Path of Needles (7 page)

‘I don’t know. Chrissie thought making friends online was lame.’ Mrs Farrell let out a spurt of breath, the nearest she could come to a laugh.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll follow it up anyway, Mrs Farrell, just in case. We’ll need her computer, with your permission.’

Dumbly, she nodded.

‘And you’re quite sure she wasn’t seeing anybody?’

‘There were a few boys, no one special. She never seemed that interested. She finished with the last one months ago. It wasn’t anything serious. Chrissie wasn’t—’ She glanced up, a sharp movement this time, and looked away.

‘Mrs Farrell?’

‘Oh God,’ she said. The colour drained from her face. ‘There was someone at the dance – I’d forgotten.’

‘What is it?’ Dan prompted.

‘Jesus.’ She looked around, her eyes wild, as if looking for the answers. ‘Him,’ she said. ‘Oh God, him.’

‘Who, Mrs Farrell?’

Her mouth worked. ‘Cosgrove,’ she said, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘That’s it. He said his name was Matt Cosgrove.’

‘Who is he?’ Dan said.

‘Her teacher.’ Angie Farrell’s eyes had an unhealthy gleam. ‘I heard someone talking at the dance about him, some girls. I thought it was just gossip, you know.’

‘And they said?’

‘He was seeing someone in her class. That he was sleeping with someone.’ Mrs Farrell put her hand to her mouth. ‘But not Chrissie. Not my girl. She wouldn’t have done that. She was better than that, valued herself. She was going places, my Chrissie. She would have said no. She wouldn’t have let him—’ Her voice ended in a wail. ‘Oh, God. He must have made her. And when she said no,
he – he did that to her—’ Her voice rose, and she scrambled to her feet.

‘That bastard,’ she said, turning to Cate. ‘I thought he liked me, but he didn’t, I saw him watching her, and I
knew
, I
should
have known. That bastard.’ Her voice broke and she started to cry, jagged, ugly crying, and the tears spilled down her face and she let them fall.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cate headed back towards the police station. It had been a ball-breaker of a day, as Stocky would have put it. A number of uniforms, Cate among them, had been sent out on grunt work. Even a newcomer like her knew that the first forty-eight hours in a murder case were the most important, and CID had mobilised to gather information; they were using uniform to fill in the gaps, talk to the less promising witnesses and report back to log the information. She knew it was on the periphery of the investigation but even so she couldn’t help feeling energised by the process, to still have some small link to the case.

She hadn’t been able to put the image of Chrissie Farrell out of her mind, a young girl laid out in a thin dress, helpless, exposed to the cold and the insects and the birds. It felt good to be doing something to help. Although … for now, CID needed to know as much as possible as soon as possible; as soon as that phase was over, Cate would be back on the beat. She’d be dealing with neighbours’
disputes or bag snatches or stolen cars. And that was fine, she couldn’t expect anything else at her level, and yet—

Chrissie Farrell’s eyes had been open. She had been looking up at the empty sky, waiting for the rain to fall into them; for the crows to come.

Cate shook her head, trying to dispel the image. The things she’d seen didn’t normally get to her, not like this, but then it was obvious that there was nothing normal about this case. And yet CID already had a suspect, had pounced on what the mother had said about Mr Cosgrove. According to the rumour mill at the station they thought they’d got him signed, sealed and delivered, neat as a parcel pushed through a letterbox, wrapped in a brown-paper parcel and layers of white tissue.

She wondered if someone like Heath was really the type to jump to a rapid conclusion about anything, then remembered the way he’d looked at her in the briefing; pushed the thought away. She still couldn’t imagine him as someone who’d be easily led down one path or another. Those eyes of his; they made it seem he was seeing through everything.

Over the last few hours, Cate had gained the distinct impression that the school had a rumour mill of its own. CID had been there earlier, talking informally to Cosgrove and some of the other teachers who’d been at the dance, along with Kirsty Gill and Chrissie’s closer friends. But from what she’d gathered, it was Cosgrove’s interview that seemed to have stuck in everyone’s minds.

Cate had been questioning some of the kids who had been there on the night of the girl’s disappearance, along with some of the bemused parents, and it seemed every one of them had their own question to ask: the same one, in the main. They’d all had the same shine in their eyes when they asked it, too – a shine that came from excitement, not from sorrow. They’d all wanted to know the story Cate couldn’t tell:

‘What’s with Mr Cosgrove?’

‘Is he a paedo?’

‘Was he doing her?’

It seemed – unless it was just another rumour – Matt Cosgrove had taken exception to the same question being asked by CID at the school, resulting in raised voices and his storming out of the room they were using. Unfortunately for him, that hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Cate wondered if CID were having more success than her. The sense of rumours circulating and growing made her uneasy – at some juncture they would have to locate the source, unpick it, find what kernel of truth lay at its centre. Certainly the girls she’d questioned hadn’t been aware of Chrissie seeing anybody, hadn’t noticed her with anyone out of hours other than her friends. The only thing she knew of that had lent the story wings was Cosgrove’s apparent indignation upon being asked the same question – which wasn’t necessarily surprising. Now the witnesses seemed to expect the police to answer the question: no one had any answers of their own.

It might not be what CID wanted to hear, but Cate was beginning to think the rumour was being carried only on its own breath. She wondered what they were making of it now; found herself imagining what it would be like to really work a case like this one. She felt a shiver of excitement in spite of herself. For now, she
was
working the case, if only in a small way. Mentally she ran through the people she’d been speaking to about what had happened on the evening of the dance.

The closest she’d come to getting anything on the teacher was with the last girl she’d seen – Sarah Brailsford, her name was. At first, she had seemed different; she had actually noticed the teacher watching Chrissie Farrell during the dance. What was it she’d so eloquently said? ‘He was, y’ know, eyeing her up.’ On pressing, though, the girl had added: ‘I thought he liked me too,’ and she’d looked away, as if she could mask the sudden jealousy in her eyes.

That chimed with something and Cate let her thoughts drift, trying to make a connection. What came into her mind was Mrs Farrell.

I thought he liked me, but he didn’t, I saw him watching her.

She frowned.

Cate hadn’t spoken to him, but now she found herself wondering about Mr Cosgrove. Was he really so attractive? What impression would she have gained from him? If he’d done this, cut and broken and destroyed the girl, would Cate know? Would she be able to
feel
it somehow?

She shook her head. If that was how it worked, they wouldn’t need the investigative team. One look at Heath’s pale eyes and the murderer would fall into their lap. All it suggested in reality was that Matt Cosgrove was a popular teacher, someone that schoolgirls liked to gossip about and flirt with. But sleeping with one of them? There was nothing to prove it. Any vague intimation had dissolved into nothing as soon as Cate tried to pin it down. And when it came to the facts, it seemed the girls’ favourite teacher had hung around to the end of the night to see everyone away safely – doing his job, his duty, while Chrissie had gone off on her own.

Of course, Cosgrove might have spotted her later, when he was driving home in his car. Would the girl have refused a lift from her teacher? Cate doubted it. He was in a position of trust, and it was a long way home, especially in Chrissie’s heels. She wondered what kind of state the victim’s feet were in. If she’d set off to walk, it was unlikely she’d have escaped the odd chafe or blister, something to show for it on her feet.

Like a missing toe.

Cate shook her head to clear it. How
had
Chrissie been planning on getting home? Had her friends even thought twice about where she might have gone? It was nothing but a blank; although that wasn’t to say Cate hadn’t discovered anything at all. Sarah Brailsford had seen Chrissie flounce off, ‘worse for wear’. Her nose had wrinkled as she’d said it, and then she’d straightened her expression;
as if she hadn’t liked Chrissie, had felt a moment of scorn, only to remember that the girl was dead.

There was always jealousy
, Angie Farrell had said. Then she’d named names, the girls who didn’t like her daughter:
someone called Sarah
. There had been no surname. Had she meant
this
Sarah? It was certainly possible, but as the sobbing woman had said, school was like that; it changed all the time. Now, though, it might help them: Sarah had still been keeping an eye on Chrissie and her clique when they’d headed off into a quiet corner and Kirsty Gill had pulled a small bottle of something – Sarah thought it was tequila – from her bag and passed it around.

‘Kirsty had some,’ she said, ‘and then Chrissie. And then they all did, and they were laughing. And I went up, because – well, I thought they might give me a swig, if I’m honest; if I told them I’d seen. But when I got there they’d started to go on about the crown, so I didn’t ask, I just listened.’ Her expression changed. ‘Probably a good job. My dad waited up. He went ballistic about the time as it was. If he’d smelled it on me …’

‘What did you hear?’ Cate had prompted.

‘Chrissie was pissed, I reckon. She can’t have been used to it. She was slurring a bit. Showing off that stupid crown. Then Kirsty said something about how she thought
she
might have won, and Chrissie burst out laughing, and Kirsty just looked at her. She said something back, but I couldn’t hear that. It was too loud in there.’

‘And what then?’

The girl’s lip twisted into a sneer, and that too faded, as if she had to keep reminding herself that her schoolmate wasn’t coming back. ‘She said something about them never standing a chance,’ she said. ‘And Kirsty said thank you very much, and the others said something too, but I can’t remember what. They just – argued, you know. I do know what Chrissie said, though, before she went off.’

‘And what was that?’

The girl sighed, looked away. ‘She said they were a bunch of jealous bitches who couldn’t win a beauty contest if they were shagging the judge.’

And that, it seemed, was all: Chrissie had flounced out, and the girl hadn’t seen her again, didn’t know if Chrissie had called for a taxi or tried to hike home in her stilettos.

Couldn’t win a beauty contest if they were shagging the judge
. Interesting choice of words.

Still, the girl was only fifteen.
Fifteen
. And no one had seen her home.

Cate sighed as she approached the station. The only other thing she could think of – that she couldn’t get out of her mind – was the bird.

Another girl had mentioned it, and once she did, she hadn’t seemed able to stop. Hayley Moorhouse wasn’t a particular friend of Chrissie’s but she had been at the dance, and had stayed around until the end along with her boyfriend Mike. In fact, both had left the dance late. Mike had been in the toilets; he wasn’t well, she said, and
all her friends were gone; her dad had been parked outside waiting for them, and it was near midnight. When they went out Hayley could tell he was mad, even through the car window. ‘He were there ages,’ she had said, glancing at her brooding parent. He had been present at the interview but hadn’t looked at his daughter, had stared instead at his hands, picking at his fingernails with ferocious impatience. It had been easy for Cate to imagine how angry he would have been.

‘We rushed off,’ the girl said. ‘We was giving Mike a lift. There was just Mr Cosgrove left, an’ he was getting his keys out and locking up. He shouted bye. There wasn’t anybody else. Only us and me dad.’

Cate nodded, smiled.

‘That was it,’ said Hayley. ‘Except – it was weird.’

Cate looked at her, encouraging her to continue.

‘It’s just – it’s daft, I shouldn’t mention it really, only there was this bird. It was sitting on the wall, an’ it were bright blue, like someone’s budgie or somethin’.’ Her eyes went far away. ‘It weren’t singing or owt. It were just sitting there, looking about. Pretty, though. It was really pretty.’ Her eyes snapped back to Cate. ‘I liked it. Only, I didn’t see anything else.’ She had glanced towards the window as if she could see the bird still sitting there; she pressed her lips together.

Cate looked upwards now to see that the sky was a clear pale blue.
A budgie
. She could imagine the expression on Heath’s face if she mentioned that. His mouth would purse
up as if his cup were filled with battery acid instead of coffee.

As if in answer to her thoughts, Cate saw the SIO as she pulled in at the station. He was standing at the edge of the parking area, pacing up and down, pressing a cigarette to his lips. It was an odd kind of smoking, sharp and quick, as if he’d almost forgotten how, or was feeling guilty and going through the motions as quickly as possible.

He watched her as she stepped out of the car and approached, and she nodded, greeted him. ‘Any joy?’ he asked.

She was surprised he’d spoken to her – he’d been so dismissive at the briefing, had seemed to include her in Mrs Farrell’s interview on sufferance. She recounted the main points of what she’d found out and took a deep breath. ‘There was nothing concrete on Cosgrove sleeping with the victim, sir, only rumours. There might be more to it, but I didn’t find more than schoolgirl stories today. Not with the people I spoke to, anyway.’

Heath paused with the cigarette raised halfway to his lips. He looked at it as if he’d only just realised what it was and flicked it to the ground in disdain. Cate decided it would be a bad time to remind him of the litter laws.