Stranger in the Woods: A tense psychological thriller

by Anni Taylor

  “Please, something’s been on my mind. I need to know, is that the real reason you came to the McGregor house that day—because you wanted to see Elodie’s work, and you knew that the McGregors were away at the time? I haven’t told the McGregors you came into the house, if you’re wondering.”

  Rory looked distinctly unsettled, his palms pressed flat against the desk. “Look, Isla, this all involves things that happened a long time before you arrived here. What I’m saying is that there’s a lot of history. If all you’re wanting is to know about Elodie, I hope I’ve provided you with some information.”

  “I…there’s something else. Something that I discovered. It concerns Elodie. I don’t know who to talk to about it.”

  A subtle gleam of interest entered his eyes. He seemed to have suddenly forgotten about ending the discussion. “Perhaps you could tell me.”

  “I could, but before I do that, I want to be sure you’ll handle this in the strictest of confidences. In return, I’ll keep your visit to Elodie’s room in confidence.” I drew a breath. “Also, I’ll keep it secret that you were still there, on the McGregor’s land, an hour or so after I thought you’d left.”

  His shoulders sank. “You saw me? I went looking for the playhouse. Do you know about the—?”

  “Yes, I know about the playhouse. Why did you want to see it?”

  “I heard by chance that it was still there, that it hadn’t been taken down. I guess I wanted to see for myself.”

  “Someone overdosed in the playhouse the other night.”

  “Seriously? Who?”

  “A friend of Aubrey Chandlish. Trent. He’d been staying at her house.”

  “Ah, that lot, eh?”

  “Do you know the Chandlishes well?”

  “We used to be friends when we were younger. Now, there was something you were going to tell me?” He settled back in his chair, waiting.

  “Yes. It’s the oddest thing. I guess you might have seen a map of the path Elodie’s abductor took in and out of the forest that night?”

  “Indeed, I have.”

  “And you would have seen that his path in—when he was chasing Elodie—was very random. But his path out was very strange.”

  “Yes. A lot was made of that at the time. People came up with all kinds of wild theories.” His eyes seemed to harden. “What have you found out?”

  “There’s a painting on the wall in…a room, in a house here in Greenmire. All it consists of is a single black line in the middle of a white canvas. The line exactly matches the path the abductor took out of the forest.”

  Rory’s mouth dropped, and he pushed himself away from the desk, silent for a moment as he processed what I’d just said.

  “Are you certain?” he said, his voice tight.

  I nodded. “Unmistakeable. I checked the lines side-by-side.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to think about that. I seriously don’t. Is there anything else that you discovered?”

  “No, just that.”

  “Whose house is this, if I may ask?”

  “I don’t wish to say at this point.”

  “You can’t have been to many houses in Greenmire so far.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  His eyes flicked over me. “Well, perhaps they are trying to figure it out. Maybe that’s why the person has that picture on the wall.”

  “That’s what I thought. I’m relieved that was your first thought, too. I’ll be honest—I’ve had all kinds of thoughts running through my head.”

  “It’s best not to speculate. That way lies madness. I should know.” He pulled his chair back in towards the desk.

  “I know. I shouldn’t.”

  He gave me a concerned smile. “How’s the job going—the one you’re doing for Alban?”

  I cleared my throat, wondering if this was a good time to talk about Alban. The conversation so far had been a little tense, but it probably had gone as well as it could have. Rory hadn’t ordered me off the school grounds—yet—so that was something. By the way I was stalling, I was certain that he could already tell that things with the job weren’t going well.

  “Braithnoch is lovely and I’m enjoying myself,” I started. “Greer took me to Inverness yesterday and I loved every minute.”

  “Great stuff. What are the McGregors like to work for?” He was leading me to say something. I could tell.

  Still, I found it difficult to say. “They’re nice people. They’ve had a lot to deal with and I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.” I shook my head, my eyes jamming shut for a moment. “But…there’s a lot of tension there at the McGregor house. Tell me what you know about Alban—you two used to be friends?”

  “Yes, we were friends years ago. But Alban’s notoriously moody. I used to think he was just cultivating a kind of creative genius persona, you know? But I’ve begun thinking that maybe he really is a wee bit unstable.”

  “The whole thing with his daughter would make anyone unstable, right?”

  “True enough. But this has been going on for five years or more. And since Elodie died, he seems to turn on people who are just trying to help.”

  “Like you requesting to see Elodie’s paintings….”

  “Exactly. I’ve even started seeing him as a bit big-headed.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I shouldn’t say that. Listen to me, running off at the mouth. I shouldn’t be saying any of it. But I feel comfortable with you, and you’re not from this town or even from Scotland. In this town, people are very proud of Alban McGregor. He’s a success story.”

  “I’m glad you’re comfortable with me. I find you easy to talk with, too. I didn’t know who to speak to about this whole thing with Elodie, or even if I should.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I’m finding that no one wants to speak about her. It took a stranger to this town to start up that conversation again.”

  “This question’s bit bold. But have you had any suspicions about anyone in particular—in regard to Elodie?”

  “No one definite. I have some thoughts, but that’s it. And I know it’s been two years and all, but I feel that I keep getting thwarted in my attempts.”

  “By Alban?”

  “Yes, but not just Alban. Jessica, too. And others. Like I said, I almost feel like there’s a conspiracy of silence. It’s as if no one in this town wants the culprit to be a local. They’d rather the whole mess just blow over and for the media to stop taking an interest in Greenmire.” He sighed heavily. “Ah, I didn’t mean to tell you that. It’s just born of frustration, I think. Sometimes I almost feel like an outsider in this town. Which is crazy, seeing as I grew up here.”

  I smiled sympathetically. “I guess I can understand why they don’t like the thought of it being someone from Greenmire. Because if it is, then it’s going to be someone’s relative, someone’s friend, someone’s neighbour. No one wants that kind of connection.”

  “That’s right. And no one wants it to be someone ordinary, either. Because that’s disturbing.”

  “Do you have any thoughts on the abductor himself? Any clues?”

  “There isn’t much to go on. Just the path he took from the forest and the fact that he medicated her. It doesn’t seem that his intention was to kill her.”

  “Giving a little girl sleeping pills is fraught with danger.”

  “Indeed, it is. But if he wanted to ensure her death, he could have done so.”

  “It’s so odd. He took her there, medicated her but did nothing else, and then left. Maybe he’s someone who is mentally impaired.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Maybe something spooked him, and that’s why he left the playhouse?” I ventured.

  “I think that’s likely,” he agreed. “But if he was running away, he did it in a very strange way. He took his time to leave, as if he wasn’t in any hurry.”

  “There has to be an answer in all of this somewhere.”

  He studied my face with his intense blue eyes. “Yes,
indeed there does.”

  “Well, I should let you get home now. Thank you for talking with me. I feel a bit lighter.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m glad. If you have any more questions or concerns, don’t hesitate to call me, okay? I really mean that.” He wrote down his name and number. “And could I get your number, too—just in case I get an idea about something and we want to do some sleuthing.”

  I scribbled down my number and handed it to him, then tucked the notepaper he’d given me away in my handbag. “You have the neatest handwriting I’ve ever seen. I think most of us are losing the art of writing—we’re all so used to computers.”

  “Och,” he said with a grin, “Neat writing is an occupational hazard for teachers trying to teach first graders how to form letters.”

  A grey light had overtaken the sunshine by the time I walked out of the school. I did feel lighter. At least I’d told someone about the painting—someone who was interested in finding out who Elodie’s abductor was.

  20

  ISLA

  Snatches of shouted words reached my ears. Crossing to the kitchen window, I peered out.

  Despite the morning sun, a mist rolled around the grounds. Alban and Jessica stood in the mist just outside the house. I could only see the top halves of them, making the scene seem surreal. She was flinging her arms up in the air. He was ordering her back into the house, roaring at her. Dropping her arms, she turned and headed inside, her head down. The sunrise was splintering on the rooftop and I could only just make out that a little girl was standing at the window of her upstairs bedroom—Rhiannon. I wondered how often the McGregors argued and how much Rhiannon heard. It was sad.

  I’d planned on trying to do the interior shoot of the house this morning. But now it was out of the question. Again.

  I knew what Greer would say—you’re here to do a job and it’s never a good time with the McGregors. Still, I couldn’t just barge in there in the middle of them having an argument. If I’d known what I was walking into on this assignment, I’d have done the interior shoot before the McGregors returned home from their trip.

  I sat down to breakfast. Yesterday, before heading over to talk to Rory, I’d bought some lovely pasties to have for breakfast. Greer was right about the weather making me hungry. Luckily, I’d found that I could stuff quite a lot into the front basket of the bicycle.

  Last night, I’d dined by myself in the cottage. Greer had been in Inverness and I’d turned down Alban’s invitation to dinner. I’d enjoyed the peace and quiet of being by myself, watching some Scottish shows on the little television. The conversation I’d had with Rory had also been constantly been replaying through my mind and I’d needed some space.

  I gazed past the house, into the hills and mountains. Perhaps I could photograph the odd collection of scarecrows on the hill. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. It would be my way of claiming back power over the scarecrows, after finding one of the damned things hanging in the tree.

  After breakfast, I packed up my gear and headed out. Jessica was driving away from the house. She stared across at me as I walked down the steps of the cottage. I waved at her, but I didn’t expect her to wave back. She didn’t.

  It seemed to me that the fog that I was walking through smelled of the forest. Of lichen and leaves and damp ground.

  My talk with Rory still tumbled in my mind. Before I’d come on this trip, I couldn’t have imagined myself sitting down with one of Greenmire’s teachers to discuss a terrible crime committed against a young girl. I felt as if there was an undertow in this town, tugging me.

  Puffing as I walked up and down endless hills, I eventually reached what I called scarecrow hill. The scarecrows would now number one less than when I’d arrived in Braithnoch.

  Tired from the walk, I sat on a rock. From this angle, the scarecrows loomed like ancient sentinels on the hill, half silhouetted by the sun, mist swirling at their footings. It was actually a great perspective.

  I pulled out the camera and took a set of photographs. Rising, I stepped around the pack of odd figures, snapping a picture here and there. The photos were going to look eerily good. If I couldn’t use any of them in the portfolio, at least the followers of my Instagram page would love them.

  The muscles in my back flinched as one of the figures moved.

  Someone was standing in front of one of the scarecrows, arms and legs outstretched and head hanging down. A teenage girl. I hadn’t seen her due to the sun being in my eyes. Her faded overalls and floppy hat blended well with the scarecrows, too.

  When she jerked her head up, I recognised her as the girl who’d been sitting on the neighbour’s fence the other day. What had Nora Keenan said her name was? Stella. Yes, that was it.

  The girl laughed. “Saw you coming a right mile away. Thought I’d give ya a bit of a scare.” Her particular brand of Scottish accent sounded a lot like her grandmother’s.

  “Well, you got me good, Stella. Almost dropped my camera!”

  “How’d you know my name?” Eyeing me suspiciously, she flounced away from the scarecrow and marched up to me.

  “Your grandparents told me about you. Come here often?”

  “Yeah. When I want someone sensible to talk to.”

  That pulled a grin from me. “Do the scarecrows give out any good advice?”

  “No, but I sure do give them an ear bashing. Well, I would, if they had any ears.”

  She sounded so young. She was so young. Despite her height and angular cheekbones, she was just a child. Fourteen, I remembered Nora saying.

  “If you try’an’take my picture again,” she added, “I’ll moon the lens.”

  “I didn’t even know you were there, to be honest.”

  “People who say they’re being honest are never being honest.”

  I smiled ruefully at that. She was being deliberately antagonistic, but I knew better than to play that game. I’d played it when I was a teenager and I knew better than anyone it was a game an adult couldn’t win. “Try not to hide that you’re hanging out with scarecrows, Stella, and I’ll try to avoid taking your picture.”

  “I hate the scarecrows. I’d make ‘em all burn if I had my way. And don’t call me by my name when I don’t even know you. Haven’t you heard about stranger danger?”

  “I was just being neighbourly. Even though I’ll only be a neighbour for a short while.”

  “I’m not very neighbourly. Haven’t you heard?”

  “I haven’t heard much at all,” I lied. I wasn’t going to tell her that Nora had told me quite a bit about her.

  “What are you doin’ up this way? You make a habit of heading into other people’s property, don’t ya?”

  “I’m just looking around, that’s all. I don’t have a car and I’m kind of stuck here most of the time.”

  “You don’t sound very professional, for a photographer. My nan told me what you do for a living—photography.”

  I stretched my shoulders, looking away and casually snapping a picture of the forest. “That’s right. That’s what I do.” I ignored her first comment.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No. I did, but he dumped me. Years ago. Now, I don’t bother. You?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You don’t like to talk about yourself, do you?”

  She shrugged. “Better that way. I don’t want things about me getting back to my mum.”

  “Well, I’ve got no interest in telling anyone anything. Like I said, I’ll be heading back home, soon.” Stepping away from her, I followed the path of a bird with my camera lens and took a photo of it in flight.

  “Do you make a lot of money, doing what you do?” she asked.

  “I’m doing okay. Hope you don’t think it’s bigheaded if I say I’m good at what I do.”

  “You do sound like you have tickets on yourself.” After a brief pause, she said, “You should do celebrity photos. Online magazines would pay a lot of mone
y for those. You know, like, what are the Kardashians doing today? And, what did Harry Styles have for breakfast? That sort of thing.”

  I spun around to her. “I can’t see myself as one of the paparazzi.

  I don’t like to invade people’s private moments.”

  “They’re gettin’ paid big money to be famous. They expect people want photos of ’em.”

  “I guess. But not every minute of the day.”

  “I’d be sticking up my rude finger at the paparazzi big-time if I was famous. Every single photo of me would be like that. They wouldn’t be able to print them in most places.”

  I laughed.

  “Sometimes I’d moon them just for a change,” she added.

  “Now that they would print,” I said.

  She sobered. “You’re probably right. Scumbags. Can’t go giving them what they want. People just take pieces of you without a second thought, if they think they can get away with it.”

  “You sound pretty wise for your age.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had to wise up quick.”

  I snapped another picture of the forest. “I did hear one thing, about you. That you left home two years ago.”

  For a moment she looked taken aback, then nodded cautiously. “That’s true. I did and all.”

  “You must have had a good reason.”

  “I left because I’m a giant brat.”

  “I don’t know if I believe that.”

  “Why not? Everybody else does.”

  “You wouldn’t come back to visit your grandparents if you were such a brat.”

  “They’re sweethearts. How could I not come and visit them once in a while?”

  “See? You’re so not a brat. You must have had a reason for leaving that made sense to you.”

  Her cheeks were flushed. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

  “Sure. I’m sorry. What’s it like over where you live? I’ve only seen Greenmire and Inverness so far.”

  “Aviemore’s okay, I guess. More interesting than here. I’m not doin’ too well at school. Gonna leave soon as I get a good enough job. I’m working at a burger shop after school three days a week.”