The Secret

by Debbie Howells

  ‘There’s no need.’ His voice is calm, his words measured – and loaded with contempt. Knowing he’s cornered, Andrew Buckley makes no attempt to hide his loathing. ‘To be honest, it’s quite surprising the police haven’t found out before.’ Despite his attempt to somehow turn this around and make it look as though it’s the police who have done something wrong, it’s obvious I’ve hit on something. ‘Dylan and Hollie thought they were in love – as much as two teenagers can really be in love.’ He speaks disparagingly. ‘They went off the rails, as anyone you ask will tell you. They weren’t good for each other. Hollie was difficult and when he met her, Dylan lost interest in everything else.’

  I still don’t understand the secrecy around Dylan. ‘So what happened? All I know is he left. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Dylan died,’ he says shortly. ‘After he and Hollie split up, he took an overdose. It was a ludicrous waste of a life. He was sixteen years old. There’s a lot about that girl people don’t know. She really messed Dylan up when she left him. I probably shouldn’t say this, but to be honest, I’m quite glad she’s out of Niamh’s life.’

  He speaks cynically, bitterly, as though he blames Hollie for Dylan’s death on some level. I’m astonished that in a small village, no-one else has thought to mention this. That sense of the villagers closing ranks I had before comes back to me. ‘You knew his family?’

  A shadow crosses his face as he speaks through gritted teeth. ‘He was my son.’

  I’m shocked. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Why would you?’ His voice is accusing. ‘It was two years ago, Detective Sergeant. Since then, it’s been a difficult time for all of us. My daughter has lost her brother and my wife is emotionally fragile. She had a lot of problems after he died. She still isn’t back to how she used to be.’ His description of Elise bears no resemblance to the woman I’ve talked to. There’s a vulnerability about her, but there’s grit, too. The loss of her brother, however, may explain why Niamh finds it so hard to talk about Hollie’s death, especially coming so soon after. He goes on. ‘We’re trying to get on with our lives. Dredging up the past is incredibly painful.’

  I nod. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It probably explains why no-one’s mentioned him to you.’ His voice is calm again. ‘James is just desperate to pin Hollie’s death on someone – when people are at the end of their tether, they’ll say anything to get what they want.’ His eyes glint as though he knows something I don’t. ‘But wouldn’t you say that’s true of most of us?’

  *

  As I drive away, I replay what Andrew Buckley said about how most of us would say anything to get what we want. Maybe he would, but would other people? Then I think about another comment he made. To be honest, I’m quite glad she’s out of Niamh’s life. And suddenly I’m wondering just how much he wanted Hollie out of the way. Enough to kill her?

  Dylan must be the secret I’ve sensed people in the village holding back from me. But his death was two years ago. It’s more likely that Hollie’s death is somehow related to the porn ring business.

  On the face of it, Andrew Buckley appears to be a respected doctor. His marriage isn’t happy, but that isn’t necessarily damning. His daughter is self-contained, but given the obvious problems between her parents and the fact that she’s lost her brother as well as her friend, it isn’t surprising.

  During our conversation, I saw many different sides of Doctor Buckley, ranging from professional and astute, to cutting and manipulative. Even when he speaks with compassion and understanding, it’s cold, calculated, false, leaving me in no doubt that the only person Andrew Buckley cares about is himself. He displays all the characteristics of a psychopath.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Elise

  Days have passed during which the tension between myself and Andrew has silently escalated, and I know I have to try to find the courage to talk to him again. His car is in the drive that afternoon when I come back from shopping, and as I go into the kitchen, I hear the television on in the sitting room. After putting the shopping away, I glance upstairs. Seeing Niamh’s door firmly closed, I hesitate outside the sitting room, taking a deep breath before walking in.

  ‘We have to talk, Andrew.’

  Engrossed in his phone, he doesn’t even bother to look up. ‘For Christ’s sake, I’ve done enough talking today, to the police. Anyway, you and I have nothing to say to each other.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do have things to say.’ Speaking through gritted teeth, I step closer, suddenly furious at the way he treats me. ‘Can’t you put your fucking phone down even for a minute?’

  On impulse, I reach to snatch it away from him. But as he holds it out of reach, I glimpse the screen. Taking in the image on it, I freeze with shock as it registers he’s looking at an image of a young girl.

  My stomach lurches, my heart racing out of control, thinking of what James is involved in. ‘You disgust me,’ I say with all the contempt I can muster. ‘How can you?’

  ‘It’s not what you think, Elise.’ He sounds furious. ‘Someone sent me the picture. I’m hardly the kind of person who’d look at images of girls.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what you’re doing, regardless of whoever’s sent it to you.’ Turning around, I walk back out to the kitchen, knowing I should tell someone what I’ve seen. But an abusive marriage creates debilitating self-doubt. Who would listen? The police? His medical practice? Who’s going to believe you over him?

  If the police were ever to question him, Andrew would know who’d told them. I can imagine what he’d do to me and the implications for Niamh.

  But in the kitchen, I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve seen. If James Hampton invested in porn, could Andrew have invested, too?

  Something clicks into place inside my head. Andrew has always believed he holds the winning hand. And for today – maybe even tomorrow – he still does. But given what I know about James, the police need to know about my husband’s nasty little secret. Even if the girl I saw on his phone isn’t underage, it would embarrass him beyond belief. With his position and the trust and responsibility that comes with it, what I’ve seen could potentially bring him down.

  Suddenly I realise I’ve reached a turning point, because up until now, fear has had me in its grip, fear of what he would do to me. But now I know how to ruin Andrew and that knowledge gives me iron strength, armour through which his cruelty can no longer pierce. For years, I’ve felt imprisoned by him, but Hollie’s death is a reminder that life is too short to waste. Too much time has already passed. It’s time for Andrew to get everything he deserves.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jo

  Back at home in Chichester, I let myself in, closing the door and standing there briefly, taking a deep breath and letting the day’s tension ebb away before going into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. The house is still too quiet, even though three months have passed since my marriage ended. Enough time for my wounds to start to heal, but only until I think about the end of my marriage again.

  Making a cup of tea, I force myself to get my laptop. After taking it through to the small snug at the back of the house, I sink into one of the armchairs, sipping my tea while I wait for it to fire up before typing ‘Dylan Buckley 2016’ into the search bar. A few rows down, there’s a link to a press release. It’s only three lines, stating that his death was due to the overdose of a prescription drug.

  Searching further, I find the date of his funeral, which was in the village, at the same church where Hollie’s was held. It occurs to me his grave must be there too – I make a mental note to search for it. Then I find an obituary page that’s been closed.

  Realising it’s a long shot, I try Facebook, trawling through lists of people by the name of Dylan Buckley before I have a far better idea. There can’t be many Niamh Buckleys in the world. Typing in her name, I find I’m right. There are only two results and I recognise her face instantly.

  When I bring up her pag
e, it’s clear that Niamh keeps most of her posts private, but fortunately for me, not her friends list. I scroll down through them, and Hollie’s avatar comes up; then, near the bottom, Dylan’s. Clicking on it, I take a deep breath as I start reading. If Andrew Buckley knew what was here, I wouldn’t mind betting he’d be furious.

  *

  ‘Sir, I had an interesting conversation with Andrew Buckley yesterday. It turns out that Hollie Hampton had a relationship with his son, Dylan.’

  Even the DI looks taken aback. ‘I didn’t know there was a son. When was this?’

  ‘Two years ago. Apparently he killed himself when Hollie ended things between them.’

  The DI looks up. ‘How come we didn’t know about this?’

  ‘It isn’t the Buckleys we’re investigating, right now,’ I point out. ‘According to Doctor Buckley, Hollie messed Dylan up. He told me he was glad Hollie was out of Niamh’s life.’

  The DI speaks sharply. ‘He actually said that? Do you think he meant it?’

  ‘Maybe. There’s more. Hollie made an appointment to see him at the surgery.’

  The DI frowns. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last year. To start with, he said she had a crush on him. And that when he didn’t reciprocate, Hollie allegedly accused him of touching her inappropriately. But then he also admitted, very reluctantly, that Hollie had found out about him and Stephanie Hampton. I imagine that’s the real reason she went to see him.’ I pause, frowning. ‘There’s also something Elise Buckley said, about Andrew Buckley wanting people to believe Hollie had problems, though she had no idea why. By the way, he also made it clear that he doesn’t want me talking to her about Dylan. Something about her being fragile, and how they’re trying to get on with their lives.’

  ‘If we have what we need, it sounds a reasonable enough request.’

  I shake my head. ‘If it was anyone else, you’d think he was protecting his wife. But not him. Both of them have alluded to the fact that their marriage isn’t what it should be. The other thing is, Elise Buckley isn’t fragile. She’s calculating, but not in a self-interested way. I’d say she’s protecting herself and her daughter – from him.’

  ‘Where’s this coming from?’ He looks at me curiously.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Let’s just say, when you’ve been there, you know the signs.’ I pause. ‘Andrew Buckley has all the trademark characteristics of a psychopath.’

  ‘That doesn’t make him a criminal. We all know the world is full of them, May.’

  As I’ve found out, first-hand. ‘About Dylan, sir … I’ve asked for his medical records and anything else we can find on him, and I looked at his Facebook page last night. There’s a whole load of stuff on there that I’m sure Andrew Buckley doesn’t know about.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Messages from Hollie, telling him how much she loved him.’ Heart-breaking messages that completely contradict what Andrew Buckley had told me about Hollie being the one who left Dylan. ‘I’d say Doctor Buckley lied about what happened between them.’

  The DI gets up. ‘We need to look into it, May.’ He pauses. ‘Any luck locating Mason?’

  ‘None, unfortunately, and there’s no way of knowing when he’ll be back.’

  *

  When I return to my office, there’s an email with Dylan’s death certificate and the coroner’s report attached. The cause of death is cited as an overdose of antidepressants and I imagine Andrew Buckley did whatever it took to minimise the attention his son’s death must have drawn to him. While I’m reading, my phone buzzes. It’s Sergeant Collins.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘It’s James Hampton, Jo. He wants to talk.’

  Niamh

  Before we were friends, I learned about Hollie by watching her hand entwined with Dylan’s, her long hair tangled with his. Their world of sunshine and laughter that drew people to them, made you want to be like them – it was about much more than the two of them falling in love.

  After he’d gone, Hollie had told me they were predestined. Like two blazing stars that collided, dazzling everyone they met. Dylan was a talented artist and Hollie wanted a stage career. With their shared unquenchable thirst for adventure, they had a brilliant future mapped out.

  I couldn’t imagine them not being together – and I didn’t want to think about them leaving, how empty this house would be once they’d gone. Dylan and Hollie represented love, freedom, energy, hope. Once they’d left, there would be no light or laughter in this house. Instead it would be a cold, empty shell.

  Chapter Thirty

  Elise

  On my first overnight stop since before Hollie went missing, I walk for hours through the streets of Marrakech, losing myself in new sights and sounds, stopping on an impulse at a market stall to pick out a beaded bracelet for Niamh, ridiculously touched when the old woman I buy it from presses a small stone into my hand. A gift.

  On the flight home, I think about how long kindness has been missing in my life. It adds to my determination to break away from Andrew.

  Back at home, as I look around the house, the familiar extravagantly furnished rooms suddenly feel like a prison. Needing to escape, I go upstairs and pull on running clothes. Within minutes, I’m outside.

  The clouds that blocked out the sun when my flight landed this morning have burned off, leaving a clear azure sky. Reaching the main road, I break into a run, passing Ida Jones’s house and waving as I see her across the garden, her small frame bent over, busy weeding. I run faster then, spurred on by a desire to set change in motion. In my head starting to work out a plan; knowing the first thing I need to do is find a house.

  The status that comes with owning a large country house is what first brought us to Abingworth, but I no longer care whether I own a house or not. What matters is that Niamh and I have our own space, one that’s free of Andrew. I imagine a small cottage, a little untidy, with second-hand furniture and maybe a cat – the opposite of our impressive, stark, toxic family home here.

  As I take the path towards the church, I think of Hollie, and I’m struck by a pang of heartbreak that it’s too late for her. Her life is over, but Niamh and I are still here. It cements what I’m thinking. I owe it to my daughter to live the kind of life I really want for her. Anything less would be a betrayal.

  I still have to deal with Andrew – the impenetrable barrier between me and freedom – but I won’t let him stop me. Too much time has already been wasted. I won’t be blackmailed into staying with him any longer. Once I’ve found a cottage and moved out, he can carry out his threats. I may lose everything, but it’s a risk I have to take. Otherwise nothing will change.

  It will be OK, I tell myself. You can do this. You have to do this. The path beneath the trees is soft with layers of leaf mould that cushion my feet as I emerge from their shade to see someone standing across the churchyard.

  It’s DS May. When I notice where she’s standing, my stomach turns over. Glancing over my shoulder, I think about turning around. I don’t particularly want to talk to her, but then she looks straight at me. Raising a hand in greeting, I walk towards her.

  In a denim jacket, her long hair loose and slightly windswept, she looks younger, softer than she usually does. ‘Detective Sergeant.’ I can’t keep my eyes from wandering towards the grave she’s standing beside.

  ‘Mrs Buckley.’ She looks awkward all of a sudden. ‘I spoke to your husband a couple of days ago.’

  Suddenly I’m numb. I stare at my son’s grave. ‘He told you about Dylan.’

  She hesitates. ‘He did. It was actually James Hampton who told me first – about Dylan and Hollie.’ She looks at me. ‘I’m so sorry you lost your son.’ There’s compassion in her eyes. ‘I suppose it explains why Hollie was in the graveyard so much. Look, I’m sure you’ve come here for some quiet. I’ll leave you alone.’

  As she walks away without saying anything else, a sense of powerlessness rises in me, followed by despair. Whatever Andrew’s said to her, it’ll
be what he wants her to think about how Dylan died, rather than telling her the truth.

  For a moment, I’m gripped by an impulse to run after her and tell her the whole desperate story. But there’s nothing to be gained by that. Dylan’s death can’t be related to Hollie’s. It was too long ago. Far more likely Hollie’s murder is related to the porn ring her father got tied up with.

  As I stand there, the sun’s rays catching on Dylan’s grave, a lump forms in my throat. The initial agony of loss has dulled into a raw ache that’s become a part of who I am now. I will never get over losing him. His death was the consequence of events that should never have happened, which I should have been able to stop. But for him, just like for Hollie, it’s too late.

  *

  When Niamh comes in, I give her the bracelet I bought her in Marrakech, suddenly realising it’s of inordinate importance to me that she likes it as I watch her take it out of the small brown paper bag, then turn it in her hands. ‘Do you like it?’

  She nods. ‘It’s really pretty.’

  After she goes upstairs, I turn on my laptop, then start to look at a local property rental website, grateful that I have a job and a reasonable income. I look at the details of a couple of small houses that are closer to Chichester than Abingworth, but still convenient for Niamh’s school. One in particular catches my eye, not just because it’s pretty, but because I could afford it easily on my airline salary. It’s a terraced townhouse on a quiet road on the outskirts of Chichester. The photos show a flight of steps leading from the street up to a freshly painted front door, an interior that’s light and spacious, and a garden at the back.