Nicki
The longer Hollie Hampton’s murder remains unsolved, the more convinced I become that the villagers are closing ranks. Usually the whole world has an opinion on what’s going on with a murder investigation, but not in Abingworth. They’re too reticent, too reluctant to talk about almost anything.
“It’s as though there’s some unspoken agreement, sir. Either that, or a secret they all know about.”
The DI looks nonplussed. “Still no more on the porn ring?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. But that can’t be it. They wouldn’t all be in on it.”
“No.” He’s thoughtful. “It’s too much of a coincidence that Hollie’s body was found in the same area we believe the porn ring to be based.”
“It could just be coincidence, sir,” I remind the DI.
“Yes.” But he doesn’t sound convinced. “Niamh Buckley . . . Do you think she knows anything about Hollie’s death?”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t like to say. Her loyalty to Hollie is commendable, if a little misguided, given the circumstances. But she’s fourteen years old and her friend has just died.”
“Maybe talk to her again. Win her trust, May. What about the mother?”
“The last time I saw Elise Buckley, she had half a bottle of Prosecco inside her. She’s protective of her daughter. But on the whole, she seems fairly black-and-white.”
“And her husband?”
“Andrew Buckley’s the GP who signed the death certificate when the body was found. I’ve spoken to him on the phone since. He’s businesslike, professional—and busy.”
He scratches his head. “We’ve at least got a name. Philip Mason, May. We need to establish his whereabouts and bring him in for questioning in relation to the porn ring. But no one seems to know where he is. I’ve got a photo, somewhere.” The DI rummages through the array of papers on his desk, then produces it with a flourish. “That’s him.”
As I study it, I recognize him. “He was at Hollie’s funeral. Where does he live?”
“A mile or so out of Abingworth. Someone’s been over there. Apparently, his house is locked up, the curtains and blinds drawn. It looks as though he’s gone away.
“We need to find him.” The DI speaks through gritted teeth. “Do you think during one of her free-spirited jaunts, Hollie might have stumbled across something and he had no choice but to get rid of her?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know, sir. It’s impossible to say.”
“Tell me about the funeral.”
I nod. “I’d say most of the village was there. The church was packed. It was really sad, as you’d expect. There was nothing out of place.”
“And after?”
“Most of them went to the pub,” I tell the DI, frowning, remembering that Andrew Buckley was there, while Elise and Niamh hadn’t made it, which I thought strange initially. But given Niamh’s age and the circumstances, it was understandable.
He sighs. “All we can do is keep talking to them. Keep asking questions. There’s always someone who knows something. We just have to find them.”
He’s right. People don’t always act as you think they might. There’s often someone who may not realize they’re sitting on a vital piece of information, just as there’s always someone in a village who sees most of what goes on, yet stays in the background.
* * *
When I reach Ida Jones’s cottage, I wonder if she could be that person. Her lips are pursed as she lets me in. Her unruly gray curls are scraped back into a bun. She comes up to my shoulder but despite her age, looks strong. As she shows me into her sitting room, she gestures to the sofa.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Thank you.” The heavy dark furniture and dated three-piece suite remind me of my grandmother’s house. “I’m sorry to turn up like this, Mrs. Jones. I’d like to talk to you about Hollie Hampton.”
She nods; then her eyes are suddenly far away. “I thought you might. But I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you.”
“Well . . . You could start by telling me about her. How well you knew her. Where you saw her, what you knew about her, her relationships...”
“She was quite a sweet young thing. But flighty, I called her. She was friends with young Niamh, but I expect you know that. It’s hard on young ones to lose a friend.” Her eyes mist over.
“Mrs. Jones... How well do you know the Hamptons?”
“Them?” She looks faintly surprised. “You’ll know that James is a writer and Stephanie’s a florist?”
As I nod, she goes on. “I might be wrong, but after his first book, I don’t think he’s had much luck. It’s her shop that keeps them going.”
“Is that so?” My ears prick up. It’s the first suggestion I’ve heard of any financial difficulties. “Do you know the Buckleys?”
“Oh yes...” Ida Jones is more forthcoming. “I see Elise from time to time. The doctor though...” Her face clouds over.
My instincts are on full alert. “What about him?”
“Between you and me, he’s not a nice man. I won’t say any more than that.” Her face is mutinous.
“Mrs. Jones... If you know something about Dr. Buckley that could help us, we need to know.”
She’s shaking her head. “It won’t help you find who killed poor young Hollie.” She hesitates. “But there are rumors. Villages are full of rumors.” Her eyes give nothing away. “He likes women. That’s all I’m saying.”
I’m not altogether surprised. If her husband’s fooling around, it might explain the slight hostility I sense in Elise Buckley. I push Ida Jones for more information, but she won’t be drawn. Then she frowns.
“I almost forgot. I saw Elise with Hollie not that long back. They were by the church. I think they were arguing about something. I’d just started talking to them when my phone rang. It was my daughter—by the time we’d finished our chat, they’d sorted it out.” Then she says, “Hollie and Niamh were all over the place together. They didn’t take too much notice of boundaries, those two. But they were harmless.”
“Where did they used to go, Mrs. Jones? Do you know?”
“How would I know?” She glares at me for a moment. “Ask young Niamh. She’s the only one who could tell you.”
Without knowing how, I’ve struck a chord. Either that, or she’s slightly mad. I try to defuse her. “How long have you lived in the village, Mrs. Jones?”
“It’s gone thirty years, twenty of them without my Derek. I’ve seen a few folks come and go, you know. Met most of them, too.”
“Have you seen any strangers hanging around, or noticed anything unusual?” I watch her face for any clues, but she shakes her head.
“It’s different these days. Folk don’t have time the way they used to. There’s the pub, but it’s full of outsiders. Even the church... folk go there on high days and holidays. We used to go every week. Shame.” She shakes her head.
High days, holidays, and funerals, I can’t help thinking. But I take her point that in a short time, close to a thriving town, village life has changed almost beyond recognition. I’m curious. “Do you feel like you belong to a community?”
She seems to think for a moment. “Oh yes,” she says softly. “When something terrible happens, people rally round. We’ve always done that.”
“Like now, you mean?” I feel myself frown.
She looks up sharply. “Exactly.”
As I drive away, replaying her last comment, I’m sure I missed something. When something terrible happens, people rally round. We’ve always done that... I’m almost certain it wasn’t Hollie she was talking about. But if not Hollie, who was it?
* * *
After what Ida Jones has implied about the Hamptons’ financial situation, I pay a visit to Stephanie Hampton’s shop, hoping to talk to her away from her husband. But when I get there, it’s in darkness. Checking the clock in my car, I realize I’ve timed my visit badly, guessing she’s closed for lunch.
Her shop is one of a few arranged in a courtyard of converted farm buildings. Now that I’m here, I’m curious. Getting out, I take the half dozen steps to the door, peering in through the glass. From what I can see of the dim interior, it looks as though Stephanie is waiting for a delivery to arrive. There are few flowers and it looks empty, but after Hollie’s death, it stands to reason that Stephanie’s mind would be on other things.
Or would it? If Ida Jones is right and this shop is keeping the Hamptons afloat, in its current state, it’s less than inspiring. Going back down the steps, I walk along to the next building, glancing at the window display filled with wedding paraphernalia. Above the door, gold letters spell out TIGER LILY.
I open the door and go inside, taking in the rails of wedding dresses as I’m greeted by a young woman wearing a tape measure slung around her neck. “Can I help you?”
“I was hoping to catch Stephanie next door.”
Clearly hoping for business, the woman’s face falls.
“I’m DS May. I’m investigating the death of Mrs. Hampton’s stepdaughter. I don’t suppose you know where she is?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t... Her hours have been a bit erratic lately. Hardly surprising . . . Can I help in any way?”
I pause for a moment. “How well do you know Mrs. Hampton? I mean, you have complementary businesses. Do you refer brides to each other?”
“I did.” A shadow crosses the woman’s face. “I don’t like saying this, but I’m being a bit careful now. The other day, one of her suppliers came in. He was chasing her for an unpaid bill. I don’t want to refer my brides to her for their flowers if her business is shaky.”
I nod. It sounds as though Stephanie’s on a downward spiral. When a business isn’t doing well, word gets around, customers stay away, making it worse. And of course the situation won’t have been helped by Hollie’s death. “Can I leave you my card? If you do think of anything, will you call me?”
* * *
Back at the office, I go over everything we know for the umpteenth time, then check in with Sarah Collins, to see if they’ve got any further with Operation Rainbow, the name the porn ring’s been given.
It isn’t until later that afternoon that my phone buzzes and an unknown number flashes up on the screen. I’m even more curious when I find out who it is.