The Secret

by Debbie Howells

  The DI gets up. ‘I’m afraid your patients are going to have to manage without you.’

  *

  Outside the interview room, the DI looks irritated. ‘He’s a tricky bastard. He could well be connected with Mason, probably using a false name. And if he is, we’ll find it. It’s just a question of how long it takes to dig through tech forensics.’

  ‘I’ll call Elise Buckley and let her know what’s happening.’

  ‘Impress on her that even though we’re holding him, she can’t stay at their home. She needs to be somewhere safe, just in case Buckley’s lawyer pulls some stunt.’ He starts walking towards his office. ‘There must be someone in that village who knows something.’

  ‘Someone who knew Hollie, who watches what goes—’ Then it occurs to me. ‘Actually, there is someone, sir …’

  *

  ‘I appreciate your seeing me at short notice,’ I say to Ida Jones as she shows me into her sitting room. ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can help. I told you before what I know.’ Her face softens. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘Do you know Philip Mason, Mrs Jones?’

  She nods. ‘I do. Can’t say I think much of him. He’s too charming. People like that are never what they seem.’

  ‘Like Doctor Buckley.’ His name slips out before I can stop it.

  She frowns. ‘I wouldn’t say he was charming. That man’s a common bully. He thinks the world of himself, doesn’t he? I feel sorry for her, though – Elise. She’s a nice woman, but he rules that house. And that poor girl …’

  ‘Niamh?’

  Ida Jones nods. ‘Best thing for her was when young Hollie was her friend. Gave her a bit of normality in her life. Didn’t last though, did it? That father of hers saw to that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her face is sharp as she looks at me. ‘Didn’t like her, did he? Or has he lied and told you he thought she was wonderful? She was wonderful, you know, just like her mother. Hollie should have been a film star.’

  I level with her. ‘Mrs Jones, I’m not sure how much I really know about anyone in this village. It’s as though there’s an unspoken secret they’re all keeping.’

  ‘And you think I might know what it is.’

  I nod. ‘Did you know Dylan?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says softly. ‘Him and Hollie … they were a real love story, those two. I was very sad after everything that happened.’

  ‘Can you tell me what you remember about that time?’

  Her face is sombre. ‘I used to see them all over the place – walking along the road, up at the churchyard. They never argued. All you saw was his arm around her shoulders, his head leaning down towards hers … They had the same dark hair.’ She pauses, remembering. ‘That’s how it was whenever I saw them. At my time of life, it was a blessing to be reminded of how true love felt … they seemed to be everything love should be.’

  I feel myself frown as I listen to her. ‘So what went wrong?’

  Her face clouds over. ‘I never really understood. But after they broke up, and before he died, I remember I kept seeing Hollie on her own, running along the road, all times of the day and night. She looked desperate …’

  ‘Do you remember seeing Dylan after they broke up?’

  ‘Once.’ She sighs. ‘He was standing in the churchyard and he looked as if his heart had been broken. I didn’t talk to him. You can tell, can’t you, when someone doesn’t want to talk? Of course, after he was gone, I wished I had. But I left him alone that day, thinking he and Hollie must have had a big bust-up. I remember thinking it was odd that he was staring at the graves.’ Her forehead wrinkles into a frown. ‘Then, just a week later, they were digging his.’ Ida’s eyes fill with tears. ‘After seeing him so full of life, it was tragic. I suppose the village did close ranks, as you put it. I think they were protecting the memory of that beautiful couple rather than anything else. And you know what Doctor Buckley’s like.’

  Rather than respond, I let her go on talking.

  ‘I’ve never understood that household. Elise is a smart woman. She knows what he’s up to and she seems to turn a blind eye. I know it’s what women used to do, back in my day, but not now, Detective Sergeant. Modern women don’t have to let men treat them so shabbily.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ My eyes meet hers. ‘It might seem unbelievable, but it does happen. I know that for a fact.’ As she looks at me, taking in what I’m telling her without saying the words outright, she’s silent for a moment.

  ‘Did you know Hollie’s mother well?’

  ‘Quite well. I met her years ago, when she first moved here with James. Never really grew up, that one. Beautiful, free-spirited girl, she was. No wonder James fell in love with her.’

  ‘They were happy together?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitates. ‘You have to understand, Kathryn was driven. James, bless him, never was.’

  Her words surprise me. ‘He wrote a book and got it published. That hardly happens easily.’

  She gives me a knowing look. ‘That’s right. But his agent was a friend of Kathryn’s. That’s how he got his first break. After that, when Kathryn died, it didn’t go so well for him.’

  I hadn’t realised. ‘When you say she was driven …’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘Did that cause problems between them?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll say. It was terrible for a while and I’m not sure there wasn’t someone else on the scene. But they got over it. It was before Hollie, and after she was born, they seemed to sort themselves out.’

  I pause. ‘Kathryn killed herself, didn’t she?’

  ‘She took an overdose.’ Ida Jones looks sad. ‘She must have been in a terrible state to leave her daughter like that. But in many ways, Kathryn was too good for this world. There are people who take advantage of girls like that. And women were jealous of her looks. But she was kind, too. Wouldn’t say a bad word about anyone.’

  I imagine an older version of Hollie, struggling to find her place in the world. Another tortured soul. ‘Was it the same for Hollie? Do you think people took advantage of her?’

  Ida Jones shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. She was less tolerant than her mother. But I think the hurt of losing her mum, then Dylan, was too much for Hollie.’ She pauses. The tick of the clock on the wall punctuates the silence. ‘If you want to know what I think happened to Dylan and Hollie, I believe someone broke them up. It’s only my opinion, but from the outside, it didn’t seem to be what either of them wanted. And I never saw either of them with anyone else after that. I don’t think there was anyone else for those two, to be honest. Anyway, maybe, now, wherever they are, they’re together again.’

  ‘Why would someone have broken them up?’ But as I ask the question, I’m thinking of Niamh’s account of the conversation she overheard between her father and Dylan; of Andrew Buckley’s comment about how he was glad that Hollie wasn’t in Niamh’s life anymore. Had he felt that way about Dylan? Had he seen Hollie as a negative influence on his son and somehow forced them apart? But why would they have let one of their parents stop them from seeing each other? Shaking my head, I know I’m missing something.

  ‘There’s someone else who sees what goes on around here. More than you think she might.’ Ida Jones looks at me. ‘Young Niamh.’

  Niamh

  The police have charged him with assault, my mother tells me after talking to DS May, in a voice that is shocked, relieved, and terrified, too – both of us knowing that if or when he gets out, he’ll come after us.

  But we still have to leave. I lie awake that night, wondering if I’ll ever sleep in this bed again, listening to the sounds of the night through my cracked-open window. The distant car driving through the village, the hoot from a nearby owl, the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves.

  Even though the police are holding my father, I’m still waiting for the sound of his car on the drive, then his key in the door, his heavy footsteps as he comes upstairs, h
is angry voice. I imagine him breaking in, slapping my mother’s face – which still hasn’t healed from the last time – shouting foul words at her and glancing past me as though I don’t exist. And if we’re gone when he comes here, he’ll search the countryside until he finds us.

  My father didn’t like Hollie coming here; her way of questioning what my parents said, never accepting what everyone told her, digging deeper until she found what she was looking for. Hollie’s independent streak, her free-spiritedness, threatened his hold over me.

  I remember her coming over to my house that evening. Fragile in her silver dress, her hair tangled. When she told me what she’d found, I didn’t believe her. I remember her hands shaking as she pulled it from her pocket, handed it to me. A piece of paper that changed her world – and mine – forever.

  All this time I’ve kept Hollie’s secret, but when I think of what my father’s done, I know I have to tell my mother, even if it means breaking my promise to Hollie. But Hollie isn’t here anymore, and my mother should know why Dylan died. Then, when she does, she’ll be able to understand why Hollie died, too.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Jo

  As I drive to work the next morning, I call Elise Buckley and discover that she and Niamh are already on their way to the B and B. Then I find myself thinking about what Ida Jones said, about someone forcing Dylan and Hollie to break up. As I pull into the car park, I already know what I want to do.

  Inside, I head straight for the DI’s office. When I knock on his door, I find he’s talking on his phone, but he beckons me in and gestures for me to wait while he finishes the call.

  ‘Sorry about that, May. That was Forensics. They’re sending over a list of names in connection with Operation Rainbow.’

  ‘Have they found any images of Hollie?’

  ‘Nothing so far, but they’re going through everything more thoroughly now. Ah, here it is.’

  While the DI prints off the email that’s just arrived, I tell him what I’ve been thinking. ‘Sir, I want to speak to Niamh Buckley again.’

  He looks up from the printer. ‘Why?’

  ‘It was something Ida Jones said to me. She’s convinced someone must have forced Hollie and Dylan to break up, though she doesn’t seem to have any idea why. She also said that there was one person who may well know more than she’s said so far – Niamh.’

  The DI looks thoughtful. ‘That girl drip-feeds information, doesn’t she?’

  I nod. ‘She’s painfully shy – and damaged by her father. You know …’ I break off, thinking. ‘There are a lot of people who are all too keen to hint at what other people know. James Hampton said I should talk to Andrew Buckley. Buckley doesn’t give anything away and when he does speak, you can’t believe a single word. Ida Jones hints that various things have happened – like James Hampton and his first wife went through a rocky patch – but Hampton hasn’t mentioned it to me, and until now, Ida Jones hadn’t, either. Then there’s this whole story around Hollie and Dylan, neither of whom are still alive to tell us what really happened.’

  The DI frowns. ‘Very well. Go and talk to her again.’

  I nod. ‘They’re on their way to the B and B. I’ll check to see if they’ve arrived.’

  *

  I drive along the narrow road that carves its way through miles of downland pasture, the landscape painted in hues of verdant green as I pass a flock of sheep and newborn lambs, suddenly hankering after a much simpler life, like the one I imagine Chris Nelson has. He’s the retired detective superintendent who runs Mitchelgrove Farm, where Elise and Niamh are staying.

  The small cottage Chris lets out from time to time stands in its own garden, away from his farmhouse, a dense beech hedge affording its occupants privacy. And his background presence is a safety net. After a career of policing, Chris misses nothing.

  When I pull up outside his house, he wanders outside holding a mug of tea.

  ‘Jo … They arrived about an hour ago.’ As he nods towards the cottage, I make out Elise’s car parked in front of it.

  ‘Thanks for having them here. You look well, Chris.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Always happy to help in the war against the underworld. I don’t suppose it changes much.’ His face lightly tanned, he has the ease of a man who’s comfortable in his own skin. ‘I’ve left them some supplies and I’ll take them bread and milk tomorrow. They’ll be fine for a few days.’

  ‘Her husband is a piece of work. He’s hiding something – I’m sure of it. Everyone in this case seems to be hiding something.’ I look at him. ‘I bet you don’t miss any of this.’

  He’s relaxed as he nods. ‘Not really. There’s the odd occasion, but I could never give this up.’ I follow his eyes across the patchwork of fields – some of them dotted with grazing animals – and the motley assembly of barns. ‘One of those cases, is it?’ His voice is more serious.

  ‘You could say that. One of those villages where everyone has a secret. I’d better go and talk to them.’

  ‘I heard,’ he says suddenly, just as I turn to walk away. ‘About your marriage. I’m so sorry, Jo. You deserve better.’

  I feel myself start. It isn’t just his words that are unexpected. It’s the sentiment. When you work long hours and live alone, you get used to there being no-one who cares. ‘Thank you.’ My voice is husky and I clear my throat. ‘I’ll see you in a bit.’

  *

  As I walk across the yard, I’m conscious of the depth of the silence here. Untouched by even the most distant sound of traffic, the air has a purity, the colours around me a softness. Niamh’s face appears fleetingly in one of the cottage windows before disappearing. I imagine that even here, she’ll be constantly on edge, thinking it’s only a matter of time before her father finds them.

  Closing the garden gate behind me, I find the grass neatly mown, the flowerbeds carefully tended. When my knock on the door isn’t answered, I push it open.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

  Elise’s face appears in a doorway, her anxious look quickly fading when she sees it’s me. Her bruising is still an ugly purple red, her eyes haunted.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Is everything OK?’

  ‘As OK as it can be, in the circumstances.’ Like Niamh, she’s clearly on edge, her voice sharp. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea – if I can find anything.’

  I know from the bitterness in her voice, from the way she opens cupboards, then closes them loudly as she looks for what she needs, that she’s uneasy. Eventually finding some mugs, she fills the kettle. ‘How long do we have to stay here?’

  I’m evasive. At the moment, there are too many unknowns to give her a straight answer. ‘Probably a few days.’

  Her shoulders stiffen. ‘And Andrew’s definitely being held?’

  I nod. ‘He’s been charged, as I told you, and we’re remanding him in custody for further questioning.’ I pause, knowing that whatever he’s done, Andrew Buckley will continue to deny everything for as long as he thinks he can get away with it. ‘How’s Niamh bearing up? I saw her face just now, in one of the windows.’

  ‘She’s frightened. We both are. I know you’re holding him, but we both know what he’s capable of.’ She pauses. ‘Neither of us feels safe – and neither of us really wanted to come here.’ Elise’s voice is tight. ‘I know it doesn’t make sense – but I don’t expect you to understand.’

  Given the memories their house holds for both of them, I’m surprised. ‘I know this is a difficult time for you, but I thought you were all set to move. You’d even found somewhere, hadn’t you?’

  ‘That was different. It would have been our choice – and our new home. This isn’t. And all the time, I’m waiting …’ Her voice falls to a whisper. ‘When he gets out, he will be so angry. You have no idea what he’s capable of …’ With shaking hands, she pours boiling water onto teabags, swearing as she spills some before putting down the kettle and mopping up the water. Fetching milk, she hunts around for th
e sugar. ‘It doesn’t look like there’s any sugar,’ she says tearfully.

  I want to reassure her that she’s safe, that there’s no way her husband will be able to get to her, but until he’s sentenced, nothing is certain. ‘I don’t take sugar.’ Accepting the mug she passes me, I watch her nervous movement. ‘Shall we sit down?’

  I follow her across to a small kitchen table made of antique pine on ornately turned legs. Chris has furnished the cottage simply, creating an air of calm that Elise clearly needs.

  ‘You can still look for a new home,’ I say gently. ‘Do you have enough money to tide you over?’ I imagine Andrew Buckley using whatever he can as a means of manipulation, including money. I’ve seen it happen many times.

  She nods. ‘I stopped at the bank on the way here in case he managed to empty the joint account. I transferred what I could into mine.’

  ‘Good.’ I pause, relieved that at least she has her own account; many women in marriages like hers don’t. ‘Have you thought any more about talking to a lawyer?’

  She sips her tea. ‘I’ll have to find one. The only one I know of is Andrew’s. That’s hardly going to work.’ She raises her eyes to meet mine. ‘Is that something you can help me with?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get some numbers for you.’ My voice is quiet. ‘You really should see someone as soon as—’

  ‘You’ve already told me,’ she interrupts, her voice shrill as she talks over me, symptomatic of the strain she’s under as she rests her face in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise.’ Reaching across the table, I touch her arm, a gesture of human comfort. ‘I know this is unsettling.’ I pause for a moment. ‘And I know you have a lot on your mind right now, but there are a few things I wanted to ask you about.’

  Looking up, she nods briefly as I go on.

  ‘I had a conversation with Ida Jones. She was telling me about Hollie and Dylan, about how in love they were. She couldn’t understand why they broke up. She said it was as though they’d been somehow forced apart, but she had no idea why.’