Sue Fortin - The Dead Wife

Steph spent the next hour researching the Elizabeth Sinclair case some more. She phoned a contact she’d had from her days working in Carlisle for a local newspaper after graduating from uni. That placement had been far enough away from her hometown of Kendalton and her mother, to put a reasonable distance between them, so that any visits needed to be prearranged. It was an excuse that had worked for both of them.

Steph looked back fondly at her days with the local rag; despite the lack of action it had been a good starting point, and Adam Baxter had taught her everything he knew and had made the job so much more bearable.

While Adam had been happy to stay with the local paper, Steph had felt the need to explore other opportunities, and when the job with Vacation Staycation had arisen the lure of being based on the south coast tempted her to apply. She had been delighted to be offered the position and, with nothing to keep her in Cumbria, Steph had made the move five years ago. She had meant to keep in touch with Adam when she moved, but phone calls had been replaced by text messages, and over time the messages had become fewer and fewer. Steph wasn’t sure when she’d last been in touch with Adam – two, maybe three years ago?

She searched through her phone contacts, locating her ex-colleague’s name, and hoped he still had the same mobile number. She was in luck. Adam answered almost immediately.

‘OMG! Well, if it isn’t Stephanie Durham herself. What a blast from the past.’

‘Hi, Adam. How are you?’

‘Surprised but oddly pleased to hear from you.’ She could hear him pause as he drew on a cigarette. ‘Now, what do you want?’

‘What makes you think I want anything?’ said Steph, noting how easily they fell back into their old, comfortable ways with each other.

‘Seeing as I haven’t heard so much as a whisper from you in the last three years, call it journalist’s intuition, but I’m guessing you want something from me. Either that or you pocket dialled me and are too embarrassed to hang up.’

Steph gave a laugh. ‘OK, you got me. I pocket dialled.’

‘Bollocks did you,’ said Adam. ‘What is it you want to know?’

Steph dispensed with any further preamble. ‘Elizabeth Sinclair. What do you know about her death?’

‘Elizabeth Sinclair … wait, let me think.’

Steph waited patiently, giving Adam time to raid his memory bank. He had a knack for being able to recall news events as if he had his own database in his head. ‘Do you need a clue?’ she prompted.

‘Nope. Elizabeth Sinclair – I’ve got her now.’

‘Like you didn’t have as soon as I mentioned the name,’ said Steph. ‘You can quit humouring me now.’

‘Right, here goes. Elizabeth Sinclair was married to Harry Sinclair from the highly esteemed, not to mention wealthy, Sinclair family who own the great big fucking house up near the Con Point Hills. Elizabeth drowned in a lake on the estate while trying to rescue her dog.’

‘What else do you know?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, Adam, you always know more than you let on. Did anything stand out as odd?’

‘No, nothing. It was a family tragedy. Simply an accident.’

‘So why has Elizabeth’s mother been running a media campaign to have the investigation into her daughter’s death reopened? She says it wasn’t an accident. Have you not seen her Twitter feed?’

‘Oh, you mean Sonia Lomas. She’s a fruitcake. She’s a mother who desperately doesn’t or can’t accept her daughter is dead.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Everyone knows it – she was like it before her daughter died and she’s got worse since.’ Adam was beginning to sound bored with the conversation.

‘What was she like before?’

‘Highly strung. Emotional. That’s what friends and family said anyway.’

Steph pushed on. ‘If you were convinced your daughter was murdered and no one believed you, wouldn’t that be enough to give you mental-health problems?’

‘My point exactly, especially if you were a bit that way inclined beforehand. Anyway, why the interest?’

‘I’m going up to Conmere Resort Centre to cover the reopening of the place since its major refurb.’

‘Ooh, get you. All expenses paid, I hope.’

‘Of course. Why do you think I left the Carlisle Post ?’

‘If you want my advice, which you probably don’t, but I’m going to give it to you anyway,’ said Adam, his voice taking on a more serious tone, ‘you’ll be best off just sticking to the assignment and not concerning yourself with Elizabeth Sinclair’s death.’

‘That sounds more like a warning than a piece of advice,’ said Steph, doodling a lake surrounded by bulrushes on the notepad in front of her.

There was a significant pause before Adam answered. ‘Look, Steph, the Sinclairs are a powerful family. They know lots of people, influential people. It won’t do you or your career any favours if you come up here and start ruffling feathers about the death of one of their own.’

Steph gave a laugh, despite the seriousness of Adam’s speech. ‘And you must realise, as someone who once worked on a paper, I can’t leave something alone when there’s a whiff of a story.’

‘Honestly, Steph, there’s no story. Don’t you think I would have been on it if there was?’

‘True.’ Adam was like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out stories, but at the same time her own sense of intrigue wasn’t quite satisfied. Both Adam and her mother were keen for her not to pursue the Elizabeth Sinclair story any further, and for some reason that troubled her.

‘If you get time, why don’t you give me a call when you’re up here?’ said Adam, changing the pace of the conversation. ‘We could meet for a drink.’

‘Yeah, I’d like that but I’ll have to see how much time I get. I’m supposed to be visiting my mother too.’

‘Good luck with that,’ said Adam. ‘Unless, of course, things have drastically improved between you two.’

‘Not really,’ admitted Steph. ‘She retired last year and I thought we might see more of each other, but it’s never really happened.’

‘Look, if you get a chance, call me.’

‘Cheers, Adam …’

‘And forget the Elizabeth Sinclair story.’

‘Don’t know what story you’re talking about,’ replied Steph with exaggerated innocence.

Adam made a humph sort of noise, clearly not convinced. ‘Look after yourself, Steph,’ he said, before hanging up.

His parting words felt loaded with meaning but, far from putting Steph off, they only served to drive her on to find out more.

She opened the Twitter app on her phone and went to the direct message from Sonia Lomas.

Steph: Hi, Sonia. Would you like to meet up? Where are you based?

She received a reply within a few minutes.

Sonia: I’m in Croydon but can travel.

Steph: How about Arundel? It’s about halfway between us. 12 tomorrow at The White Swan? We can meet for coffee.

Sonia: Yes, that works for me. See you then. And thank you.

For some reason, Steph didn’t think Sonia Lomas was unhinged. Sad and depressed, yes, but not mentally ill in the way both her mother and Adam had implied.

Harry Sinclair swung his BMW X5 into the private car park at the back of Conmere House and, taking his spot marked with a small wooden placard bearing his name, next to his brother’s Range Rover, he cut the engine, letting out a small sigh as he did so. Just one week to get through and then he could leave all this behind him. It wasn’t only the physical presence of Conmere House that troubled him, it was all the bad things in his life that it represented, not least the death of his wife.