The Dead Wife

by Sue Fortin

  THE DEAD WIFE

  Sue Fortin

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

  Copyright © Sue Fortin 2019

  Cover design by Ellie Game © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  xxxxxx

  Sue Fortin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008348069

  Ebook Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008294526

  Version: 2019-07-03

  Dedication

  To Ged and our first trip to the Lake District back in the 1990s when we toured the area on a motorbike. It rained a lot. We got very wet. But, despite rotten weather, we still had great fun and fell in love with the area and the fantastic scenery.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Sue Fortin

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Two Years Earlier,

  Conmere Resort Centre, Lake District, Cumbria

  Everyone who visited, worked or lived at Conmere knew the lake to be both beauty and beast all at the same time. A water with two faces – the south shoreline the beauty, bathed in sunlight, the water sparkling and glistening as it gently lapped the pebbles around the edge. It was the jewel in the crown of the Conmere estate. By contrast, the north side was where the waters were dark and shrouded for most of the day in shadow cast by the Con Point Hills, which loomed large and jagged over the water. This was where secrets were drowned and silence prevailed.

  It all happened in a matter of seconds, but to her, time stretched as her brain registered her body falling towards the water. So many more impressions filled her mind. The blackness of the water, that it was particularly deep at this point of the lake, that there was no gentle slope from shallow to deeper depths, and there was a tangle of weeds. She wondered if the weeds would soften her fall but then remembered she was wearing a heavy Barbour coat – one that Harry had insisted she wear that morning because the weather had taken a turn for the worse overnight. Then, of course, there were her wellington boots – she wished she’d had time to kick them off before they filled with water.

  Turning her face to the side, she impacted the lake with first her shoulder and then her hip and her feet. For a moment she thought the weeds had acted as a safety net but then her head went under the water and the cold water swamped her face, rushing up her nostrils. She kept her mouth closed, squeezed her eyes tight shut and blew out from her nose. Automatically her arms flew out as she tried to paddle water, but her limbs were heavy and it was difficult to move in the thick coat. The water had already soaked through her clothing and the cold and wet wrapped itself around her arms. She kicked her feet, but her boots had gulped in the water, making it impossible for her to move.

  She flung her head up and her face broke through the surface. She gulped in fresh air. A deep, huge lungful before being dragged down again. She had to get the coat off and frantically she grappled with the press studs. She must remain calm. One press stud undone. She must concentrate on what she was doing. Two press studs undone. She mustn’t panic. Three press studs undone. Her lungs were ready to burst. Four press studs undone. She grabbed at the zipper pull and yanked it down and, releasing the pin, with a Herculean effort managed to shrug the thick, waxy garment from her shoulders. Instead of falling away, it drifted almost motionless in the water. Her arms began to flap, trying to force her body upwards to the surface. The panic was taking hold now. She needed air. Lots of it. Her lungs were stinging – so painful. She mustn’t take a breath. It was an automatic bodily reaction but she knew she would only take in water if she did.

  For the second time, she broke through the surface and gasped for air. She managed another lungful before she felt the pull of the water in her boots. She had the fleeting image of a figure standing on the bank. Her brain registered the sound of a dog barking.

  Down again into the depths of the lake she sank. Her arms and legs were so tired and heavy, now starved of oxygen, she couldn’t move them. Didn’t they say that when a person drowned, their life flashed before them? Her lungs were once again at break point. In one last attempt she tried to move her arms to push herself to the surface but it was futile. She needed oxygen. She could no longer fight the urge not to breathe in and she felt the rush of water into her body.

  Her last thought was, why hadn’t anyone tried to save her?

  Chapter Two

  Pallant Art Gallery, Brighton,

  Monday, 6 May, 1.16 p.m.

  Instagram Story

  Well, today I have been tasked by my illustrious boss at Vacation Staycation to spend the weekend in the Lake District at Conmere Resort Centre, which has been revamped by the Sinclair family – Pru and her three sons, Dominic, Harry and Owen. And, best of all, I get to meet them and sample the new facilities – can’t wait! #BestJobEver

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Steph, as her friend read her Instagram post.

  ‘I must say, you sound far more enthusiastic on Instagram than you do in real life,’ said Ria, putting down her phone. They were sitting in the office at the back of the gallery, Steph having called in to her friend in her lunch break.

  Steph looked at her across her cappuccino. ‘I’m looking forward to it. I r
emember Conmere House from when I used to live up there. You know, my dad was a delivery driver for the Sinclair family for quite a few years, up until he died, actually, which was soon after the three sons took it over.’

  ‘And the sons have done the refurb?’

  ‘As I understand it. They offer all sorts of outdoor activities now but aimed at the high-end market. Pretty expensive, from what I’ve seen of the price list. Anyway, it’s not so much the resort I’m excited about, it’s the scenery. I’m hoping I’ll get a chance to take some photos for my portfolio.’

  ‘Oh, yes, do,’ encouraged Ria. ‘Lakes and mountains always sell. Soon you’ll be rich enough to leave your job at the travel agency.’

  ‘Yeah, in my dreams. Don’t get me wrong, I do like my job, but this is about as exciting as it gets. I’d like to get my teeth into something juicier.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Something that’s a bit more serious and high profile. Current affairs or investigative journalism.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say you’d prefer to do photography.’

  ‘I would, but it doesn’t earn me a regular steady income. It’s hard-going being single. I thought after being divorced for over a year, I’d be more financially stable now.’

  ‘I think you were too easy on Zac; you should have pushed for more.’

  ‘Just because he had an affair? No, I was actually relieved when I found out. At least it prompted me to do something about it – to start afresh. We both knew our marriage was over long before that.’ Ria didn’t look convinced, but Steph had long since given up trying to justify her actions to her friend, as, no matter how well-intentioned Ria was, she hadn’t been in that marriage. Ultimately it had been down to Steph and Zac to sort things out, which they had done amicably. Privately, Steph had admitted to herself, if Zac hadn’t been the one to have an affair, it could so easily have been her. They had both been looking for love and affection, which sadly neither could provide the other with.

  Steph cleared her throat in a bid to clear her mind. Zac and their marriage and divorce certainly didn’t need revisiting. ‘Anyway, back to my new assignment. I’m sure I can get some great photos up there in the Lake District and any extra money will be most welcome, especially at the moment. I just had to spend out to get my car through its MOT.’ Steph’s gaze dipped as she concentrated placing her cup onto her saucer.

  ‘Hey, don’t be so glum. You know you’re a great photographer but it’s a hard market, you know that,’ said Ria, not saying anything they hadn’t already said over the past few years. Ria gave Steph a sympathetic smile and then struck a cheerier note. ‘And there’s the bonus that you’ll be back on your old stomping ground.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d describe that as a bonus.’

  ‘You might be able to spend a bit of time with your mum, now that she’s retired.’

  Steph appreciated the delicacy with which her friend spoke the words. The relationship between Steph and her mum was difficult at the best of times, so she wasn’t entirely sure spending time together was on the agenda.

  ‘How is your mum enjoying her retirement?’

  Steph could hear the genuine concern in Ria’s voice. ‘Hard to say, if I’m honest. She says in the end she hated working for the police, especially CID when she was promoted to DCI. There was so much paperwork and red tape that went along with the job, it just wasn’t her thing.’

  ‘It’s a shame she feels like that. It should be something she looks back on with pride and affection.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? She was more married to the job than she was to my dad.’

  ‘Did she ever encourage you to join?’ Ria picked up the cups and took them over to the sink.

  ‘God, no. Besides, I didn’t want to be overshadowed by the wonderful DCI Wendy Lynch. The one who was awarded a bravery medal, the one who cracked a child-trafficking ring, the one who went deep under cover and nearly paid for it with her life.’ Steph shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Instead you opted for a career with no security, one that’s full of uncertainty.’

  Steph opened the Twitter app on her phone. ‘If I can create a bit of a buzz about my new assignment, get the word out about the photography too, I might get some more work. I’m going to tweet it as well as putting it on Instagram and Facebook.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll retweet it and share it, of course.’

  Steph read the tweet aloud as she typed. ‘Long weekend in Lake District to review Conmere Resort Centre. Can’t wait! #Conmere #Sinclairfamily #freelance.’

  ‘You need to word it so there is some sort of interaction,’ pointed out Ria. ‘Ask people to recommend places, then maybe you can approach those places for some promo work.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Steph as she reworded her tweet before posting it.

  ‘Look, I need to get back to work. I’ve got an American coming in looking for something special for his apartment,’ said Ria, rinsing the cups and drying her hands. ‘Don’t forget it’s Gareth’s birthday meal a week on Friday. Eight o’clock. My house.’

  ‘How could I forget? But no matchmaking. I don’t want to be stuck with your husband’s latest single male colleague he’s rustled up from the depths of the corporate world’s basement.’

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport,’ said Ria.

  ‘I mean it!’ Steph gave her friend a hug before going on her way.

  Brighton, Monday, 6 May, 7.23 p.m.

  Throughout the afternoon, Steph’s phone pinged intermittently with replies to her social media posts. Ria had been right about asking for people’s recommendations; it had provided a wealth of answers. It would be even more exciting if one of those transformed into a new commission, thought Steph as she ran herself a bath. She really didn’t fancy bar work but, judging by the balance of her bank account that afternoon, she wasn’t going to have any choice in the matter. She had enough in her savings account to pay two months’ rent and then that was it. The books weren’t balancing; her income-to-outgoing ratio was tipping the wrong way. She’d have to come up with something soon because she sure as hell wasn’t going to go begging to her mother for a sub. For a start, that would be admitting defeat – it would prove her mother right that travel journalism wasn’t any better than the local reporting she’d done when she first left uni. All her mother’s doom and gloom predictions could be soon fulfilled if Steph didn’t get something sorted.

  Having spent a good hour in the bath, dressed in her pjs, her hair wrapped in a towel and with a tub of ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other, Steph opened her laptop to catch up on some box-set viewing. While she was waiting for the series to load, she checked her phone. The social media notifications had calmed down now, but when she opened the Twitter app she saw she had a direct message.

  Hello, Steph. I saw your tweet about Conmere Resort Centre and the Sinclair family. My daughter was married to one of the Sinclair brothers. Check out my timeline and Google Elizabeth Sinclair. My daughter’s death was NOT an accident. I’m looking for someone to prove this. I can pay well. Message me if you think you’re up to the job. From Sonia Lomas.

  Chapter Three

  Brighton, Monday, 6 May, 8.25 p.m.

  Steph read the message for a second and third time. It was probably the most bizarre message she’d ever received, and yet the most intriguing one too. It must be some crank, surely? Who in their right mind would DM someone on Twitter about looking into the death of their daughter? She went to close the app but her stomach gave a little somersault of excitement. What if this was true? What if there really had been a miscarriage of justice?

  Steph allowed herself the luxury of taking the thought further. This could be her chance to change the trajectory of her career. If she discovered the death of this woman’s daughter had been covered up, then what a scoop that would be. Not to mention the money she could earn from it. Perhaps she could even sell it to one of the nationals.

&nbs
p; She looked at the TV screen as a box-set uploaded and, picking up the remote control, she pressed the pause button. She placed the ice-cream tub and spoon on the coffee table, her appetite for such delights now disappearing. She had to find out more about this Sonia Lomas and her daughter.

  She logged on to Twitter via her laptop, the bigger screen being easier on her eyes at this time of the evening, and then scrolled through Sonia Lomas’s timeline.

  The screen was filled with picture after picture of a young woman, about Steph’s age, smiling at the camera, her blonde, relaxed curls sitting on her shoulders, her make-up light and natural and her teeth white and straight. All with the hashtag of Elizabeth Sinclair. Every so often there was a different photograph of her: in one she was sitting on a wall in a pair of denim shorts, her tanned legs crossed at the ankles; in another she was leaning against the side of a yacht in a rather clichéd blue and white striped jumper, cropped chinos and bare feet. The images alone made it look like a photoshoot for a high-end outdoor-clothing chain. The words accompanying each tweet, however, painted a different picture.

  HELP! @CumbriaPolice did not investigate the death of my daughter fully. Please sign the petition to have her case reopened. #JusticeForElizabeth

  Elizabeth Sinclair, wife of Harry Sinclair of the Sinclair family, died in suspicious circumstances. @CumbriaPolice won’t listen to me. I need your help to reopen her case. Please sign the petition. #JusticeForElizabeth

  And so the tweets went on, each accusing Cumbria Police of not doing their job and each asking for the petition to be signed.

  Steph clicked on the link which took her to the petition, where she found more detailed information.

  Two years ago, my daughter Elizabeth Sinclair was found unconscious in Conmere Lake on the estate of the Conmere Resort owned by the Sinclair family in Cumbria. She was taken to hospital but never regained consciousness and her life-support machine was turned off two days later. The coroner recorded a verdict of misadventure. Cumbria Police investigated my daughter’s death but failed to consider other lines of enquiry which would suggest my daughter was, in fact, murdered. I have had an independent review of my daughter’s death which recommends a further and fuller investigation. Despite countless requests to Cumbria Police to reopen my daughter’s case, and letters from my solicitor, Cumbria Police have refused to do so, citing not enough new evidence to warrant the case being reopened.