‘I’m scared.’ Niamh’s voice trembles as she wraps skinny arms around her body. ‘I want to know where she is.’
‘I know.’ I feel exactly the same. ‘How do you and Hollie usually keep in touch?’
‘Messenger,’ Niamh says briefly. ‘Sometimes Instagram. But, you know … Mostly, she just turns up.’
‘Yes.’ That’s exactly how it is with Hollie. She’ll just arrive, unplanned, staying a few minutes or a few hours. ‘Listen, I know you’re worried. We all are. But the police are doing everything they can.’ I place an arm around her shoulders. ‘She’ll be OK. We have to believe that she will turn up.’
But it’s getting less likely. And not all missing teenagers are found. The headline I read on one of my last flights comes back to me. Only Ten Per Cent of People are Good. If it’s anywhere near accurate, it’s a chilling assessment of humanity and what it’s capable of. People can be cruel and ruthless, thinking only of their own needs, while too many lives are cut short for the most hideous reasons. I swallow, not liking how that makes me feel. Right now, Hollie’s life could be in anyone’s hands.
Chapter Eleven
Jo
And so it goes on, officers knocking on doors throughout the village and searching gardens, woods, fields, and farmyards; finding nothing of any significance.
After leaving the Buckleys’ house, I turn to Emerson. ‘Everyone’s hinting – though no-one’s actually saying – that something was going on with Hollie. What Elise Buckley said, about her missing school and coming around to their house upset. Then Niamh Buckley saying how Hollie often didn’t want to talk about things … If she’s telling the truth, that is.’ I’m thoughtful for a moment. ‘We’re talking about a teenaged girl who lost her mother and whose relationship with her stepmother is adequate, though it doesn’t sound like it’s any stronger than that. It sounds like Hollie’s emotionally fragile.’ I think back to her photograph, and to Stephanie Hampton’s assessment of Hollie as a tortured soul. ‘We need to talk to more of the villagers. In places like this, it’s impossible to keep secrets. Someone somewhere will know something.’
‘Maybe she decided to move away for reasons we don’t yet know? Either way, if she’d decided to run off, she could be miles away by now,’ Emerson says.
I look at Emerson. ‘How? There are no buses through here.’
‘A friend could have picked her up. Or she could have walked and caught a bus.’
I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t seem that she had any close friends. And it’s too cold for her to have walked far. My guess is she’s still around here somewhere. But we should check out the buses. Can you get the DI on the phone?’ Pulling over in a lay-by, I’m silent as he dials.
I take Emerson’s phone, waiting for the DI to answer. ‘Sir? Nothing yet. I think it’s likely she’s still somewhere around here – otherwise one of the villagers would have seen her – and it’s probably a long shot, but we need to check out which buses come near Abingworth.’
‘I’ll get someone to check. Have you said anything to the Hamptons about a press release?’
‘Not yet.’ It’s a fine line to tread, gauging whether it would turn anything up, because once the news is out that a teenage girl has disappeared, the press will be all over the village.
‘Maybe have a word? If we don’t find anything soon, we need to get on it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Switching off the phone, I turn to Emerson and notice the footpath marked a little ahead of the car, where a sign points to the church. I nod towards it. ‘The village church. Shall we take a look?’
Getting out, Emerson turns up the collar of his coat as I lock the car, then do the same. The air is sharp, the path frozen as we make our way along it towards the churchyard. As the trees open out, ahead of us the headstones are grey against the white of the frost.
The church is small, dating back about eight hundred years according to a small metal plaque, with a narrow tower in which a single bell hangs. I try the door, surprised when I find it unlocked, but a search of the sparse interior yields nothing. Closing the door behind me as we exit, we’ve started walking back towards the car when my phone buzzes.
‘May.’ As the voice at the other end speaks, the blood drains from my face.
I turn to Emerson. ‘They’ve found her.’
*
To get to Park House on the opposite edge of the village, we double back past the Buckleys’ house before taking a right turn into Greyfriars Lane. Almost immediately, a police car comes into view parked up ahead. After pulling over behind it, we get out.
Sarah Collins is waiting by the intercom in front of locked metal gates. ‘The owners are away. There’s a caretaker who has a key, apparently, so we’re trying to get in touch with him.’
Shivering in the cold, I pull my coat tightly around me. ‘Where is she?’
Sarah’s voice is grim. ‘In the gardens. When we couldn’t get any reply from the house, Milsom and Edwards found a way in through the woods – there’s a fence that’s easy to climb over. I assume that’s how Hollie got in.’
‘Can you show us?’
We walk in silence further down the lane, and then Sarah turns in to a stretch of woodland. After a couple of minutes, we reach a fence. We climb over into the large gardens, and I try to establish where we are in relation to the rest of the village.
Glimpsing a roof through the trees, I frown. ‘Is that the Buckleys’ house?’
‘I think so. She’s just through here,’ Sarah says quietly.
All the time we were searching, there’d been hope. But as I cross the gardens in front of the old farmhouse, then follow Sarah through a hedge into a smaller enclosed part of the garden, all hope is gone. I notice her hair first – long and spread out around her as she lies face down in the pool in front of us.
‘She was under the leaves, ma’am.’ As Milsom speaks, I notice the piles of leaves scraped back around the edges of the pool. ‘She must have fallen in. She was invisible until we cleared them as the water had frozen over her and the leaves had settled on top.’
As I stand there, I shiver. She’s wearing the jeans and jacket Stephanie described, but only as Milsom speaks do I notice the ice encasing her body, her hair, so that only the back of her head protrudes above it.
‘We should inform her parents.’ Sarah’s voice is flat.
‘Not yet. We need to be sure of how this happened.’ Hearing voices, I turn towards the house where I see two more officers making their way across the garden towards us. ‘They must have found a key.’ Two more men come into view carrying a stretcher.
There’s silence as we stand there while Hollie’s body is photographed before the ice is broken and it’s removed from the water.
‘I’ll go and see her parents.’ Sarah nods as I speak, her eyes grave.
Emerson comes with me as I make my way back to my car, steeling myself. Many things about this job aren’t easy, but the worst of all is breaking bad news. When you tell a parent that their child isn’t coming back, you know that you’re destroying their life as they knew it – their hopes, their dreams for the future.
When we pull up outside the Hamptons’ house, I turn to Emerson. ‘I’ll do this alone.’ The Hamptons don’t need an audience for their grief. Getting out, I walk down the path to the front door, but Stephanie opens it before I get there. When she takes in my silence, then my expression, a stricken look crosses her face and her hand goes to her mouth. Turning around, she runs back in, calling out to her husband.
‘James. James …’
Going inside, I find them huddled together in the hallway. ‘Please,’ I say quietly, closing the door behind me. ‘Can we sit down?’ I gesture towards the sitting room, where only last night they were telling me about Hollie. All of us clinging on to hope that we’d find her alive, little knowing that hope was futile, because from the way the ice had frozen over her, it was clear Hollie had been dead for some while.
‘Where is she?
’ James’s voice is harsh and shaky at the same time.
‘We found her in the grounds of Park House.’ I speak slowly, quietly. ‘She was in the pool.’
Stephanie’s in denial. ‘No … She’s not …’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I pause to let my words sink in, at the same time watching for any sign they already know. If Hollie’s death turns out to be suspicious, they will be suspects. ‘She’d obviously been there for a while. There was nothing we could do.’ We’ve all considered worst-case scenarios, but when it happens, nothing prepares you for the shock. Their faces are disbelieving, stricken with pain as they struggle to take it in, trying to twist my words, make them into anything other than the truth.
When James gets up, it’s as though he’s physically shrunk. ‘I want to see her.’ His face is ashen. ‘Please take me to her.’
‘We’ll need you to identify her body in due course but not just now. We’ll be carrying out an investigation into how she died and exactly when. It’s entirely possible that it was accidental, but we have to rule out the possibility that it wasn’t.’
‘But why was she there?’ Stephanie cries. ‘She doesn’t even know the Marinos. She had no reason to be in their garden.’
‘It’s my fault.’ James’s face is grey, his body rigid with shock as he stares at me. ‘It’s all my fault.’
I watch him, knowing this is a natural response when a parent loses a child, that self-blame and guilt are common emotions at times like this. ‘I think we’ll find it was an accident,’ I say gently, feeling my heart twist as Stephanie takes his arm. As always, imagining how it would feel to be a parent who’d have done anything they could to protect their child.
‘But I knew something was going on,’ he mutters.
Tears roll down Stephanie’s face as she tries to reason with him. ‘Hollie could be impossible,’ she says desolately. ‘We both know that. You didn’t do anything wrong. You couldn’t have known anything like this would happen.’
*
When I get out to the car, Emerson’s sitting in the driving seat. ‘You told them?’
I nod. ‘They’re devastated. Heartbroken.’ How can they be anything else, when in the last few minutes, their entire lives have been shattered? ‘We have to find out what happened.’ Experience has taught me that when you’re faced with such a pointless, tragic death, with a broken, grieving family, you have to focus on finding answers.
Niamh
I know before anyone tells me. Hollie isn’t coming back.
From my window, I see the single police car pass slowly through the village, the unmarked van directly behind it sending a chill rippling through me.
I’ve seen one before.
It’s the kind of van they send when someone’s died.
Chapter Twelve
Elise
It’s Ida Jones who tells me, later that evening, that the police have found Hollie’s body.
‘I’m so terribly sorry to be calling you, Elise.’ Ida sounds distressed. ‘But I thought you’d want to know, what with her and young Niamh being so close. It’s such a tragedy.’
‘No …’ Shock hits me, followed by a rushing in my ears. As Ida goes on talking, I interrupt. ‘Wait … I can’t take this in.’
‘Such a terrible thing …’ Ida’s voice trembles. ‘To think of that poor young girl …’
‘I have to go.’ My hands are shaking. ‘I’m sorry, Ida. I need to tell Niamh.’
In a daze, I go to find Niamh. She’s upstairs, lying on her bed with her iPad in front of her, earphones plugged in, but when she sees me, she takes them out.
‘Niamh? Honey?’
Whether it’s the honey, or the tone of my voice, I can tell from the way she stiffens, she knows something’s very wrong. As her eyes meet mine, I contemplate the enormity of what I’m about to tell her, saying it as gently as I can. ‘The police have found Hollie.’
I watch her eyes widen as my words sink in; her gasp of shock followed by denial. ‘Is she OK?’
But I’m shaking my head. ‘Niamh … She isn’t. I don’t know what happened …’ Going over to the bed, I sit next to her, the words sticking in my throat. ‘I’m so sorry. Hollie’s dead.’
‘No.’ Niamh springs up, her voice tight, high-pitched. ‘She can’t be.’ Going over to the window, she stands with her back to me, her shoulders hunched, her denial absolute, but then, it’s her bed that Hollie was sprawled on just days ago, her company Hollie sought out when she needed an ally. Even to me, what’s happened is incomprehensible. As she starts to shake, I go over and put my arms around her, trying to absorb the sobs racking her.
‘I need to know what happened,’ she mumbles through her tears. ‘Poor Hollie …’
I keep my arms around Niamh, tears rolling down my face onto her hair. ‘Ida didn’t say. She probably didn’t know.’ Pausing, I wipe my face with one of my hands. ‘It’s terrible, Niamh … So sad …’
As Niamh’s shaking intensifies, I realise she’s in shock. ‘Why don’t you come downstairs with me? I’ll make us some tea,’ I say anxiously, not wanting to leave her alone. Hollie’s death is too close. I can’t help thinking – as no doubt every other parent would – what if it had been my child?
I think of James, trying to imagine what he’s going through. After losing his wife, it seems unthinkable that he’s lost his daughter, too.
*
Later, I’m in the kitchen when Andrew comes in. After taking off his coat, he pours himself a large whisky instead of his usual glass of wine.
‘I imagine you’ve heard about Hollie, Andrew?’
He takes a large slug from his glass. ‘Yes. Her body was picked up this afternoon.’
I’m incredulous. It stands to reason that the medical practice would have heard, but at the very least, I’d have expected him to call me. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me? What if Niamh had heard from someone else?’
‘I was too busy.’ Speaking impatiently, he starts towards the door. ‘I’ve had a hell of a day. If you don’t mind, I’m going to sit down.’
‘Just a minute, Andrew.’ My voice is sharp. ‘Do you know what happened to her?’
I watch warily as he stiffens, then slowly turns around. ‘She drowned,’ he says curtly. ‘There’ll be a post-mortem. Until then, there’s no way of knowing whether it was an accident or not.’
An image of Hollie’s lifeless body comes to me, her long hair fanned out around her under the water. I feel the blood drain from my face. ‘Where did it happen?’
‘In the grounds of Park House, apparently. The Marinos are in Italy, so God only knows what she was doing there.’
But as he speaks, my skin prickles. From one of our spare rooms, you can just about make that house out through the trees. ‘I’ve told Niamh that Hollie’s been found, but none of the details.’
Andrew raises his eyebrows. ‘I suppose you ought to tell her, then. Or I will. But not right now.’
‘I’ll talk to her.’ I don’t trust Andrew to break it to her gently. Heavy-hearted, I go up to her room again, knocking softly on the door before pushing it open. As I tell her what Andrew told me, it feels as though I’m peeling away a layer of her childhood.
I sit with her, my arm around her shoulders as more tears pour down her cheeks. I’m guessing the police will be back at some point, that there will be more questions about Hollie that only Niamh can answer. ‘Niamh?’ I stroke her hair off her face. ‘Do you have any idea why Hollie might have gone there?’
Niamh shakes her head. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she says tearfully. ‘But it doesn’t matter, does it? She’s gone. Nothing can bring her back.’ She collapses into more heart-rending sobbing.
*
Shock ricochets through the village as the news spreads the next day. Everyone here has children in their lives – grandchildren, nieces, nephews – and teenagers aren’t supposed to be found dead. Meanwhile, the press start arriving, wandering around the lanes in search of the story behind Hollie’s death.
‘If anyone approaches you, just tell them you don’t know anything. Or walk away,’ I tell Niamh. ‘And if you’re here alone, don’t answer the door to anyone you don’t know.’
Niamh’s face is pale as she nods. ‘OK.’
Fortunately, I’m there later on, when a couple of strangers I guess are probably reporters walk up the drive and knock at the door. As Niamh appears at the top of the stairs, they knock again, then one of their faces peers in through the kitchen window. Seeing Niamh’s look of fear as she shrinks back is the last straw.
Going to the door, I open it to find a middle-aged man holding his phone, obviously ready to record me, a younger woman standing behind him. ‘You’re both trespassing. I’d like you to leave.’
He ignores me. ‘We’d just like a quick chat about the missing girl. They’ve found her body, haven’t they? Can you tell us a little about …’
Folding my arms, I glare at him, incensed by their invasion of our privacy. ‘If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police. Get out.’
‘All right …’ Holding up his hands, he nods to his colleague and the pair of them slope away.
Once they’ve gone, I close the gates onto the drive. They’re heavy, and inconvenient, but the least of my concerns. Knowing they’ll keep the press out, I lock them.
*
The next day, I call work and arrange to take a couple of days’ unpaid leave. I can’t go away, leaving Niamh here alone. It isn’t just the thought of the press hanging around, it’s the noticeable impact of Hollie’s death. While Niamh’s never been demonstrative, she seems to have closed up completely, the extent of her silent calm unnerving me.
I have the strangest sensation, as though time itself has been paused. It’s a morning when I should have been on my way to Zurich, when Niamh should have gone back to school; a morning that, in the aftermath of Hollie’s death, the minutes have slowed, our lives changing around us invisibly – irrevocably – as we wait to hear more. It takes until the afternoon for the police to arrive. Opening the door, I hesitate before I recognise DS May from last time. Instead of a uniform, she’s wearing a black, well-cut coat and lace-up boots.
The Secret Page 7
