tales, Cate. So what killed her, do youthink? Is there a big bad wolf around here somewhere, or did story time at the library just get seriously out of hand?’
Cate never got the chance to answer; one of the SOCOs stepped forward and took hold of the edge of the girl’s cape. He raised it, and Cate saw there was blood after all, getting tacky where it had been exposed to the light. A fly crawled from beneath the fabric and lifted itself into the air as the SOCO turned the cloak back further.
Cate took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The smell was stronger now, pervading everything, embedding itself deep in her throat.
The girl’s belly had been torn open – that was why it smelled so strongly. The stomach contents had spilled amid the entrails, and there was more blood, gelatinous and bright, and the pale gleam of fat. Amongst everything were yellow-white blowfly larvae, clustered like balls of sticky rice.
The SOCO let the cloak fall back again.
Cate looked up to find Heath’s eyes fixed on her. ‘Feel all right, Corbin?’
She was surprised he’d asked; she nodded. Yes, she was all right: it was bad, but on the face of it, she had seen worse. It was what lay beneath this scene that was disturbing, like something stirring the surface of dark water.
‘I think you’d better get your expert down here.’ Heath’s voice was unexpectedly quiet. ‘We’re going to need her to take a look. ASAP.’
Cate stared at him. She remembered the way Alice Hyland had reached for the photograph of Chrissie Farrell’s body, obviously not liking to touch it; her reluctance, as if the paper itself was tainted.
‘No time to be squeamish, Cate,’ he said, as though reading her mind. ‘It’s no good waiting for reports or photographs. If she can help, she needs to do so fast.’ He nodded towards the path. ‘Go and find a uniform, get them to fetch her.’ He met her eye. ‘I’m going to want you to stay on-site.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alice was staring into her mirror when she heard someone banging on the door. She jumped, startled. She had been whispering something under her breath, barely conscious of what it was. Now she realised: Mirror, mirror , she had been saying. She hadn’t been able to get Chrissie Farrell out of her mind since she’d seen the policewoman’s photograph: the fairest of them all, with her wan skin and pale eyes, staring up at nothing. She shuddered, suddenly reluctant to answer the door. Inside, her fairy tales stayed where they belonged, close and yet distant: safe . In order to reach their magic Alice had only to open a book. The things that Cate Corbin had shown her … She frowned. She knew the tales had their own power, but to see them intrude on reality in that way … she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to know who was knocking at her door. She stood there, staring into the mirror, brushing back her pale blonde hair.
Then the banging came again, blam-blam-blam , and sheknew she couldn’t ignore it. If she had ever had a choice about becoming involved, it had vanished when Cate put the dead girl’s picture into her hand.
It wasn’t Cate at the door. This time it was a policeman standing there, glancing over his shoulder as if impatient to be gone. Alice’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is it?’ Her voice came out harshly, making her think for a moment of the rooks that lived in the woods at the back of the house.
He frowned. The skin around his eyes was raw-looking, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time. He introduced himself as PC Nicholls. ‘Ms Hyland, we need your help, if you’re willing,’ he said. ‘There’s something we need you to look at.’
Alice was silent as the policeman eased the car down the lane and turned onto the main road. She couldn’t take in what it was he wanted. The silence was awkward, and she felt he was waiting for her questions: where were they going, exactly? What was it he wanted her to see? She didn’t ask anything. After
Cate never got the chance to answer; one of the SOCOs stepped forward and took hold of the edge of the girl’s cape. He raised it, and Cate saw there was blood after all, getting tacky where it had been exposed to the light. A fly crawled from beneath the fabric and lifted itself into the air as the SOCO turned the cloak back further.
Cate took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The smell was stronger now, pervading everything, embedding itself deep in her throat.
The girl’s belly had been torn open – that was why it smelled so strongly. The stomach contents had spilled amid the entrails, and there was more blood, gelatinous and bright, and the pale gleam of fat. Amongst everything were yellow-white blowfly larvae, clustered like balls of sticky rice.
The SOCO let the cloak fall back again.
Cate looked up to find Heath’s eyes fixed on her. ‘Feel all right, Corbin?’
She was surprised he’d asked; she nodded. Yes, she was all right: it was bad, but on the face of it, she had seen worse. It was what lay beneath this scene that was disturbing, like something stirring the surface of dark water.
‘I think you’d better get your expert down here.’ Heath’s voice was unexpectedly quiet. ‘We’re going to need her to take a look. ASAP.’
Cate stared at him. She remembered the way Alice Hyland had reached for the photograph of Chrissie Farrell’s body, obviously not liking to touch it; her reluctance, as if the paper itself was tainted.
‘No time to be squeamish, Cate,’ he said, as though reading her mind. ‘It’s no good waiting for reports or photographs. If she can help, she needs to do so fast.’ He nodded towards the path. ‘Go and find a uniform, get them to fetch her.’ He met her eye. ‘I’m going to want you to stay on-site.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alice was staring into her mirror when she heard someone banging on the door. She jumped, startled. She had been whispering something under her breath, barely conscious of what it was. Now she realised: Mirror, mirror , she had been saying. She hadn’t been able to get Chrissie Farrell out of her mind since she’d seen the policewoman’s photograph: the fairest of them all, with her wan skin and pale eyes, staring up at nothing. She shuddered, suddenly reluctant to answer the door. Inside, her fairy tales stayed where they belonged, close and yet distant: safe . In order to reach their magic Alice had only to open a book. The things that Cate Corbin had shown her … She frowned. She knew the tales had their own power, but to see them intrude on reality in that way … she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to know who was knocking at her door. She stood there, staring into the mirror, brushing back her pale blonde hair.
Then the banging came again, blam-blam-blam , and sheknew she couldn’t ignore it. If she had ever had a choice about becoming involved, it had vanished when Cate put the dead girl’s picture into her hand.
It wasn’t Cate at the door. This time it was a policeman standing there, glancing over his shoulder as if impatient to be gone. Alice’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is it?’ Her voice came out harshly, making her think for a moment of the rooks that lived in the woods at the back of the house.
He frowned. The skin around his eyes was raw-looking, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time. He introduced himself as PC Nicholls. ‘Ms Hyland, we need your help, if you’re willing,’ he said. ‘There’s something we need you to look at.’
Alice was silent as the policeman eased the car down the lane and turned onto the main road. She couldn’t take in what it was he wanted. The silence was awkward, and she felt he was waiting for her questions: where were they going, exactly? What was it he wanted her to see? She didn’t ask anything. After
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