Path of Needles (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When Cate and Dan got back to the station they found everything in a stir. The autopsy results were in and the forensic pathologist was being ushered into the briefing room. After a quick glance at each other, they slipped inside and the doors closed behind them.

The pathologist was an older gentleman, with clouds of white hair clinging above his ears, his scalp shining under the strip-lights. He shuffled papers in his hands, cleared his throat and looked out at them over his half-moon glasses. Cate imagined him peering over the girl like that, her body opened out like a book for him to read; Alice’s way of seeing things rubbing off on her, perhaps.

‘The time of death is estimated at between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.,’ he began. ‘From the lividity on the victim’s body we can ascertain she was moved after death and before being found. So she could have been transported in a car, or some other method of conveyance.’

Cate found herself turning to exchange a glance with
Len, but of course he wasn’t there; there was only Dan, who looked back at her, half puzzled, half appraising. Cate faced front again. She knew why he had looked at her that way; it was the same expression he’d worn earlier when she’d asked him to wait while she hurried back down the lakeside path after Alice, ready to intercede between her contact and Len Stockdale, before he could start to question Alice, or note down her name in his book.

Dan hadn’t asked why she’d headed off so quickly; hopefully he had thought she just needed a quick word with a fellow officer, but she wondered now if there was some suspicion in his mind. She hoped he wouldn’t notice a small omission in the record; thanks to her intervention, Alice’s presence near the crime scene had not been noted. She wasn’t sure why she had done it, not really. It had been stupid, but it couldn’t make any difference.

Heath was standing at the front of the room, glowering at the gathered officers while the pathologist spoke, and she felt a mingling of guilt and relief. If he’d found out about Alice’s presence at the lake he’d never have let it go; it would have been time and attention that wasn’t focused on finding the killer. But she knew she had created a problem with Stocky too. He’d done what she’d asked, but she knew he hadn’t liked it. He had only agreed because she was so insistent it couldn’t matter. When Cate finished speaking to him at the lakeside, there had been a new look in his eyes, and it wasn’t one she liked. She’d already annoyed him by being singled out as part of this investigation, but
until now she’d never given him cause to doubt her abilities, or her judgement.

She forced herself to focus on the pathologist’s words.

‘The teeth placed in the victim’s mouth were those of a child,’ he said. ‘They’re milk teeth, and they appear to have fallen out naturally rather than having been drawn. Judging from their condition, that could have been quite some years ago.’

The room had fallen silent. Cate’s heart began to beat faster and she wondered if everyone was thinking the same thing: that this could be the breakthrough they needed. If the teeth were years old, kept since someone was a child – they could even be the killer’s own teeth. She stuck her hand in the air and called out, ‘Is there any way of telling if they’re male or female?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid, not so far. There are differences in male and female teeth – the canines are bigger in males, and there are differences in crown dimension, for example – but we haven’t found anything conclusive in the examples we have. We are making attempts to extract DNA from the pulp, in which case we will be able to ascertain sex, but my feeling is that the teeth are too old and it is likely to be too degraded. It’s a slim chance.’

Cate’s mind was racing. If they could extract DNA, they could test it against Cosgrove’s. And if it wasn’t him, they could at least test Alice’s theories and confirm once and for all if the killer was a man or a woman. Or was she getting too close to Alice’s ideas? She took a calming breath.
They didn’t even know if the teeth had once been the killer’s; they might be anyone’s. He could have dug them up, for all they knew. What was wrong with her? She had to do as Heath said, slow down, try to be methodical.

An image of Len Stockdale flashed into her mind; he had that same look in his eye.
Are you really sure you know what you’re doing, Cate?

Someone else asked, ‘Do you think the teeth could be the victim’s kid? Maybe she had a child somewhere.’

Cate started. She hadn’t thought of that.

The pathologist shook his head. ‘There are signs that Teresa King had had an abortion in the past. It wasn’t in her medical records, so she might have gone under a different name, or had it done somewhere – unofficial, let’s say. I don’t believe she’s ever given birth. From the scarring I’d say it was unlikely she’d ever have been able to have children, had she lived.’

Cate winced. The girl’s options for a family had been taken from her when she was little more than a child herself: the path of needles, indeed. She pictured Teresa standing hollow-eyed on some street corner, waiting for someone, anyone, who might come along and decide they wanted her, for a time.

The pathologist cleared his throat and looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘The cause of death was as expected,’ he said. ‘There was massive blood loss from the girl’s abdominal wound. The odd thing, however, is the cause of the wound. It was strikingly
obvious that the flesh had been torn as well as cut. Furthermore, there were distinct signs of claw-marks to be found within it.’

Cate felt the buzz that jumped from person to person and sat up a little straighter herself.

The pathologist took off his glasses. ‘It looks as if she was attacked by an animal, clawed, possibly bitten, but the only traces of animal activity have come from the insects and birds that interfered with the body at the scene. In wounds like this we would expect to find dog DNA – hair, saliva; or perhaps signs of foxes biting at the corpse. However, we found nothing of the kind. The body was remarkably clean.’

He held up a hand, holding back any questions, and the room fell silent. ‘From superficial appearances I would say she was the victim of not only a human but also an animal attack, possibly by a large dog. The girl had ligature marks on her wrists and bruising to her face: she was certainly overpowered and restrained. It’s quite possible she was conscious while the wounds were inflicted and unable to do anything to prevent it. I saw something similar once where an attack dog was effectively – very effectively – used as a murder weapon. But as I say, the wounds in this case are too clean, and the lack of further evidence of the animal is highly unusual, if not remarkable.’

The questions began: ‘Could you have missed something?’

The pathologist half turned away. ‘Highly unlikely, although we
are
carrying out further tests.’

‘What if the killer had prepared the animal – washed it?’

‘What if he’d cleaned the wound?’

‘We would still expect to find some sort of transfer – epithelial cells from its skin, hair … no, it isn’t likely.’

‘So it might not have been an animal at all?’

‘The pattern of the wounds suggests it was, but we can only state what the evidence tells us.’ The pathologist straightened. ‘It’s up to others to do the guesswork.’

‘Could it have been a wolf?’

Cate couldn’t see who’d asked the question, but she saw its effect. Everyone was quiet, waiting for the answer.

The pathologist paused. ‘As I said, it might fit the pattern of the wounds, but the lack of trace evidence would make it somewhat remarkable. As would the appearance of wolves in Wakefield.’ He raised his eyebrows, peering over his glasses until the sniggers faded from the room, and then he turned away. The briefing was over.

Everyone started talking, each turning to their neighbour to make comment, and Cate several times caught the word ‘wolf’. Suddenly she knew, with a tight feeling in her stomach, that’s what they would call him; she could already see it in tomorrow’s papers. T
HE WOLF STRIKES
. T
HE WOLF STALKS
. T
HE WOLF IN THE WOODS
. This was exactly what the investigation didn’t need, a serial killer invested with a name like that; something that set him – or her – apart,
making them just a little less than human, so that if a member of the public should happen to meet them, pass them in the street or in a shop, they would never recognise them for what they were.

And she realised something else.
Massive blood loss
, he’d said – that was what had killed the girl. In other words, she had been alive when he’d done that to her. Her heart must still have been beating.
Had
she been conscious? Little Red meeting the wolf at last, at least in some guise – not safely within the covers of a book but someplace real that was full of blood and pain and death, and someone looking on, with – what? – on their face. Pleasure? Satisfaction? Joy?

She clenched her fists.

‘You okay?’

She looked around and was surprised to find it was Dan who’d asked. She was about to answer, but then Heath was at the front of the room, stepping forward for a few last words, and the moment had gone.

He told them that they would be kept informed about any further DNA results, that they were bringing in a profiler to give further insight. They
were
treating the murderer as a serial killer, then, Cate thought. They must feel, as she did, that this wasn’t over.

She wondered what a profiler would make of Alice’s ideas. Of course, they’d probably assume the killer was a man; they usually were. She found she wanted to talk over the latest findings with Alice – or perhaps it was the reality
of the girl’s death that had made Cate think of her, the lecturer whose world seemed half composed of fantasy. She tried not to think of the victim, her body exhausted by drugs and bad living, tied down while some animal attacked her. Sometimes there could be too much reality; it would be comforting, after all, if it were nothing but a tale to frighten children.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Cate parked at the head of the narrow lane by the wood and walked towards Alice’s cottage. As she let herself in at the little green gate, she saw Alice sitting in one of the windows, her blonde hair falling over her eyes as she bent over a book. She stood there for a moment, feeling like an intruder, and Heath’s words echoed in her mind:
watch her
. But she hadn’t expected to see her like that – she hadn’t meant to sneak up on her. She’d only parked at the end of the lane because it was narrow, and it was pleasant for walking; the evening had turned brighter than the day and the air was now clear and warm.

Watch her
. Heath’s voice had become insidious; that man trusted no one. Cate felt guilty whenever she thought about it, the way her contact had been interrogated over her lakeside walk. And yet here she was standing motionless, watching Alice after all. She roused herself, went up to the door and knocked. After a moment it opened and Alice
stood blinking on the threshold as if her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted from whatever she’d been reading.

Cate realised she didn’t have a clue what she was going to say, but Alice saved her the trouble by smiling a welcome and stepping back. Cate followed her inside and watched the girl busying herself about the kitchen, pouring floral-smelling tea from a china pot. Late sunshine slanted through the windows, warming everything.

‘I’ve been thinking about this case,’ said Alice, as though it was she who had asked Cate to come. ‘I can’t get it out of my mind.’

Cate smiled. ‘Maybe you should have been a detective.’

Alice let out a spurt of laughter. ‘That’s funny. The other day, I actually thought you should have studied literature. The way you saw a fairy tale in that first girl’s death – it wasn’t obvious. Not everyone would have thought of it.’

‘Not me, I belong in the real world.’ Cate paused. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just – I always wanted to join the police, to get out there on the street, do my bit. Studying stories, over and over – it leads only to itself, doesn’t it?’

Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, not this time, obviously.’

‘But don’t you ever—?’

‘What – want to escape my ivory tower? Like Rapunzel, let down my hair?’ Alice tilted her head, half smiling, half mocking. ‘Not me. I always – I don’t know. I grew up on these stories, I suppose. I always felt there was a little bit
of magic in them, somewhere, if I could only find it. My mother used to call me Alice in Wonderland.’ She leaned back on the counter and her eyes went distant.

‘Used to?’

Alice sighed. ‘She still would if she could recognise me, I suppose. My mother isn’t well – she doesn’t remember much. She’s in a home now.’ She hesitated. ‘I couldn’t really cope with her on my own. I sometimes wish I could go back, you know – to those times.’ She set down her mug with a bang. ‘It’s stupid: I’m like an overgrown kid, still looking for the bloody wonderland.’ She caught Cate’s eye. ‘Of course, there isn’t one – there certainly isn’t a handsome prince. Typical,’ she spat, and Cate found herself laughing.

After a moment, Alice laughed too. Then she grew serious. ‘I’ll tell you why the old stories are important,’ she said. ‘They’re all about how one day you might grow up to have a good heart, or slay the dragon, or overcome problems, to value love instead of possessions. Now all the stories we tell our kids are about how you might grow up to be on TV, get rich or marry a footballer, because we started to tell stories about real things, to model ourselves on real people. And this is what you get.’ She paused. ‘I always loved fairy tales. I always thought I’d
like
anyone who loved them too. Now all this is happening and the death is real and I don’t know any more. It’s as if the things I love have turned into horrors.’

Cate nodded. ‘I kind of know what you mean. It
is
too
real.’ She explained the pathologist’s findings, the claw-marks that had been found on Teresa King’s body.