by Anni Taylor
Placing the pen on the desk, I raised my head and took a breath.
The last hour had been awful.
I was about to step out of the room when something caught my eye. The painting on the wall.
Unable to tear my gaze away, I stood there frozen to the spot.
The painting hadn’t changed, but something else had. What had changed was that I’d seen something else that looked exactly like it. The day before yesterday, just after Greer had made the pancakes, I’d seen the news broadcast about Elodie McGregor. They’d shown an aerial display of the forest, with the strange path the abductor had taken out of the forest clearly marked.
The line of the painting matched the path the abductor had taken through the forest.
No, that was crazy. Surely, I had to be wrong.
The painting was just a white square with a single black line that stretched through the middle of it, from top to bottom. The line moved at straight angles, left and right, like a soldier marching.
It was so much like the line shown on the aerial photograph—of the path Elodie’s abductor had taken out of the forest—from the playhouse to the road.
And I was someone who paid a lot of attention to lines.
Grabbing my phone, I browsed the internet, seeing if I could find the same aerial map shown on that news broadcast.
I found it.
This map showed both the path the abductor had taken when he chased Elodie to the playhouse and when he left the forest. His path to the playhouse was ragged, as you’d expect—he’d been chasing a little girl who was desperately trying to get away from him. But his path out again was very exact—all straight lines. Quickly, I read through the accompanying information. Apparently, it had been lightly raining the night of the abduction, making the ground slightly muddy. People who’d been looking for Elodie that night had entered the forest from close to the cottage where I was staying. They’d trampled on the abductor’s footprints leading up to the playhouse, but the search party had stopped there and returned the way they’d come, as she’d been found. The abductor’s exit path had been discovered by police the next morning, untrampled by the search party.
Squeezing a breath tight in my chest, I raised my eyes to the painting again.
I wasn’t imagining it. The two lines were a match—the line in the painting and the abductor’s exit path.
My gaze moved to the aerial photograph of the spot where Elodie was found.
Cold needles charged down to the small of my back.
It was no coincidence.
The only question now was why was Alban keeping a replica of the abductor’s exit path on his office wall?
What possible reason would he have? He’d be looking at this every single day.
“Lost in thought?” came a voice behind me.
I jumped, dropping my iPhone as Alban’s voice punctuated the air behind me. Scrambling to the floor, I collected my phone and switched it off. I hoped he hadn’t seen the picture I’d had up on the screen.
“Alban,” I breathed. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was just…taking a message for you.” I jabbed my finger at the piece of notepaper on his desk. “Jessica asked me to take any phone calls. She’s upstairs.”
A frown snaked across his forehead. “You seem really anxious, Isla.”
“Me? Yes, I guess I am. It’s not every day that things like this happen.”
“One would hope. Look, if this morning has rattled you too much, I’ll understand if you want to cut this assignment short and go back home.”
“I—I’ll let you know. How is the guy? Was it Trent?”
“Yes, it was Trent Dorrington. He’s in a critical condition, but they think he’ll be okay, if that helps any. Well, I’m back now, so you can go and have a rest in the cottage for a while. I understand that Greer is taking you to Inverness soon. That might take your mind off a bit.”
I nodded. “Thanks. Yes, I’m sure it will.”
My throat felt closed and tight as I walked out from the office. I felt his gaze sharp in my back.
He’d have to have seen me staring at the two pictures he had on the wall.
Did he guess I’d made a connection?
16
ISLA
Leaving Alban behind in his office, I ran down to the cottage through the mist, my lungs tight.
All the way, I saw the two pictures in my head. The aerial photo of the forest and the painting.
The scarecrow that had hung in the tree was gone—cut down by Alban, I guessed. A ladder stood poised against the trunk of the tree.
As I stepped inside the cottage, my head swam and I had to grab the door frame.
If I was going to leave, now was the time. Stress was bad for anyone, but for me it could lead to seizures. Alban had offered it to me to finish up and return home. If I stayed, I’d have to stay to the end.
God, there’d been no mistaking it. Alban was keeping a replica of the abductor’s exit route on his wall.
It made no sense. Why would he keep such a thing?
I plonked myself down at the tiny kitchen table, trying to think. I picked up one of the gold-tipped larch cones Elodie had painted, twirling it slowly between my fingers.
The reason Greer gave for Alban having that painting on his office wall might be right. I had no idea of the depth of the anguish and trauma that he and Jessica had undergone. Perhaps the drawing was Alban’s way of trying to gain control in the aftermath of his daughter’s death, in some way I couldn’t grasp.
But what if the unthinkable was true, and it was Alban who harmed his daughter? And the painting was some kind of sick trophy?
I became aware of my heart drumming against my ribs.
Surely not. Surely, a father wouldn’t harm his own daughter in that way?
But there were stories all the time in the news. Stories of parents who had done just that. The unthinkable.
The breakfast that Jessica had given me sat heavily in my stomach. Could this be the source of the friction between Alban and Jessica? Did Jessica suspect her husband of hurting their daughter? If so, was she in torment, confused and wondering? Or, worse, did she know for sure that he hurt Elodie and she was covering up for him?
My mind jumped from scenario to scenario.
Opening my laptop, I conducted a search on Elodie and her abduction. I found a news item in which the reporter had laid out the whereabouts of all the neighbours on the night that Elodie had been abducted. This might help answer some questions for me.
The article said that Jessica had been in Greenmire hospital, having just given birth to Rhiannon. Alban had been returning home from a job in Edinburgh—but there was a window of time in which he could have been the abductor. The Keenans had been at home, including Hamish. The Chandlishes had been at home, too, apart from Peyton and Aubrey—Peyton had been at a bar in Inverness and Aubrey had been in London. The Flanagans had been away overseas, apart from Kirk, the police officer, who’d been at work.
According to the alibis in the article, the abductor could have been Alban.
I could go to the police and tell them what I’d discovered about Alban’s office painting and leave it with them—safely on my way to the airport. There was no way I could remain here after speaking to the police. They’d probably want to visit Alban’s house and see the picture and he’d know that I had told them.
Replacing the larch cone in the bowl, I dropped my head into my hands. I hadn’t come here for this. I’d come to do a job and that was all. I shouldn’t get involved in things that were not my business.
But a life had been taken away from a young girl—a girl whose face I saw every time I passed through the hallway of her house. I couldn’t stop that face from haunting me. The last photos of her were particularly sad and evocative. I saw secrets in her eyes.
Elodie, was it someone random who chased you that night? Or was it someone you knew? And who was it that was making you keep secrets?
My gaze came to rest on the card th
at Dr McKendrick had given me. Days ago, I’d tossed it into the bowl with the larch cones. Could I call her specifically to talk about Alban? I knew that doctors weren’t legally able to share information about their patients, but perhaps she’d be willing to share some information on a personal basis. She obviously didn’t like him, so maybe that would prompt her to share what it was that had caused her to feel that way.
An image of Rory Kavanagh’s thin face jumped into my mind then. He seemed to have some kind of problem with Alban, too—and Alban had acted strangely when I’d told him that Rory had come to the house. So perhaps there was friction between them.
The whole episode with Rory looking through Elodie’s paintings had been odd, but perhaps he’d taken his chance because Alban was away at the time. I’d been a stranger alone in the house and Rory might well have known that. Greer had told the Keenans everything it seemed, and Rory was part of that family. He could easily have heard that the McGregors were away. And what exactly was Rory’s interest in Elodie’s paintings anyway? I was now certain that there was more to it than a teacher wanting to see more of the work of his favourite student. Maybe I could find out why Rory still had such an intense interest in Elodie—after all, two years had passed.
Picking up my phone from the table, I browsed an internet residential directory, looking for Rory’s address and phone number. It wasn’t there. I tried looking up schools next. I took a breath and held it while I dialled Greenmire primary school. I stopped the call before it even answered. What was I going to say? It was too awkward.
Greer’s car pulled up outside the cottage. I hadn’t even gotten myself ready for a day out yet. Dashing to the bathroom, I brushed my hair and applied some quick lipstick and mascara. I studied myself in the mirror. I looked like I’d seen a ghost.
I was pulling on a nicer jacket by the time Greer tapped at the door.
She wore a thick plaid skirt and brown boots, her pink-blonde hair in a glossy bun.
“You’re a bit pale, Isla.” She frowned in concern.
“It’s been quite a morning.”
“It’s insane. I can’t believe all that happened. Well, I’m glad I’m getting you out of here for a few hours. Leave old Braithnoch behind for a while and get some different air. You’ll love Inverness. We can take a walk around the Ness Islands—so pretty. We’ll go see a few of the buildings Alban has designed. His theatre is just beautiful—he won a huge award for that design. Oh, and I’ll take you to see Loch Ness. It’s a magical place.”
Greer’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Sounds amazing,” I said.
The drive, along a couple of long roads, took over an hour. After seeing almost nothing but country views and small towns, suddenly we were in a city on the edge of the water. A wide river separated the city centre, up to an inlet that flowed into the North Sea. The smell of salt in the air made me a little homesick for Sydney.
Greer took me on a boat ride along the River Ness, stopping for lunch at a little cafe inside the Inverness Botanic Gardens. Walkways through the gardens led through an astonishing variety of plants within a set of glasshouses—from tropical oases with waterfalls to desert cacti.
After lunch, we walked to the Ness Islands that Greer had told me about. They were a set of tiny islands in the middle of the River Ness. We stepped across the bridge onto the islands.
I snapped picture after picture of the gorgeous scenery—autumn-yellow leaves contrasting with a natural floor of red, dried leaves.
“You got here to Scotland a bit too late to see the Halloween show on the islands,” Greer told me. “That was on the last night of October. But it’s a lot of fun. Well, we’ll take a boat ride now back to the car and I’ll take you to see the sights around the city.”
Greer was right. I loved Inverness. All of the historic buildings and cathedrals. Clouds had formed a thick, sombre blanket in the sky, but they seemed somehow to add to the charm. I was kicking myself for sticking so long with my home city and not doing things like this sooner. Putting the events of the morning aside, I allowed myself to enjoy the day.
Alban’s award-winning theatre took my breath away—its sweeping curves and glass majestic in scale and design. I asked myself, not for the first time, just who was Alban McGregor?
The next port of call after Inverness was the mythical Loch Ness. The temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees by the time we got out of the car. I pulled my knitted hat down over my ears and wound my scarf up over my mouth and nose. The sight of mountains and ruined castles and the intensely green surrounds of the lake were beautiful, but the icy wind made my eyes water. I did the best I could to take photos but felt defeated. I decided to pack the camera away and just enjoy walking around a lake I’d heard about ever since I was a child. It felt surreal to be here.
I looked around for Greer and found her nearby, talking into her phone with a hand cupped over it.
“I just don’t think this can work. Please understand,” Greer said into the phone, in an almost begging tone. “I didn’t want this. Trust me, I didn’t.”
I stepped away again, not wanting to intrude. She sounded so different to how she’d been earlier.
She walked up behind me. “Isla, get any photos?”
“Yes. Not many. My eyes are stinging a bit.”
“The weather’s turned. Shame.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. I was certain her watery eyes were mostly due to the phone call and not the wind. “I’ll try bringing you back on a nicer day.”
“Don’t even think of it.” I shook my head firmly. “I appreciate it like crazy that you brought me here today. It’s lovely in any weather.”
She smiled, her mascara running slightly beneath her lower eyelids, her nose and cheeks reddened.
We jumped back into the car and Greer turned the heater on. I was soon cooking beneath my layers of clothing. That had been a common theme since I’d arrived in Scotland—I’d either been too hot or too cold. I hadn’t had time to acclimatise yet. I unwrapped my scarf and pulled my hat and gloves off.
Greer wasn’t her usual chatty self on the road. She kept apologising for the weather until I had to remind her that she wasn’t God and the weather wasn’t in her job description. At least that got a laugh out of her.
From my passenger side window, I noticed a small, stone church off a small dirt road. It was almost obscured by brambles.
“How cute,” I remarked. “That little church down there. Like something out of a children’s picture book.”
She peered across. “I didn’t see it.” Slowing the car to a stop, she backed the car up.
“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to stop,” I protested.
She shrugged. “I’ve stopped now, so we might as well take a look. I’ve never noticed it before.” She drove off the road and down the side street.
“Probably because it’s nothing to see,” I said. “It just reminded me of something. I think maybe it looks like a page from a Sleeping Beauty book I had when I was a kid. Brambles and thorns grew all over the town and castle while Beauty slept.”
“I remember that story.” Greer parked the car. “It fair freaked me out when I was a little girl.”
The air was cold outside the car, but at least it was a little bit protected from the wind.
The brambles obscured the arched, leadlight windows and doors of the church. There was no way in. I stepped around taking photographs. “These pictures are going to look lovely in black and white.” I smiled at Greer. “Thanks for stopping.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I know you’re here to work on the portfolio, but you don’t want to go missing any photo opportunities. I have a friend who’s a photographer and I know what’s she’s like. She’d go to any lengths to get the perfect shot.”
Immediately, I wondered why Greer’s friend hadn’t been given the magazine job that I was doing.
Greer seemed to read my mind. “She’s a pet photographer. That’s all she does.”
“Sounds like a lot of fun
. I’m sure it’s better than having to deal with people a lot of the time.”
She laughed. “You’re not wrong. Hey, I forgot to tell you. We’re having dinner tonight with the Chandlishes.”
“Aubrey and her brothers?”
“Yes, they’ll be there, but I meant the parents. Gus and Deirdre.”
“I thought they were away?”
“They came back yesterday morning, apparently. Alban and Jess will be there, too.”
I took a couple more photographs of the church, but I was glad to get back into the car and out of that wind. I didn’t feel like having dinner with a set of strangers, but there was nothing I could do about it, except plead an illness or headache.
But Greer had gone to so much effort today that I didn’t feel that I could turn this down.
17
ISLA
It was dark by the time we got back to Braithnoch. Greer and I freshened up in the cottage and then she drove us around to the Chandlishes’ house.
We stepped past the formal lounge room. With its mossy-green wallpaper. A fire danced in the fireplace. I wished I could just sit by the fireplace, alone, with a book. Today had been cold and tiring. In the kitchen, food was cooking in big pots and in the oven. A woman that I didn’t know was there doing the cooking. She introduced herself as a chef that the Chandlishes sometimes used.
Greer and I kept walking. We found the Chandlishes out in the family room, drinking red wine near the second downstairs fireplace—Peyton and an older couple who had to be his parents. An inky night stood beyond tall, arched window panes.
Greer introduced me to Gus and Deirdre Chandlish.
Deirdre was thinner than her daughter Aubrey—still very attractive but in a stiff, over-done sort of way. Her bobbed hair was perfect, her eyebrows sculpted into high sweeps.
