Path of Needles (28 page)

She frowned, lost in her own thoughts as she took a turn that led away from the woodland. Behind her, others would be on their way to investigate the lead she’d found; but then, if she had been the one listening to her own stammered explanation, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have turned her away too.

At least they
were
going to investigate.

Now she followed a winding road that led towards Crigglestone and the address she’d been given, passing a bus stop with a wide turning-circle and descending into a dip in the road before coming out the other side. The address was just off the High Street and as she took each turn she glanced at road signs, remembering her training:
Always know where you are
. She shrugged inwardly even as she did so. Would Stocky have been pleased to think his training had stuck? But he’d lost faith in her in other ways, more important ones, and that felt like such a long time ago.

What she thought of now was Alice, wending her way through the woods, just following a bird, probably not paying any attention to where she was or where she went. She shook the thought away. Alice
had
to be right, didn’t she? If Cate had been misled, Heath would never give her another chance – if it wasn’t already too late.

Of course, Cate hadn’t told him about how Alice thought she’d found the tree. She had only told him about the tooth and the fairy tale, though from the expression on his face, that had been more than enough. She hadn’t wanted to see that look in his eyes; even as she spoke she realised that it was the second time she’d found herself covering for Alice. And of course she was supposed to be offering her support to her contact – but was that really the reason she’d done it?

Heath’s steely eyes, Alice’s dreamy expression: she felt
caught between the two of them. For now though, it was only her, and a job to be done. She turned onto a side road, slowed and started looking at the house numbers. She heard a dog barking even before she saw the right one.

The animal was as Alice had described, short and squat and deep in the chest, its fur entirely black. It probably had some pitbull somewhere in its lineage. It was an unlikely pet for an older woman – perhaps her son, Gary Wilson, had made the choice. It strained on its chain as Cate stepped out and opened the gate. It wasn’t barking now, nor snarling; its tongue lolled against the black frills of its lips.

‘Not so fierce,’ she said to it, and it wagged its tail.

The woman who answered the door didn’t say anything when she saw Cate; she just stood in the doorway, waiting.

‘It’s the police, Mrs Wilson,’ Cate said, and showed her badge. ‘I wondered if I might have a word?’

The woman squinted. ‘Police, is it? Eh?’

‘Could I come in?’

The woman pushed the door wider and Cate stepped inside, seeing gaudily flowered wallpaper and a carpet with a faded strip pointing the way to the lounge. She smelled something sharp and herbal, and beneath that, a slight mustiness.

‘I understand you were walking in the woods,’ Cate said. ‘Could you tell me something about what you were doing there?’

The woman pulled a face. ‘Why wouldn’t I be in the woods, love? I always go to the woods. That’s where I take my walk. I like a gin, see, it’s medicinal an’ all, and I need the juniper berries to go in it. It’s how my mother took it, and her mother before that.’ She held out her hands. ‘It’s for the arthritis, see.’ Her hands were loosely curled into fists, her knuckles lumpen. ‘No one’ll tell you, but gin’s good for arthritis. Me mother swore by it.’

‘Not the juniper berries?’ Cate asked mildly. She wasn’t looking at the woman’s hands, though; she was staring into the corner of the room where a birdcage stood on a high stand, covered by a faded tea-towel.

‘Eh?’

‘It’s not the juniper berries that are good for arthritis?’

‘Oh – aye, love, maybe them too, eh?’

Cate smiled. ‘I wondered if you saw anything while you were out walking?’

‘Oh no, love, not me. Terrible thing though. No, I mind my own business. I just get my berries, that’s all. Maybe you should ask our Gary.’ She peered more closely at Cate. ‘You single?’ she asked suddenly.

Cate waved the question away.

‘No, no one is these days, are they? That reminds me; I did see someone. Nice girl, she was. In her own world, like.’

Cate covered her smile. ‘All right, Mrs Wilson. Do you ever gather anything else in the woods, by the way – herbs, medicinal plants, anything like that?’

‘Not me, love, I wouldn’t know what to do with ’em. Probably poison myself. No, it’s just for me gin. I try sloe sometimes, but it’s not the same. My arthritis, see.’

Cate nodded, then gestured towards the corner. ‘What’s in the cage, Mrs Wilson?’

‘Oh, that, love, them’s me budgies. I always cover ’em up while I have me cup of tea, or they make a hell of a racket. They know I’m not paying ’em attention, see. They like attention, they do.’ She didn’t stop talking as she approached the cage. ‘You can have a look, but they’re not right friendly with strangers.’

She whisked the tea-towel off the cage as if performing a magic trick. There was a pair of budgies in the cage, as she had said. They were green. They turned their faces towards Cate, their eyes bright but devoid of understanding. One ruffled its wings as if in a shrug, stretched out one claw.

‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson. You’ve been extremely helpful.’ Cate led the way down the hall, said goodbye. Once standing alone in the garden she cast her eyes around, this time looking for any trace of the plant that Heath had mentioned in his briefing:
Conium maculatum
, poison hemlock. There was no sign of anything like it, only a stunted tree reaching out its limp branches over the grass.

*

Bernard Levitt had a bungalow on one of the housing estates at the other side of Sandal. The estate was neither old nor new, and full of other bungalows that looked more
or less like it; some had dormer windows that spoke of loft conversions, while others had porches or extensions bolted onto the front or side. All were well kept, the lawns carefully mowed, the paint more or less fresh. It was commuter belt incarnate, the sort of place where the sight of a police car would set curtains twitching and tongues a-wagging.

Cate took care to close the car door softly, smiling around as she walked up the path. It wasn’t likely but she glanced around the garden anyway; there was no
Conium
there either, only tired hydrangeas and a rockery studded with alpines. She knocked loudly, realising as she did how quiet the estate was. It was so quiet she jumped when a voice spoke, not far away: ‘Please, come around the back. I was just clearing up.’

She looked at the corner of the house but couldn’t see to whom the voice belonged, so she followed the path around and stepped on to the driveway. A clean, dark blue saloon was parked there, and behind it stood the regulation three wheelie bins. She squeezed through the gap between them and the side wall of the house before rounding the corner to see a broad garden.

‘Back here.’ The voice was thin and a little high. Levitt was stocky, wore thick glasses and the kind of haircut his mother might have done for him, and his face was shining with sweat.

Cate saw what he carried in his hands and she started.

It was a dead bird, a wood pigeon, pale wings hanging
limply from its body. It hung loose in his hands. Levitt saw her looking, took hold of one wing between his thumb and fingertip and stretched it out. ‘
Columba palumbus
,’ he said. ‘Beautiful things. Quite beautiful.’

He gestured towards the end of his garden. There was a wooden strut running from a small shed to the fence and from it hung bird feeders, all shapes and sizes, strings of nuts and transparent globes containing grain and other substances Cate didn’t recognise. There was a birdhouse too, large and intricate, with multiple holes and arches carved into it; and a birdbath set into the ground. The largest structure was an aviary, which had been built onto the side of the shed.

Levitt coughed and stepped towards her, then bent and picked up a hessian sack that had been lying on the ground. He put the bird into it, gently easing it into the opening. As he did so, his mouth twisted, in distaste or sorrow, Cate wasn’t sure which.

‘It’s the cats, you know.’ Now he looked disgusted. ‘Do you like cats?’

‘Not especially.’

He nodded, as if she’d given a satisfactory answer. ‘They kill hundreds of birds each year. Hundreds, possibly even thousands – you wouldn’t believe how many cats there are on this estate.’

Cate thought of the closed doors, the apparently empty streets. She doubted she’d be surprised at all.

‘I’m sorry. I’m being rude.’ Levitt turned towards her
and held out his hand to shake. ‘Ah – wait.’ He wiped it on the back of his trousers, half-heartedly held it out again before letting it fall. ‘Well – no. Can I help you with something?’

‘I’m a police officer, Mr Levitt. I’m investigating the body that was found at Newmillerdam. I heard you liked to spend time in the woods there and wondered if you might have seen anything.’

‘Oh. Well, I have been spoken to before, you know. I walk there quite often; someone already asked. Still, since you’re here – can I offer you a drink? Lemonade, perhaps?’

It was so like something a child’s mother might ask that Cate had to bite back a laugh. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said.

Levitt kept speaking to her from the kitchen, his voice accompanied by the sound of cupboards opening and closing, the chink of glasses and the pouring of liquid. He came in at last, one glass in each hand, and set them on the table. Cate took hers and sipped. It was Bernard Levitt who started talking again. ‘You know, they say cats are the only creatures that torture their prey,’ he said. ‘They’ll play with a bird for hours before they kill it. Pin it down, claw at it, watch it trying to get away. It’s a terrible thing.’ He sat down.

‘Besides humans,’ said Cate.

‘What?’ He turned to her, took hold of the frame of his glasses, as if that would help him see what she meant.

‘The only creatures that torture their prey, besides humans.’

‘Oh. Oh dear, I see what you mean. Well, I suppose you would know.’ He shot her a sidelong glance. ‘The things you must see. I mean, to say something like that, you must have—Terrible. Terrible.’

‘You say you’re a bird lover,’ Cate said. ‘So, you’ve been watching them down in the wood?’

‘That’s right. I take my hide down there. I suppose you’ve heard about the blue bird? It’s quite the sensation. I’m sure you watch the news.’

‘I wondered if you’d seen anything else, Mr Levitt, while you were there. You’ll have heard about the murder case. I know you’ve been asked already, but I’m here to check if you’d seen anything unusual, anything that might give you concern. Anything at all might turn out to be important, you know, even if it doesn’t seem so at the time.’

‘Well now, let’s see. No, I don’t think I have. No, I’m pretty sure – but I’m very focused, you know. I tend to go off the beaten track, so to speak, where I know it’ll be quiet. That’s when the birds come to me.’ His face fell. ‘I never have seen it yet, though. I’m hoping it’ll still be around. There’s no reason it shouldn’t survive this long, not in springtime. It might even be nesting somewhere.’

‘So you haven’t seen anything – any
one
else out there?’

‘Well, no, I’m afraid I haven’t really seen anybody. Oh wait. No, there was someone: a young lady, pleasant,
blonde. She was walking in the woods on her own. Other than that, no, I haven’t seen anyone at all.’

*

Cate got back into the car and sat there for a moment, lost in thought. Just when she had the interviews wrapped up, there Alice was again, in the middle of everything. She was already wondering whether to mention it to Heath. What on earth had Alice been doing when Levitt saw her – was she too looking for her blue bird? It was as if she was retreating into her fantasy world. Hopefully that wasn’t because of the things she’d seen.

She frowned, thinking of Alice chasing after the blue bird, Mrs Farrell sweeping the cloth from her budgie’s cage; Levitt turning towards her, the limp wood pigeon in his hands. There seemed to be birds everywhere she went today.

But lots of people kept birds; it didn’t mean anything. Now, if ever, was the time to prove to Heath she had a sensible head on her shoulders.

And then something else came back to her, another voice: at first she thought it was Alice’s, then she knew it wasn’t.

I shouldn’t mention it really, only there was this bird.

It had been a young girl’s voice.

It was sitting on the wall, an’ it were bright blue.

It was the girl she’d spoken to after the school dance, when she was trying to find out what had happened to Chrissie Farrell.

Just sitting there. Pretty, though. It was really pretty
.

And then she remembered Matt Cosgrove; the teacher’s blank, empty eyes.
I remember standing there for a bit, at the door
, he’d said.
It was a nice night. I was – I was distracted, I think
.

Had he too been watching the bird?

A sound made her jump. She reached for her radio, then realised it was her mobile. She fumbled for it, answered the call: it was Dan.

‘You need to get down to Newmillerdam,’ he said. ‘They’ve found something.’ He paused. ‘Heath wants you at the scene. Apparently it was you who came up with the lead.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The police officers were back, along with the photographers and the SOCOs and the police tape, the whole sorry parade. They bustled amid the once-peaceful wood, the locus of their activity a single dark green tree.

The juniper stood roughly the height of a man, dwarfed by the surrounding giants of beech and ash. Its fat purple berries were held out in clusters like small fists, some kind of benediction perhaps, or an apology. Its branches stirred in the late-spring breeze, and when they did, the whole tree swayed.

The tree was swaying because there was a gaping hole at its foot where the ground had been excavated. Fresh earth was piled to one side, alive with the movement of insects and worms emerging from the dark.