The Secret

by Debbie Howells

  Going further in, I scrutinise the shelves that hold a range of books – young adult, classics, poetry, fantasy … One or two I recognise but the rest are unfamiliar. Taking more photographs, my eyes settle on what looks like one of James’s books. Picking it up, I turn towards him. ‘One of yours?’

  He looks uncomfortable as he nods. ‘Yes.’

  My eyes linger on the laptop. ‘It might help if we were to take this. Is that OK?’ Not that it’s optional. If Hollie’s in danger, we need all the help we can get.

  ‘Fine.’ James speaks abruptly, then he adds, ‘I don’t have her phone. We think she must have it with her.’

  ‘So I understand.’ I pick up the laptop. ‘Thank you. I think that’s all – at least, for now.’

  After reassuring the Hamptons that we’ll be in touch, we leave them for the night. There’s a covering of frost on my car and, as I get in and drive away, I feel myself shiver. James was on edge, haunted and stressed, while Stephanie was brittle. Judging from the size of the house, they must have once had a lot of money, but there are now signs of work needing doing – the wallpaper I noticed when I went in, the threadbare carpet on the stairs. But people have different priorities and maybe these things aren’t important to them. Then I think about the dynamic between them. They were at odds over something – and in spite of what Stephanie said, I don’t think it’s about when they should have called the police.

  The feeling in my gut grows stronger. James was too quiet, as though he was frightened of saying the wrong thing. He was awkward when I pulled out his book. There’s also the reality none of us talked about. In this brutal cold, each passing hour without any word from Hollie makes it more and more likely something bad has happened to her.

  Chapter Eight

  Elise

  Later that night, I’m unable to sleep, angry that Andrew hasn’t returned, envisaging him in bed with her, before my thoughts turn back to Hollie. I try to imagine what could have happened to her. Losing her mother when she did, Hollie’s had enough difficulties to deal with in her life. It seems incomprehensible that anyone would wish such a fragile girl harm. But I can’t shake the feeling of foreboding that hangs over me. It was in James’s face – and his voice, too, when he came here. He’s used to Hollie’s comings and goings, but even so, he’s clearly worried.

  I’m drifting off to sleep when the sound of Andrew’s car coming up the drive stirs me. Rolling over so that my back is to him, I feign sleep when he comes in and gets undressed. After getting into bed, he starts to snore almost immediately. I wonder if he even knows that Hollie is missing.

  As I lie in bed, sleep is impossible, my thoughts racing unstoppably, more worried than ever that something’s happened to Hollie. It’s another early start, a flight to Paris, this time. Outside as I defrost my car, I imagine Hollie out in this cold, then James out of his mind with worry. I drive through the village slowly, looking out for her, even though I know it’s unlikely I’ll see her.

  Chapter Nine

  Jo

  The next morning, the search gets under way at first light. It begins close to the Hamptons’ home, which in daylight shows more evidence of the shabbiness I detected last night. The paint on the window frames is peeling, the garden overgrown, the unswept paths slippery with moss.

  Beyond the house are a number of outbuildings – an unused stable block and another stone building it turns out has been crudely converted into an office that James uses. If she’d wanted to, Hollie could have been hiding in any one of these. No-one would have known.

  But why would she hide? Searching each area meticulously takes most of the morning but uncovers nothing. In the stable block are unpacked boxes and old furniture, damp and coated with dust. James’s office is no tidier. When he shows us in, he has the same uncomfortable look I saw last night.

  ‘Hollie rarely comes in here.’ He pauses, frowning. ‘Have you spoken to her friend yet? Niamh Buckley?’

  ‘Not yet.’ My eyes scan the books and papers piled messily on the shelves. ‘I’ll go round there later when she’s back from school.’

  ‘The schools are closed.’ Clearly beside himself with worry, he speaks abruptly. ‘There’s too much black ice – the roads are dangerous.’

  I hadn’t known, but given the freezing temperatures, it makes sense. ‘Did Hollie and Niamh go to the same school?’

  ‘No.’ He speaks tersely. ‘Niamh goes to a private school outside the village. But all the closures were announced on the radio earlier.’

  ‘I see. I will talk to Niamh, Mr Hampton,’ I try to reassure him. ‘Just as soon as I’ve finished here.’

  *

  It’s an hour later when I turn into the Buckleys’ drive. On first appearance, it’s clear they live in one of the grander houses in the village. Grey and imposing behind the frost-covered garden, it looks stark and unwelcoming. There are no lights on, no signs of life inside, until a sudden movement catches my eye. Framed in an upstairs window, I see a face.

  Niamh

  The arctic air clings on, lowering temperatures and producing a fine layer of snow to carpet the ground, while freezing fog blankets out the sun, so that the world is silent for a few days, wrapped in bone-chilling cold. With the roads too icy to be safe, my school is closed.

  After pulling on layers of warm clothes, I go for a walk through the village, thinking of a hundred places Hollie would have run off to – like her mother’s grave, or with one of her school friends. As I think of her out in this cold, tears fill my eyes.

  There are no lights in any of the windows. Even Ida Jones’s cottage is in darkness. It’s as though the village has descended into an eternal night. Then as I pass some of the villagers on the other side of the road, I realise. Anyone who isn’t at work is probably helping look for Hollie.

  Taking the path to the church, all the while I’m thinking of her, frozen leaves crunching under my footsteps as I walk. Then, as I come to the churchyard, my shiver isn’t because of the cold. It’s the rows of frozen headstones, frosted grey against the snow; the motionless bell in the tower, its single tone waiting to announce the passing of another soul; the knowledge that I’m surrounded by ghosts.

  I force myself to open the church door. The latch is frozen shut, so that at first I think it’s been locked, but then it opens suddenly. Inside there is no welcoming light, no hope, just the same dank cold and the sound of mice, as I imagine the ghosts closing in around me. Leaving the church without closing the door behind me, I run.

  *

  It’s later when, from an upstairs window, I watch the police car pull into our drive. When the knock comes, I open the front door to find a policewoman and a younger policeman looking at me. The older woman, with brown hair, shows me her ID.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant May. We’re from Chichester Police.’ She seems to look past me into the house. ‘Are your parents at home?’

  I shake my head. ‘They’re both at work.’

  She nods. ‘We’re making inquiries into the whereabouts of Hollie Hampton. Can you tell us when you last saw her?’

  I frown at her. Before I can answer, I hear a car turn into the drive. ‘That’s my mother.’

  Both police officers turn to look as she parks, and DS May nods again. ‘We’ll wait here.’

  Closing the door, I watch from the kitchen window as my mother gets out of her car. I frown. She had a flight today – it must have been a short one for her to be back so early. As she walks towards the police, her big woollen cardigan falls open, revealing her navy uniform dress and patterned scarf underneath.

  As they come inside, I go upstairs. From the top of the staircase, I listen to them in the kitchen, hearing chairs being pulled out, jackets taken off, the kettle being switched on followed by the clink of mugs. Then there are voices, but they’re too low to make out the words.

  Ten minutes later, I’m in my bedroom when my mother’s voice calls up to me. ‘Niamh? Could you come downstairs?’

  I’m gripped by
nervousness as I make my way down, wondering why they want to talk to me, what they want to ask.

  My mother’s face is pale when I go into the kitchen. ‘This is Detective Sergeant May and Constable Emerson. They’re looking for Hollie, Niamh. They just want to ask you one or two questions.’

  Their eyes follow me as I pull out an empty chair and sit down.

  ‘Thank you, Niamh.’ It’s the woman, DS May, who speaks. ‘I understand you and Hollie spend quite a bit of time together.’

  I nod.

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  I think back to the last time Hollie was here. ‘It was last weekend.’ I glance at my mother.

  ‘Did she mention anything unusual? Or talk about running away, perhaps? Was she behaving strangely?’

  I frown, not sure how to explain that Hollie isn’t like most people; that a lot of the time her behaviour can seem strange to others. At the same time, I’m frightened of saying the wrong thing, of them getting the wrong idea about her. ‘Not especially. I mean, she didn’t suggest she was about to do anything.’

  My mother looks at me. ‘I was working that day. The last time I saw her here was the same day I found her skipping school. She seemed upset about something. Do you know what it was, Niamh?’

  There’s an edge to her voice, as if she thinks I’m hiding something. Shaking my head, I keep my face blank. ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  DS May frowns as she looks at me. ‘This could be important, Niamh. Do you have any idea at all what might have been upsetting her?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s easy to tell when she’s upset about something, but there’s a lot Hollie keeps to herself.’

  DS May is quiet for a moment. ‘So what do the two of you like to talk about?’

  I shrug. ‘Stuff. School. Music.’

  DS May nods slowly. ‘Do you know if she has any other friends in the village?’

  I shake my head again as my mother says quickly, ‘There aren’t any other teenagers in the village. There were the Morby twins, but they’re nineteen now and at university.’

  Turning to her electronic notebook, I watch DS May scrutinise a list, then pause with her finger under a line. ‘The Morbys live at Apple Tree House?’

  My mother nods.

  DS May turns to my mother. ‘Your husband, Mrs Buckley … He’s a doctor, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s a GP at the Meadowside practice.’

  I feel a flicker of anxiety as I watch the policewoman make a note against her list. Why does she need to speak to my father? Why does she need to speak to any of us? Then, as if she can read my mind, her eyes meet mine. ‘It’s routine, Niamh. There isn’t any need for you to worry. We have to talk to everyone. It’s surprising how the smallest detail can help.’

  *

  When the police drive away, my mother looks at me. ‘You still haven’t heard anything from Hollie?’ Under her uniform-standard makeup, her skin is pale, her eyes anxious.

  I shake my head. Doesn’t she realise I’d have told her? But as I take in her face, I see that she’s clinging to hope that the police are unnecessary, that Hollie is just going to turn up; that the nightmare will be over. But as my mother well knows, some nightmares are never over.

  Chapter Ten

  Elise

  ‘The police were here earlier.’ When Andrew comes in that evening, I watch his face carefully for a reaction to my announcement, and I see the split-second freeze before he continues as though the visit meant nothing. ‘They wanted to know when we last saw Hollie. It isn’t at all like her to run off like this.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Elise, as you well know. That girl doesn’t care who she upsets. Look at her now – wasting police time when they have better things to do.’

  That he could be so utterly callous in the face of a teenage girl’s disappearance appals me. But before I can respond, my phone buzzes. Seeing an unknown number flash up on my screen, my heart is in my mouth. Turning away, I answer it.

  ‘Elise Buckley.’ I listen for a moment, glance at Andrew, then walk a few steps away from him. ‘I’m sorry … I can’t talk right now. Can I call you back?’ I speak as quietly as I can. Ending the call, I put my phone down, but when I turn around I find Andrew standing just behind me.

  ‘My God.’ His words are mocking, a look of faked disbelief on his face. Surely he knows I see it for what it is, a deflection of attention away from him and onto me.

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t that,’ I say wearily, knowing there’s nothing Andrew would like more than to point his finger and find me guilty, as if my having an affair would somehow validate his own extra-marital activities.

  ‘Tell me who that was, then.’ He barks it out, an order he expects me to obey. As he steps closer, his presence is suddenly menacing.

  ‘No.’ Shaking my head, I hold my phone behind my back.

  ‘Give me your phone.’ Holding his hand out, he tries to snatch it from me.

  Slipping it into in my pocket, I manage to evade him. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Andrew. I am not having an affair, as you very well know.’ Summoning all my dignity, I turn away. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me …’ As I start to walk away from him, I’m tense, holding my breath, knowing how much he hates being crossed. I’ve taken barely two steps before he grabs my arm, his fingers closing tightly, roughly pinching my skin. I spin around. ‘How dare you!’ Up close, his breath stinks of wine as I stand my ground. ‘You’re the one who’s screwing around. You don’t even care who knows it. You’re despicable.’ Hearing Niamh move around upstairs, I shake my arm free of his grip. ‘There’s only one reason I’m here – and that’s Niamh,’ I hiss. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Lying bitch,’ he mutters. ‘There’s no way you’d cope without me. And you love people knowing you’re married to a doctor and living in this big, expensive house. Admit it, Elise.’

  Hearing Niamh’s footsteps on the stairs, I step back, flashing him a warning look. Then, as she comes into the kitchen, I muster the rigid self-control that comes from years of practice. ‘I was just telling your father about the police being here earlier.’ My tone is deliberately light as I glance at Andrew. ‘Oh – they asked where you work, so I gave them the address of the practice. I’m sure they’ll be in touch at some point.’

  I turn to Niamh again. ‘I’ve made chicken curry. Can you set the table?’

  Under my mask of calm, a torrent of anger is raging; at Andrew’s threatening ways, his complete lack of respect for me. I should be upstairs packing, removing myself and Niamh from this toxic household, from Andrew’s life, then calling the police, listing the abuse he inflicts on us. Being here isn’t good for Niamh.

  But then I remind myself why I’ve stayed, a sense of powerlessness overwhelming me. Andrew will do anything to wrestle Niamh away from me. He won’t let her go. He’s made that clear more than once. And to leave her with him … It will never be an option, meaning that as long as she’s at home, I’m trapped.

  *

  It isn’t until the next day, while Andrew’s at work and Niamh is upstairs in her room, that I return the call that came yesterday, dialling the number with shaking hands, trying to sound matter-of-fact when an unfamiliar voice answers, waiting as I’m connected.

  ‘Hello. It’s Elise Buckley. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you before.’ As the voice at the other end speaks, I feel my world slip sideways. ‘Oh. Friday? I think that’s fine.’ Swallowing, I rack my brains as I try to remember when I’m working. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  After ending the call, I turn to find Niamh standing there, watching me. I wonder how much of the conversation she’s overheard, but I can’t read her face. ‘Are you OK, Niamh?’

  Going to the fridge, she nods. After getting out a can of Coke, she says quietly, ‘Are you and Dad getting a divorce?’

  My response is too quick, my gasp too loud. ‘Of course we’re not. What makes you think that?’

  She shrugs and then turns towards me
in a single fluid movement that reminds me of Hollie. ‘So what was that phone call?’ When I don’t reply, she goes on. ‘It isn’t just that. You argue all the time, Dad’s never here, and when he is, he eats on his own.’ I’m astonished when I see tears glitter in her eyes.

  Walking towards her, I put my hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘We are not getting a divorce.’ Hating that she’s upset, I try to reassure her. ‘I know things seem a bit difficult just now. But we’ll get over it. You mustn’t worry.’ Then I pause. ‘Have you spoken to your father about this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her answer shocks me. I can’t believe that she’s talked to Andrew at all, let alone that she’s talked to him before me.

  I stare at her, incredulous. ‘What did he say?’

  She shrugs again. ‘Not much …’ She breaks off and her grey eyes look piercingly into mine. ‘He laughed. Then he said you’d never leave him.’

  As she says that, I feel something break inside me. He’s her father, yet he uses her mercilessly, doing what I’ve always dreaded he’d do – drawing Niamh into his cat-and-mouse games with me. In that moment, I’ve never hated him more. I imagine him laughing, unkindly, cruelly, knowing he doesn’t care what Niamh sees, how she feels. He doesn’t protect her or look out for her. The only person who can do that is me. ‘He’s right. I won’t.’ As I gaze steadily at my daughter, the web I’m caught in tightens.

  Niamh’s nod is barely perceptible as I change the subject. ‘I had an email from your school. If the roads don’t freeze again, they’ll open the day after tomorrow.’ I pause. ‘Have you heard anything from Hollie?’

  ‘No.’ Niamh walks over to the window, gazing out. ‘Where do you think she is?’

  Seeing her body start to shake, I go over and put an arm around her, both of us standing there watching a flurry of snowflakes in the glow of the outside light. ‘I don’t know. It’s only been four days. Most likely she’s at someone’s house somewhere, if she’s run away.’ I break off because no-one knows for sure where Hollie is and because in these freezing temperatures if she’s without shelter, the more time that passes, the more worrying her absence becomes.