The Dead Wife. Sue FortinЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Conmere Resort Centre, Cumbria, Wednesday, 8 May, 1.20 p.m.
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.
As he stepped out of his car he was greeted by the sound of yapping – his mother’s beloved trio of bichon frise dogs came scampering out from the pathway between the laurel hedges.
‘Hello, girls,’ said Harry, practically folding his six-foot frame in half to give the dogs a quick pat. His mother had borne only sons and he supposed Daisy, Flora and Rosie were her substitute daughters. Thank God he was a male, otherwise she would no doubt have adorned his hair with a ribbon as she had the dogs’.
‘Harry! Oh, it is you, darling,’ came his mother’s clipped voice, with only the tiniest of remnants left of her Texan accent. Pru Sinclair walked down the path, waving to him over the hedge.
‘Hello, Mum,’ said Harry, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek.
‘I was just wondering whether to phone you or not. I thought you were coming earlier.’ She stood back and surveyed her son. ‘You’re looking very well; the French climate seems to be agreeing with you.’
Harry retrieved his holdall from the back of the car. ‘A bit of simple living doesn’t do the body or mind any