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Property in South of France
Lives in private lodge in the grounds of resort
Comment re death of SIL – Very much missed by us all. We are all in shock.
Owen Sinclair
Youngest of three brothers – 32
Director
Married – Natalie (27)
3 children – twin boys aged 3 and daughter aged 5
Pru Sinclair
Mother
Director – 68 years old
Widow. Husband died 2014
Formidable. Public speaking
Involved with lots of charities and local businesses
Comment re death of DIL – Deeply saddened. Elizabeth the daughter I never had.
It didn’t scream murder to Steph but she knew she wouldn’t be able to leave this alone now. Something was urging her on – journalistic gut instinct? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t going to ignore it.
She was about to close the article when the bottom paragraph caught her attention. The air was knocked from her lungs and her heart thudded against her chest wall.
‘Bloody hell.’
She peered closer to the screen as if to make certain she was reading it correctly. She read each word with precision.
There had been speculation that Elizabeth Sinclair had been having an affair but police dismissed this notion. DCI Wendy Lynch of Cumbria Police issued a statement that there was no suggestion whatsoever that these rumours were in fact anything other than local tittle-tattle, which was completely insensitive to the family’s current circumstances and in particular to Mr Harry Sinclair himself. Lynch went on to request that the family’s privacy was respected at this difficult time.
Steph picked up the phone and called her mother – DCI Wendy Lynch.
Chapter Four
Brighton, Monday, 6 May, 8.30 p.m.
Frustratingly, Steph’s call to her mother went to answerphone. She left a brief message, asking her mother to ring her in connection with the death of Elizabeth at Conmere. Steph had decided to keep it brief; she didn’t feel the need to elaborate, as her mother would, no doubt, recall the case.
She picked up the tub of ice cream, which had defrosted to the point that calling it ice cream was almost criminal, but nevertheless she managed to secure a spoonful of the cookie-dough mixture on the spoon. It struck Steph as strange that Wendy had never mentioned the Elizabeth Sinclair case. A death of a member of the Sinclair family was a little out of the ordinary and, although she knew Wendy wouldn’t have gone into any detail, the fact that her father had worked for the Sinclairs made it more personal and worthy of a mention at least.
Steph sighed as she savoured the ice cream in her mouth.
Steph knew it had been passed down through several Sinclair generations.
She wondered again why her mum had never mentioned Elizabeth’s death, and as she tracked back over Sonia Lomas’s timeline her idle curiosity morphed into something more insistent. She hoped her mum would talk about it, but Steph had long since learned that Wendy Lynch was a tough negotiator and not easy to move once she had made her mind up about something. In fact, Steph struggled to think of a time when Wendy had ever conceded.
Brighton, Tuesday, 7 May, 8.45 a.m.
Steph had to admit, twelve hours wasn’t exactly a long time to wait for her mother to reply, but she had been barely able to sleep last night as she had repeatedly gone over the whole Sonia Lomas message and everything connected with it. Her imagination had certainly been fired up and her desire to find out what her mother could tell her was in overdrive.
‘Ah, you’re there,’ she said when her mother answered the phone. ‘How are you?’
‘Hello. I’m fine. A little busy. Is everything OK, only I’m about to go out?’
Steph was used to her mum’s brusqueness. Wendy Lynch had never quite been able to leave the formalities of the workplace behind. Even as a child Steph remembered their days being like a military operation. In fact, her mother would have been as suited to a military career as she had to a police one.
‘Did you get my message last night?’ asked Steph as she stirred her coffee and settled herself at the breakfast bar in her little apartment in Brighton. She didn’t miss the slight pause her mother gave before replying.
‘On the answerphone? It was a bit garbled, to be honest. I didn’t really know what you were talking about.’
‘Elizabeth Sinclair,’ said Steph, trying to keep her patience. ‘You know, the Sinclair family who Dad worked for and the wife who drowned in the lake on their estate.’
‘Well, yes, I do remember her but it wasn’t really much of a case. It was one of my last ones. She was out walking. The dog jumped in the water and she tried to save it. Got into difficulties and tragically drowned. That’s all there is to it. Why do you want to know?’
‘You didn’t listen to my message at all, did you?’
‘As I said, it didn’t come out very clear and I am rather busy.’
Steph reined in her sigh and attempted to inject an affable tone into her voice. ‘Work want me to go up to the Lakes and cover the new opening of Conmere Resort Centre. I’m going to be up there for the weekend and I tweeted about it. Then I got this weird direct message from Elizabeth Sinclair’s mother. She said her daughter’s death was not an accident. I’ve looked into it and I was amazed to see your name at the bottom of an article.’
Wendy gave an audible sigh. ‘You really mustn’t listen to Sonia Lomas. She’s got mental-health issues. I mean, it’s tragic, but the fact of the matter is, Elizabeth Sinclair drowned and it was an accident. The woman has been hounding Cumbria Police for the past two years about it. I can’t really tell you much else, not because I don’t want to, but there simply isn’t anything else to say.’
Steph couldn’t help thinking her mother probably knew more about it than she was letting on. It wouldn’t surprise Steph if her mother was purposely being light on detail. ‘Do you think there’s anything at all in the accusations? Is there even the slightest possibility it might have been anything other than an accident?’
‘Now listen to me, Stephanie,’ said Wendy. ‘There is nothing at all in Sonia Lomas’s accusations. What I suggest you do is concentrate on the task you’ve been given, i.e. report about the reopening of the resort and don’t go poking your journalistic nose into matters that are purely fiction or don’t concern you.’
‘My journalistic nose is my business,’ said Steph, rearing up at her mother’s demand. It had been a long time since her mother had told her what she could and couldn’t do. Steph wasn’t going to start listening to her now. ‘I was only asking if there might be any truth in it.’
‘I meant it when I said don’t go poking your nose in where it’s not welcome. You’ll be upsetting a lot of people, not to mention Mrs Sinclair herself, who would be quite within her rights to complain about you to your boss. And then where would you be? I’ll tell you where: sacked. So think on.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Mum. Say what you think, don’t pull any punches, honestly. Speak your mind.’ Steph couldn’t help coating her words with sarcasm.
‘I’ve always been honest with you, Steph. Why wouldn’t I be now? Anyway, like I said, I’m in a hurry and really must go.’
‘Don’t you want to know if I’m coming to see you when I’m in Cumbria?’ asked Steph. ‘I mean, I’m there for the weekend, it would make sense. That’s if you want me to come over.’
Steph wanted her mother to say yes. She wanted Wendy to want her to visit. And yet, at the same time, the desire frustrated the hell out of her. She hated the fact that she still sought not only her mother’s approval, but her affection as well.
‘Of course I want you to come and see me. It goes without saying.’ This time there was a softening in Wendy’s tone.
‘OK, good,’ said Steph, acknowledging the morass of emotions she was experiencing. ‘I’ll message you Sunday evening when I’m leaving the resort and maybe I can come over and stay for a couple of nights? If that’s OK with you.’
‘Stop asking if it’s OK. Of course it is. Now I really must go. Have a good weekend and I look forward to seeing you on Sunday, but remember, don’t poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong.’ And with that the line went dead.
‘Yeah, love you too,’ said Steph, looking accusingly at the silent receiver. Disappointment washed over her. Here she was, practically begging to be able to visit her mother. Why did she always set herself up for a fall? Her mother was never going to change now.
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.
Chapter Five
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 harm.’
His mother gave a small raise of her eyebrow. ‘Well, that’s as maybe, but I’m glad you’re home.’
Harry felt himself bristle but resisted the urge to correct her use of the word home. This place had never felt like home to him and, despite his mother’s best intentions to subtly change his perception with her own version of cognitive behavioural therapy, Harry knew the sooner he was away from Conmere House the better he would be. The sabbatical in France with the design company was the perfect excuse to break the family ties. He followed his mother down the path that bordered the lush green lawn and through the open patio doors into the main living room. The three white fluffy hounds scampered back and forth along the path, excitedly announcing the arrival of Harry.
‘Oh, thank God you’re here. Mum was about to put out an APB, ring all the local hospitals and get the BBC to reconstruct your last known movements on a special edition of Crimewatch.’
Harry’s older brother rose from the armchair he was occupying and greeted his brother with a handshake and slap on the back.
‘He’s exaggerating. Take no notice,’ said Pru. ‘Now, I’ll make us all a coffee. Are you hungry? I can make a sandwich or get something sent through from the cafe.’
‘Coffee will do fine, thanks, Mum. I stopped on the way for something to eat,’ said Harry over the noise of the dogs, who were building themselves up into a frenzy of whining and yapping.
‘Oh, the girls are so pleased to see you,’ laughed Pru as she headed out of the room.
Harry exchanged a look with his brother. A sadistic smile spread across Dominic’s face. He looked down at the dogs and gave a swift kick to one of them, catching her bottom. The dog yelped. ‘Now fuck off,’ said Dominic, holding his arm outstretched. He hustled the dogs out through the patio doors. ‘Jesus, they get on my nerves. They must be the most pampered pooches in the county.’
‘I forgot what a compassionate soul you were,’ said Harry. ‘You’d better not let Mum see you do that.’
Dominic gave a shrug. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, walking over to the drinks tray on the walnut sideboard. ‘I wasn’t sure if we’d actually see you.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’ Harry settled himself in the wing-backed armchair by the fireplace, a favourite spot of his late father’s. Max Sinclair had always sat in that seat and woe betide anyone who had dared occupy it. Harry rested his hands on the arms and mentally gave his father a two-fingered salute. He hoped the old bastard could see him now and that he was turning in his grave.
Dominic paused with a bottle of gin in his hand and turned to give his brother a reproachful look. ‘You really need me to spell it out? How many times have you been back to the estate since Elizabeth’s accident?’
‘I’ve been busy in France,’ said Harry, noting the uneasy roll his stomach gave.
Dominic made a scoffing noise as he returned to mixing himself a G&T. He gestured with the bottle to Harry, who shook his head. Dominic sat down on the sofa with his drink. ‘I’ll tell you how many times … three. Christmas two years ago and twice for Mum’s birthday.’
‘I’m a dutiful son,’ said Harry. ‘Like I said, I’ve been busy. Anyway, I’m here now for the grand reopening. What’s the problem?’
Harry knew what the problem was but acting ignorant somehow gave him an excuse, if only to himself. Of course, everyone knew what the real reason was for his absence but for the most part they skirted around it. Dominic, however, appeared to want to buck the trend. Harry eyed his older brother as he rested his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped around the crystal-cut tumbler.
‘Mum misses you,’ began Dominic. ‘She worries about you.’
‘She doesn’t need to,’ said Harry. ‘I’m a grown man in my thirties; I don’t need my mother clucking round me. In fact, I don’t need anyone worrying about me.’
‘Bit of a selfish attitude,’ said Dominic, swigging the G&T down.
‘She worries unnecessarily. It’s suffocating. Why do you think I moved to France?’
Dominic sat back in his seat. ‘OK, I’ll level with you.’ He gave a furtive glance towards the door. ‘This is strictly between us.’ He took a deep breath and Harry knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. He steeled himself as his brother continued. ‘Mum’s not well. Not well at all.’
Harry’s body gave an involuntary jolt. ‘How unwell are we talking?’
Dominic rose and poured himself another drink and this time made Harry a neat Scotch. He passed it over and resumed his position on the sofa.
‘Dom, how ill?’
Dominic gave him a steadying look. ‘The cancer is back.’
Harry sucked in a breath so hard, he almost winded himself. ‘Prognosis?’
‘The worst. Months.’
‘How many?’
‘Twelve if we’re lucky. Six if we’re not.’
‘We’ll get a second opinion. I know some brilliant doctors in France,’ began Harry, allowing his pragmatic approach to jump ahead of his emotions, a trait he’d learned at a young age when dealing with his father. ‘She’ll get the best treatment and fast.’
Dominic shook his head. ‘It’s too late. Don’t you think I’ve made sure she’s seen all the top oncologists? Nothing more can be done.’
‘Radiotherapy? Chemo? Surely there must be something?’
‘No. It’s untreatable. Besides, she’s refusing to go through chemo again.’
‘On what basis?’
‘On the basis of freedom of choice,’ snapped Dominic, and then became calmer. ‘She wants to live her last months to their fullest. She doesn’t want to spend them sick, recovering from treatment which to all intents and purposes is futile. You know how ill she was before. She literally can’t face it again.’
‘Fuck,’ muttered Harry as his emotions finally surfaced. He downed the Scotch in one go and rested his forehead in his hand. ‘Fuck.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Dominic.
Harry let out a long breath, composing himself before sitting back in his chair. ‘But she looks so well.’
‘You know Mum. She’s a trooper.’
Prudence Sinclair had to be the most stoic woman Harry knew. For a start, when she was just twenty years old she had moved thousands of miles from her home in Texas after falling in love with his father, Max, who was working out there on the family cattle ranch one summer. Harry had never heard her once complain about her life in the UK, and to the outside world Max and Pru Sinclair had had it all – a wonderful life, consisting of a grand family estate and four sons, until tragedy had stepped in with the death of Elliot, the youngest of the boys, who had died at three months old from cot death. A turning point in their lives where nothing was ever quite the same. Not that the outside world would know, but inwardly, behind the imposing gates and high walls of Conmere House, the dynamics had shifted, and the once solid foundations had begun to subside. It was only Pru’s underpinning that had saved them. According to Pru, Max had never got over the loss of their youngest son and had carried his heartbreak to the grave, although Harry had always been sceptical of this and privately assigned his mother’s thoughts to wishful thinking on her part. Harry remembered his father as someone who was hard to please, someone around whom he and his brothers had tiptoed for fear of upsetting him. Max was someone who believed in strong discipline and especially so where his sons were concerned. Harry had long since replaced the ‘strong discipline’ mentality with that of a bully.