time, ignoring Len’s expression. She couldn’t help it: unlike the claw-marks, this didn’t fit at all. Little Red Riding Hood was taking food to
help
Grandmother, not to kill her. So what was that supposed to mean? Or perhaps it was a mistake, the poison had been used to subdue her, and the bread had merely been contaminated … except in that case, they would have found traces of it in the body.

She stared helplessly at Len. What had he just said – that she should stand back from this, take a longer view?
Or you might be blind to it, when anything happens that’s outside your way of thinking: when he slips
.

‘I have to go,’ she said, casting a glance at her watch. She was about to go off shift, and she needed to speak to Alice Hyland. She didn’t tell Stocky, though, and she tried not to see the expression on his face as she hurried away.

*

Cate knocked on the door and waited. When Alice opened it and stepped back in surprise, she shrugged helplessly. ‘Sorry to bother you again,’ she said, ‘but something came up. May I?’

Alice gestured her inside and she followed her into the kitchen. ‘There’s been some new information released. They found poison in the bread that was taken from the basket at the Little Red Riding Hood scene – can you tell me about it? Do you know what variation of the fairy tale it’s from?’

‘Variant,’ Alice corrected, speaking automatically; her expression was distant. Then she stirred. ‘It’s not from a variant. The bread’s meant for the grandmother. It isn’t from any version of the story I know.’ She frowned. ‘Are you sure? It doesn’t make sense. Little Red takes food to the grandmother because she’s ill, or old, or frail. The grandmother is torn apart by the wolf, then so is Little Red. The huntsman—’ Suddenly she yawned widely,
showing the pink inside of her mouth. ‘You know the rest. We went through all this. There’s no poison.’

‘What about the other one you told me about – where Little Red is the dawn or something like that? Isn’t the earth being poisoned? And the earth is the grandmother.’

‘It’s being enveloped in darkness,’ said Alice, ‘not poisoned exactly, not in the sense you mean. I’m not sure what that would mean, really: the bread just shouldn’t be poisoned. It’s an exception, I’d say. Maybe your killer got it wrong.’

‘You really think so?’ Cate couldn’t keep the tone of excitement out of her voice.

Alice shrugged. ‘They must have. Unless they needed the poison for something else. It’s not in the story, anyway.’ She sagged, leaning against the kitchen table, and Cate noticed how tired she looked. Was that what she had done to her with her questions?

‘It all comes back to the stories,’ she prompted. ‘Can you think how it might fit?’

Alice shook her head. ‘Not that part.’

‘It must mean something.’ She clenched her fist, stopped short of battering it against Alice’s table. ‘Why all the stupid stories anyway? This is driving me mad.’

Alice took an audible breath and began to pace up and down. She didn’t look at Cate; her expression was calm, as if not conscious of being watched at all. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘so these girls – the murdered girls – have been pictured like characters in fairy tales. This much we know.
But it’s more than that, it’s like they
are
the stories, or someone’s own variant of them, anyway: a new way of telling them.’ She paused. ‘You know, I keep thinking about that girl, the one I
saw
. The one in the photographs – that wasn’t the same, was it? Not like seeing her in the flesh.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I couldn’t help thinking – all those police, the cars, the effort. It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for the stories, would it? Without that – the red cape, the basket, all of it – she’d be nothing but a dead girl dumped in the woods – no, worse than that: a dead
whore
. At least this way someone cares.’ She turned her eyes on Cate. ‘So the tales count for something. At least being part of a story means she
matters
.’

Cate opened her eyes wide in surprise. ‘Of course she matters.’

‘Does she? She’s not just another dead junkie, a hooker off the streets? Junkies die all the time, don’t they?’

Cate took half a step back. She hadn’t expected such vehemence from Alice, not about something happening in the real world: Alice only seemed to half live in the real world, come to that. This is what she, Cate, had done, dragging her into it, firmly and irreversibly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but of course I care.’ As she said the words she found herself wondering how much: would she have wanted to be on this case so badly if it was as ordinary, as sordid, as another dead junkie?