Stranger in the Woods: A tense psychological thriller

by Anni Taylor

  Peyton could no longer hurt any children. No one had to worry about him getting off on any technicalities or going to jail only to get out again in a few years’ time. He was dead.

  When I glanced at Mum, I saw hope rising in her eyes.

  The only thing left now was for Jessica’s lawyer to bring out her witnesses for the defence.

  But first, the prosecutor would have to cross-examine Jessica. From the way his brow was furrowing as he ruffled through his notes, I could tell that he’d realised his case had dissolved. Still, when he began his questioning, his voice was swift and confident. “Mrs McGregor, why didn’t you simply call the police when Peyton called you for help? There was no need for you to go. You could have sent the police to find Peyton and help the woman, correct?”

  “Peyton didn’t want the police involved. He was upset and panicking.”

  “Please just answer yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, we’ve established that you could have and should have sent the police.”

  “Objection, my Lord,” said the defence lawyer as she stood. “Prosecution has only established that Mrs McGregor could have sent the police. To say that she should have is just an opinion.”

  “Sustained,” ruled the judge. “Please strike the words and should have from the record.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” said the prosecutor politely. “Mrs McGregor, would you agree that taking a two hour round trip towards Inverness and back—while your eight-year-old daughter was alone in the house—was an extreme course of action? Yes or no?”

  “Objection, my Lord, prosecution is leading the witness,” said the defence. “Mrs McGregor didn’t realise the site of the accident would be so far along the road when she set out.”

  “Sustained,” replied the judge. “Counsel, can you please rephrase that?”

  “Yes, my Lord. Mrs McGregor, would you agree that leaving your eight-year-old daughter alone in the house to go and search for the scene of an accident would have been better handled by the police?”

  “Objection, my Lord,” said the defence. “Counsel has already asked that question.”

  The judge sustained the objection.

  The prosecutor appeared slightly ruffled when he nodded in the judge’s direction. “Mrs McGregor, do you agree that you left your eight-year-old child alone without making sure an adult would be there to watch her?”

  “I thought Alban would be—” Jessica spluttered.

  “Please just answer yes or no,” insisted the prosecutor.

  “Yes.”

  “At any time between deciding to leave your house and leaving the church, did you call your husband to ascertain how far he was away? Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “In other words, you were being secretive about the fact that you were leaving the house and leaving Elodie alone?”

  “My Lord,” objected the defence lawyer. “Prosecution is making assumptions.”

  “Sustained. Yes, Counsel,” cautioned the judge. “If you wish to ask a leading question, please show us what led you there.”

  “Yes, my Lord. Mrs McGregor, it’s not making sense to me why you’d go to help a friend and a strange woman, while leaving your young child alone on an isolated property. And not even attempt to ascertain when your husband would be arriving. I put it to you, that instead of the story you’re telling us, Peyton called you for a romantic tryst and you met with him at this church. And this romantic tryst involved a third person—an unwilling young woman that—”

  “I object, My Lord.” The defence lawyer jumped to her feet. “Prosecution is making up wild stories that have no basis in the facts at hand.”

  Jessica’s face had turned white. She shook her head, gasping between quick sips of water.

  “Overruled,” said the judge, after a moment’s consideration. “Counsel, I’ll allow this line of questioning. But please approach each part of your scenario separately, so that we can all follow how you arrived at your conclusions and so that the defendant knows exactly what she is being asked.”

  “Thank you, My Lord.” The prosecutor bowed his head. “Mrs McGregor, we’ve heard from your good friend, Camille Keenan, that you had romantic feelings towards Peyton. In fact, we have the testimonies of several witnesses who agreed that you had a crush on Peyton from the time you were a teenager. Do you agree that you had romantic feelings towards Peyton Chandlish in the year before your daughter Elodie died? Yes or no?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t know—”

  “Please keep your answers to yes or no.”

  She breathed deeply, dropping her head. “Yes.”

  “I’d like to talk about the church now,” said the prosecutor. “The church is full of rats and very dirty. Yet you allowed someone who—by your words had a head injury—to lie down in a filthy, rat-infested, abandoned building.”

  “Objection, my Lord,” called the defence lawyer. “A heavily pregnant woman could hardly stop a healthy young woman from entering the church.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge. “Please strike the Counsel’s last sentence from the record.”

  “Mrs McGregor, we’ve heard the testimonies of both Isla Wilson and Stella Keenan. Both witnesses heard Peyton say his only part in these events was to come to the church under someone else’s instruction and take Isla away. I put it to you that you that under your instruction, Peyton brought an unwilling Isla Wilson to the church, whereupon you drugged her and enacted a form of torture on her. All part of some game you and Peyton had been taking part in, involving female adults and female children—”

  The defence lawyer jumped to her feet. “Objection! My Lord, prosecution is making up wild stories again.”

  “No….” Jessica’s voice shook. “That didn’t happen.”

  The judge sustained the objection and directed that the prosecutor’s words be struck from the record.

  I wanted this to be over. I wanted to escape into myself and shut out the prosecutor’s terrible words. He’d warned me that he’d have to be tough to bring out the truth. But as far as I was concerned, the truth had already come out. There had been a car accident. My mind had somehow manufactured vague memories of terrible things that didn’t happen.

  “Mrs McGregor,” said the prosecutor in a calmer voice, “your DNA and fingerprints were found at a number of places around the room in the church. You touched the shelving and the window panes. Strands of your hair were found embedded in the dried blood on the mattress and floor. Your fingerprints were found on the bottle of sleeping medication that was left on the shelf. This evidence is consistent with you being inside that room for a much longer period of time than what you have told us. You stated that you were in the room for no longer than a minute. However, that isn’t true. Do you agree that you were in that room for longer than a minute?”

  “It could have been longer,” Jessica said. “It’s hard to remember. It was two years ago.”

  “It’s not a hard thing to remember,” replied the prosecutor. “Either you walked in and out, or you stayed long enough to touch different places in the room and drop strands of hair. Do you agree you were in the room for longer than a minute?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You stated earlier that you must have accidentally dropped the bottle of sleeping pills from your medical kit. Yet, they were found on a shelf in the room. How do you suppose the bottle got onto the shelf?”

  “Someone must have picked it up and put it there.”

  “Hmmm,” said the prosecutor. “We heard from an expert witness earlier who stated that only your fingerprints were found on the bottle.”

  “Perhaps someone with gloves?” Jessica suggested.

  “Why would someone with gloves go to the trouble of carefully picking the bottle up and placing it on a shelf? Can you think of a reason for that, Mrs McGregor?”

  “No. I have no idea. Perhaps Isla did it. Maybe even when she went back to the church with Rory.” Her words were rushed, graspi
ng.

  Was she hiding something, after all? I leaned forward, watching her closely.

  The prosecutor paused, referring to his notes. “We have a forensic report here that states that the bottle had been in place on the shelf for two years, which was evident from the accumulation of dust around and on top of it. And the condition that you say Isla was in—a head injury and in the middle of a panic attack on a dirty mattress—it doesn’t sound like someone who was taking care to put a random bottle of pills up on a shelf for safekeeping, does it? In fact, we know now that Isla was most probably in the middle of a major seizure. We also know that Isla arrived back at her apartment in Inverness early that night. We have a statement from the landlady to say she sighted a man carrying Isla up the stairs. The landlady—Donna Gordon—has identified that man as Peyton Chandlish. Donna gave us a statement to say that Isla looked as if she was passed out. Now, this doesn’t sound at all like someone who took care to put a random bottle of pills on a shelf in that church room—so much care that she left all your fingerprints intact—wouldn’t you say, Mrs McGregor?”

  “I don’t know,” Jessica stammered.

  “Mrs McGregor, the fact that Peyton was seen carrying Isla back to her apartment fits exactly with what Isla and Stella heard him say. He said that he was instructed to return Isla to her apartment. I’m going to ask you straight out. Did you put that bottle of pills on the shelf in that room in the church?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What were you doing at the time that had you so distracted you don’t remember what you did with a bottle of sleeping pills?”

  Jessica’s eyes were huge. “I probably just had to put them somewhere. I was distracted by more important things. I had to wrap up the baby and rush her off to hospital.”

  Loud whispers of confusion charged around the courtroom.

  Even the prosecutor looked confused, but he quickly hid it, steeling his expression once again. “Mrs McGregor, you just stated that you wrapped the baby up—inside the church. That doesn’t fit with your earlier testimony in any way, shape or form. So, you’re now saying that you had the baby at the church?”

  Jessica’s gaze skated between the prosecutor and her defence barrister, her lips parting helplessly.

  “Objection, my Lord,” called the defence lawyer. “Counsel is putting words in the defendant’s mouth.”

  “Overruled,” said the judge. “Mrs McGregor, you will answer Counsel’s question.”

  “I misspoke.” Jessica’s voice had hoarsened.

  “That’s an odd point to get confused about,” said the prosecutor. “A very odd point.” He stopped speaking to look through his stack of papers. “The evidence presented to the jury, as I noted earlier, does show two distinct blood types were present on that mattress. Is it true that you had the baby there at the church rather than on the roadside?”

  Jessica nodded limply. A sob broke from her throat. Her breaths seemed to be coming rapidly and she was clutching the stand as if she were trapped there.

  Confused whispers again rushed around the gallery. The members of the jury were staring intently at Jessica, waiting for clarification.

  The prosecutor hesitated, his shoulders rising in a deep inhalation, as if he wasn’t sure what to ask Jessica next.

  Jessica’s defence lawyer attempted to stop proceedings, due to her client being under extreme duress. But the judge disallowed this and said that the trial would continue after Jessica had composed herself. She was given a fresh glass of water and a clean handkerchief to dry her face. But the handkerchief couldn’t stop her cascading tears.

  The prosecutor resumed his questioning of Jessica. “Mrs McGregor, I will remind you that you swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs McGregor,” said the prosecutor, “I’ll ask you again. Why did you tell us that you’d taken your baby from the church?”

  Jessica’s face was stricken. “Because…it wasn’t me who gave birth to a baby there. It was Isla.”

  47

  ISLA

  I could not have heard Jessica correctly. Those words were wrong. The words of a desperate woman. She was lying again.

  All heads turned my way. Even those of the judge and lawyers.

  I turned and met eyes with Alban. He looked as confused as everyone else, except that his eyes still carried that slow burning anger that I’d seen earlier.

  The courtroom was in uproar and Jessica’s defence lawyer again asked for a recess. Jessica stated that she wanted to continue. The prosecution and defence lawyers approached the judge, and the three of them spoke together quietly. It was obvious that defence lawyer wanted to stop proceedings—she kept shaking her head and putting forth arguments.

  The lawyers then returned to their seats.

  “This is most irregular,” said the judge, speaking openly now. “But based on the extraordinary circumstances and the issues at hand, especially due to the fact that this matter concerns a child, we will continue as we were. Being that this is potentially new information being offered by the defendant, Mrs McGregor, she will give a full explanation of her last answer, according to the last question that was asked by the counsel for the prosecution. And, Counsel, you may not ask additional questions. At the end of Mrs McGregor’s account, we will decide what action is appropriate. Counsel, could you repeat the last question you asked?”

  The prosecutor nodded, his expression tense. “Yes, my Lord.”

  My mother’s hand on mine was the only thing anchoring me to the court room. I didn’t know what was coming next or what Jessica would say.

  “Mrs McGregor,” said the prosecutor to Jessica, taking care to say each word slowly, “why did you tell us that you’d taken your baby from the church?”

  Jessica’s eyes glazed as she began. “I can’t do this anymore. All the accusations about hurting children and drugging people. I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t know what Peyton was doing. I swear.”

  “Please, Mrs McGregor,” said the judge, “you will stay with the facts.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” replied Jessica.

  She inhaled deeply. “There was no phone call from Peyton. What I did have was a phone message. From Isla.” Jessica paused.

  What lies are you about to tell, now Jessica? Are you trying to save yourself?

  “Isla was about to do something that would destroy my marriage. She was going to ruin everything,” came the words from Jessica’s mouth. “I…wanted to stop her. I’d just found out that she was driving from Inverness that night. I told Elodie I was going to buy potatoes and then I left. I…didn’t know what else to do.”

  Jessica almost whispered the last words, as if they were too painful to speak.

  My breath stopped hard in my chest. Me ruin Jessica’s marriage? What was she talking about? Alban told me that he and I had only spent a couple of hours at a bar together. There’d been no romance, no affair. Wouldn’t I have remembered Alban if there had been?

  The thought that I hadn’t remembered Trent came crashing into my mind. And then something else. I had a glimpse of myself driving along a dark road—the A9 road from Inverness.

  I told myself to breathe. It meant nothing. I used to live in Scotland. Of course I’d driven about. The rest of it was just more of Jessica’s lies. But pinpricking waves of fear ran up and down the backs of my legs as I waited for Jessica to speak again.

  Jessica took a drink, staring downward. “All I wanted to do was to get her to pull over so that I could talk to her. But she had her phone turned off. When I spotted her car driving towards me, I flashed my car’s headlights. She veered off the road. She was startled, I guess. Maybe my headlights got in her eyes. Maybe she hit a wee patch of oil—I don’t know. She skidded off the road and down an embankment. I pulled straight off the road after her, to check that she was okay. Her car wasn’t damaged. And she wasn’t hurt either. Not seriously. Just shaken up, mostly. She’d hit her head and she was
a wee bit confused. But she didn’t seem badly hurt. She jumped out of the car. We had words. We decided to talk inside an old church that was nearby, just to get out of the howling wind. It was dead dark in there. I used my phone’s light and found some candles and matches. I lit the candles. There were…big rats running about. I guessed we disturbed them. They were going crazy. It was near winter and the rats were probably hungry. They were running over the piano, making a terrible din. I think they might have even had a nest of babies inside the piano, because I saw some very young rats running out of there.”

  Rats. Rats had made that noise on the piano. It made sense. Those chaotic, frenzied chords.

  Did that mean she was telling the truth? I had to admit that her voice sounded different. Since I’d met her, she’d always sounded so restrained and uptight. And in the courtroom earlier, she’d sounded stiff and rehearsed. But now, her words spilled from her, as if unchecked.

  Jessica’s eyes sealed shut and she bent her head. “Isla…went into a seizure. I immediately understood that she was going into a seizure. I thought it was from the car accident. I didn’t know that she was an epileptic. She needed to lie down, and there was nowhere else for her to lie down except on the mattress in that room.

  She paused again. Did she know that everyone in the courtroom was hanging on every word that she said right now? Was she stringing us all along? If so, she had to be putting on the performance of her life.

  “Then she…began crying out in pain,” Jessica said. “I checked her. And I knew that she’d gone into labour. The labour had come on quick and fast. There was no time. Isla had gone into a state in which she didn’t seem to know who she was or what was happening. She was screaming. A fast labour—especially a first labour—can produce extreme pain. I went to get clean blankets and my medical kit from the car. I put one blanket on the bed for Isla to lie on and kept the other for the baby. I assisted Isla with the delivery, putting a hand on her stomach and telling her when to push.”