Nicki
Despite the absence of anything other than the most tentative connection between Mason and Hollie, the search for him is stepped up, but apart from his passport being traced to a flight he boarded to Paris a week ago, he’s untraceable. But people like Mason often have multiple false passports and places to hide. He could be anywhere.
Andrew Buckley continues to prey on my mind. I know the power that people like him have—to maintain control, force silence, hide the truth about themselves. I arrange to visit him at his home. I haven’t spoken to him since he signed Hollie’s death certificate. But in light of what James Hampton said and what I know about Buckley’s personal life, I’m curious to hear what he has to say.
As I drive toward the village, the countryside bears long-awaited signs of spring. Grass verges show new signs of growth and the branches bear the faintest tinge of green. After one of the wettest winters I can remember, they’re signs of hope.
In the shelter afforded by the tall stone walls that surround it, spring has already arrived in the Buckleys’ garden. Trees bear pale pink blossoms and in the borders, clumps of primroses and bluebells are interspersed with verdant shoots of what’s to follow. I linger, taking it in, unaware that Andrew Buckley’s watching me from the window. When I knock at the door, he opens it immediately.
“Come in, Detective Sergeant. I’m afraid my wife’s at work. I hope that isn’t going to inconvenience you?” His manner is smooth, authoritative.
I can’t help but wonder if it’s by accident or design that he’s arranged to meet me when she isn’t here. “Not at all. I have a few questions to ask you. It shouldn’t take long.”
His face is impassive. “Absolutely. Would you like to come through?”
Instead of the kitchen, where I’ve spoken to Elise and Niamh, he shows me through to a large sitting room, extravagantly furnished, with tall sash windows that look out onto the garden.
“Do have a seat.”
Getting an impression of how it is to be one of his patients, I sit on one of the armchairs, while he sits down opposite me, on the sofa.
“So how can I help?”
His deliberate affability isn’t lost on me. Getting out my notebook, I take a deep breath. “You’re aware we’re holding James Hampton?”
He nods, his face sober. “I had heard.” He frowns. “May I ask why?”
“Do you know a Philip Mason, Dr. Buckley?” I study his face for a telltale giveaway sign, but there’s nothing.
“I have a drink with him now and then. He only lives a couple of miles away, but I understand he’s away a lot on business.”
“Your wife said you were talking to him at Hollie’s funeral.”
“Was I?” As he frowns, apparently trying to remember, I can’t work out whether his look of blankness is contrived. “Yes. He was there. I did talk to him. We were saying how terrible it was that Hollie had died.”
Even though he’s saying all the right things, instinct tells me not to trust him. “I understand you and Stephanie Hampton had an involvement.”
His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”
“We’ve heard it from a number of sources.” I speak slowly, noticing the telltale tightening of his jaw. “I take it they’re correct?”
Slowly arranging his hands in his lap, he considers his response. “Stephanie and I were intimate.” He looks at me. “Plenty of people have affairs, Detective Sergeant.” There’s the faintest hint of warning in his voice as he goes on. “Can I ask you what relevance this has to the police investigation of Hollie’s murder?”
I hold his gaze. “Dr. Buckley, I’m sure you’re able to understand that after a murder and a suicide, we need to know as much as possible about the deceased.” When he doesn’t say anything, I continue. “Mr. Hampton suggested that I ask you about Dylan. He said that Hollie was in love with him, but he left her. He said it destroyed Hollie. Initially, he told me to talk to your wife. But then he backtracked. He said you were the person to talk to.”
There’s a look of disdain on his face. “He’s got his facts wrong, I’m afraid. It wasn’t Dylan who left Hollie, Detective Sergeant.” I watch Andrew Buckley shake his head, taking his time. When he speaks, his tone is measured. “There are issues of doctor-patient confidentiality, but I know...” As I go to interrupt him, he raises a hand. “Hollie Hampton had problems. They were worse than most people realized. I was going to refer her to a psychiatrist—I hadn’t told anyone, but I was increasingly convinced she was suffering from a personality disorder.”
I’ve heard various accounts of Hollie’s free-spirited nature and her bunking off school, but nothing like this. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s difficult.” He pauses. “There wasn’t just one thing. Since she and Niamh were friends, she spent quite a bit of time here with us. As a doctor, obviously you see traits that other people don’t notice. She was unpredictable, exceptionally flighty, highly emotional...”
“I imagine her medical notes reflect this?”
He shakes his head. “It was a tricky situation. There was an incident at the surgery.”
At the mention of an incident, I frown. “What happened?”
“She made an appointment to see me. It had to be me, apparently—the receptionist told me she was insistent. She told me she had a lump in one of her breasts. Of course, I told her I’d ask a chaperone to join us before examining her—it’s standard practice. But she got extremely upset. She said she trusted me because I was Niamh’s father... I fell for it. It was a complete setup. As soon as she’d taken off her top, she screamed at the top of her voice. When someone came to investigate, she told them I’d assaulted her.”
“And you hadn’t?”
“God, no.” Andrew Buckley looks horrified. “Hollie wrote a letter of complaint and the practice manager got involved. Of course, everyone realized what had happened. That kind of thing is rare, but not unheard of. It’s usually girls or young women seeking the attention of a father figure.”
I’m puzzled. “But that would hardly apply to Hollie. It seems as though she and James had a good relationship. Why would she do that to you?”
“She’d found out about me and Stephanie.” He pauses briefly, adjusting the lime-colored cushions behind him on the sofa. “I’m not proud, Detective Sergeant. My marriage isn’t what it should be, in spite of my best efforts. None of us are saints.”
I wonder what Stephanie got out of their affair. From what I’ve seen, I’d challenge any woman to have a loving relationship with Andrew Buckley. My impressions are of a man who’s cold, domineering, unsympathetic, but there are two sides to every story and it isn’t my place to judge him.
But unless I’ve imagined it, he’s deliberately maneuvered the conversation away from my initial question. “Tell me, Dr. Buckley... Dylan... Where does he come into this?”
Andrew Buckley looks at me sharply. “As I’ve explained, Hollie had a number of problems. I’m not sure he does come into it.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Too used to calling the shots, he doesn’t like it when it’s the other way around. “That’s not what James Hampton said.” Determined to keep him focused, I watch him closely. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Don’t worry. If there’s nothing you can tell me, maybe I should talk to your wife.”
“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 discomfort. “To be honest, I’m surprised you 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, I don’t react. It’s obvious I’ve hit on something. “Dylan and Hollie were in love—as much as two teenagers can ever really be in love.” He speaks disparagingly. “They went off the rails, as anyone will tell you. They weren’t good for each other. Hollie was difficult. When he met her, Dylan lost interest in everything else.”
I still don’t understand the secrecy around Dylan. “So what happened? I know 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 on some level, he blames Hollie for Dylan’s death. I’m astonished that in a small village, no one else has thought to mention this. That sense I had before comes back to me, of the villagers closing ranks. “You knew his family?”
“If you’d bothered to check your records, you’d find everything there.” His words are loaded with sarcasm. Then a shadow crosses his face as he speaks through gritted teeth. “He was my son.”