The Stepdaughter

In the light of what Stephanie’s told me, I wonder how many other people are embroiled the way James is—in an immoral, illegal business that they’re too frightened to blow the whistle on. At the same time, another question enters my mind. Could Andrew be?

In my heart, I know my husband is capable of anything. He isn’t a doctor out of compassion. It’s for the aura of authority and integrity that accompanies his title; his cloak of infallibility; the fact that his words carry more weight than other people’s. It astonishes me how even now, so many people don’t question their doctors, even though doctors are human, as capable as anyone else of making mistakes.

In my mind, I conjure the face of the man I saw James arguing with in the woods, sure that I know him somehow, yet still unable to remember where from. Two days before the funeral, I go back to work, reporting one early morning for a flight to Barcelona. The flight is busy, so that after we’ve taken off, I don’t get time to look outside until we’re flying over the south of France. The cloud carpeting the landscape as we left the UK is far behind us and from the small window in the forward door, I can see snow-capped mountains, just before the land flattens out to meet the sea.

As we start our descent into the city, I’m distracted for a couple of moments while I make a final check of the cabin. By the time I return to my view, we’re low enough to make out buildings and the network of streets bathed in winter sun. Then the aircraft turns to head out over the sea briefly. The port comes into view, then open water, before we turn and make our final approach.

After we land, I study the rows of faces in front of me, imagining lives that are so different from mine. Then as the last of the passengers disembarks, I’m gripped by an urge to make an excuse to go to the terminal building, to merge into the thousands of people there before disappearing from everything I know. I come close, for a moment believing I could, until I think of Niamh.

It’s a reality check that causes my mood to slump. Like many of us, I live a life bound by responsibility—as cabin crew required to get this flight home; as Niamh’s mother; and now, in the light of what’s happened to Hollie and what Stephanie has told me, there’s an additional burden on me, an obligation to help expose the truth.

I push it to the back of my mind as we fly back, but two hours later, as we make our approach into Gatwick, I think of the hold Andrew has over me. Am I really so different from Stephanie? Weak, playing along with Andrew’s game for my own reasons, instead of letting the truth come out and dealing with the fallout? As the aircraft wheels touch down, I realize I’m not like Stephanie. She isn’t weak at all. After the funeral, she’s going to cut herself loose from James. It’s exactly what I need to find a way to do.

After we park on our stand and the return passengers start to disembark, my eyes fix on a man speaking angrily to his wife. But instead of looking upset or anxious, she humors him, touching his arm with affection. I watch his anger evaporate; then he laughs quietly, kissing her on the cheek. It’s a brief moment that reminds me of everything that’s wrong in my marriage; a reminder that only I can change it.

While I drive home, I feel uncertainty escalating around me, as if unstoppable change is in the air. It’s a feeling that’s heightened that afternoon, when I drive into Chichester for an appointment. Later, when I get home, I switch on the radio and turn the music up. Then, out of character for me, I open a bottle of Prosecco and pour myself a large glass. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. There’s no reason for me to, when the world’s increasingly unpredictable and the only person I can rely on is myself.

Finishing the glass, I pour another, as an upbeat track comes on the radio. Caught in a moment of recklessness, I start to dance—wildly, uninhibitedly, because no one’s watching and because I feel like it. It isn’t until the music subsides that I hear the knock at the door.

Catching my breath, I smooth my hair behind my ears and open it to find Sergeant Collins and DS May standing there.

“Mrs. Buckley? I hope we’re not disturbing you. Would you mind if we came in for a moment?” Their faces are impassive. If they saw me through the window, it doesn’t show.

Standing back, I open the door wider. “Of course not.” The cloud of uncertainty I felt earlier is back, hanging over me. “Come through.”

They follow me inside, hovering for a moment, until I gesture toward the table. “Would you like to sit down?”

DS May shakes her head. “Thank you—but this won’t take long.”

I watch her eyes glance around the kitchen, taking in my half-drunk glass, then glancing at the clock, before she carries on. “Can you remember where you were the day Hollie died?”

I gasp. Am I a suspect? “I was at work—on a flight. I’ll have to check where to.”

“If you wouldn’t mind?”

My feeling of uncertainty grows stronger as I get my phone, logging into the crew portal before bringing up my flight schedule. “I went to Barcelona.”

Making a note, she nods, before going on. “I wondered if you knew Niamh was with Hollie the day before she disappeared.”

Shaking my head, I frown at her. “You must be mistaken. It isn’t possible. She would have been at school.” But I was flying that day, too. I’ve always trusted that she goes to school. I’ve no reason not to, but in reality, I can’t be sure where she was.

The expression on DS May’s face is grave. “We have reason to believe that Niamh took the day off. According to the school, you emailed them to tell them she had a dental appointment.”

I stare at her, feeling my grip on reality loosen further.

“Did you, Mrs. Buckley?”

I try to take in what she’s said. Niamh must have been at school. In that moment, I’m paralyzed, torn between needing to protect Niamh from whatever Hollie was caught up in and telling the truth. Except that the truth is I don’t know where Niamh was that day. My voice is hoarse. “I can’t be sure. I’d have to check the calendar... Maybe the school made a mistake. Did they say if she’d missed any other days?”

To my relief, she says, “To the best of our knowledge, this was the only one, which makes it all the more important. Did Hollie have some kind of grip over your daughter? Enough to make her take a day off school, for whatever reason?”

“Not that I’m aware. It’s best if I talk to Niamh.” But as I watch them, DS May and Sergeant Collins glance at each other.

“She’s usually home around four, isn’t she? Would you mind if we wait?”