Free Path of Needles by Alison Littlewood

beautiful view in the house, and the early morning was the time to see it.
    This morning there was no blue bird perched in the apple tree. She was half glad – she still hadn’t shaken off her guilt – but half disappointed too. The thought of twitchers scouring the woods for the rare sight she had seen so easily from her window lent it an exoticism that before she had only sensed.
    She shook her hair back. The sky was a pale but perfect blue; it would be sunny yet cold, like yesterday. Beyond was the woodland, the heart of it still dark, almost black, fading to an almost colourless grey in the distance. Somewhere, a bird cried. It wasn’t the varied chatter she had heard before but the strident scrape of a crow, a harsh and isolated sound that made Alice think of lonely places,abandoned places. That in turn made her think of the body that had been found only a few miles away to the south. She had heard about it on the news. If she headed to Newmillerdam, around the lake and through the woods, then crossed the open fields, she wouldn’t be far from where it had happened. The report had been vague, saying only that the death was suspicious, and Alice wondered what had happened to the victim; what had been done to her.
    She grimaced, turned away and headed for the shower. The hot steam in the tiny bathroom was welcome, but it soothed rather than invigorated, inviting her back into sleep. She ran through the work she needed to do that day. She had essays to mark, and she looked forward to seeing her students’ thoughts and ideas about the fairy tales they had been reading. That was always the beauty of it for Alice, the way each story changed with the teller, the way each listener could interpret it a little differently. Still, this was her third year running the course and the novelty was beginning to wane. There was a tendency to find the same ideas and interpretations threading through the essays she was handed each week, something she would have to try to shake up.
    She pulled on jeans and a checked shirt, tied her hair into a pony tail. She could get the marking done first – over breakfast, probably – and then go for a walk. She thought she might head around the lake today rather than through the woods: she would stick to the path.Then she paused as she heard the sound of wood scraping stone.
    It was a gate opening, the gate at the front of the house. Alice padded downstairs, went into the lounge and looked out into the narrow lane; she found herself involuntarily drawing back so she was hidden by the curtains. Odd: there was a policewoman walking towards the door. A second later there came a sharp tap.
    It was probably a mistake; the police had the wrong address, or were maybe looking for someone else. A sour taste flooded her mouth. Bad news . She thought of her mother, a single intimate moment that pierced her; bending to kiss the old woman’s forehead, seeing her white scalp through the thinning hair, a reversal of the way her mother had once kissed Alice. She hadn’t been able to take care of her, had had to put her in a home. But wouldn’t the staff simply have called her, if there was something wrong?
    She wouldn’t find out what had happened by standing here, unmoving in the early-morning chill. She pulled open the door and saw the policewoman was probably not much older than her, maybe even a little younger. She looked up now, as if surprised to see Alice standing there: definitely the wrong house.
    ‘Alice Hyland?’ she asked.
    Alice frowned. All right, the correct house, but there had to be some other mistake. ‘Is something wrong?’ she blurted.
    The policewoman started to shake her head, then she asked, ‘Could I come inside?’ and Alice’s stomach turned to water. The policewoman must have seen something in her face because she tried a smile. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I just wanted to ask you a few questions. I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’ She held a folder in her