The Dead Wife Read online

  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.

  ‘Does Owen know?’ asked Harry, his thoughts turning to his younger brother.

  ‘Not yet. Mum doesn’t want to tell him. She’s worried he’ll start drinking again.’

  ‘He’s been sober for a good eighteen months,’ said Harry. ‘Do you think he would?’

  ‘Who knows? Owen and Natalie are going through a bit of a rough patch, from what I can tell.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Anything in particular?’

  ‘I don’t know the details – he doesn’t say much to me – but reading between the lines, three-year-old twins and a five-year-old are putting a bit of a strain on their marriage. Natalie wants to move back to Norfolk to be near her mum. Owen doesn’t.’

  ‘Not if he’s going to be part of the business,’ said Harry. ‘I mean, what else could he do? And Mum, she’d be heartbroken.’

  ‘Exactly. Although that didn’t stop you.’

  ‘It’s different. I’m a widower. I haven’t got any kids. I’ve never wanted to be part of the business.’

  ‘Mum was still heartbroken.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t. She was just sad about me going, but not heartbroken,’ said Harry. ‘Is Mum aware you’re telling me?’

  ‘No. She was adamant she didn’t want anyone to know, including you.’

  ‘So why are you telling me?’ While Harry was glad Dominic had broken the news, he knew his brother well enough to know there’d be another motive behind the disclosure.

  ‘Jesus, Harry. Why the fuck do you think I’m telling you?’ hissed Dominic. The sound of their mother humming as she came down the hall filtered through into the room. ‘Because you’re her blue-eyed boy and nothing would make her last days happier than having you about.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Of course she didn’t but everyone knows that’s true. You can’t go back to France. You need to stay here.’

  Harry eyed his brother as he considered the prospect of having to stay. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to support his mother, far from it, but Conmere itself held far too many bad memories for him. Memories he had escaped from when he’d moved to France. The idea of staying at Conmere any longer than a few days filled him with a sense of unease, but the alternative – leaving his mother when she had only months to live – was unimaginable and something he knew he couldn’t do.

  Chapter Six

  Two Years Earlier,

  Conmere Resort Centre, 10 August, 10.30 a.m.

  Elizabeth took a final sip of her Earl Grey tea and, glancing down at the little dogs sitting expectantly at her feet, she picked up the croissant from her plate, broke it into three and chucked it onto the terrace. ‘You can afford to get fat,’ she said as the dogs eagerly gulped down the evidence.

  She checked her watch for the fourth time. Surely the breakfast meeting Harry was attending with his mother and brothers was over by now. She looked at her phone in case she’d missed any messages from Harry, but there were none. Harry had said the meeting was primarily to discuss the sale of some land to a housing developer. The twenty-acre site on the edge of the estate was prime development land and, from what Harry had gleaned, outline planning permission for up to one hundred houses would be granted.

  The land was worth in excess of 3.9 million pounds. Elizabeth couldn’t understand the hesitancy of her mother-in-law. Pru Sinclair wasn’t convinced about selling for any price, whereas both Harry and Dominic could see the potential. Naturally, pathetic little Mummy’s boy Owen had taken his mother’s side and the family were at an impasse. Elizabeth drummed her manicured fingernails on the bistro table. She hated being shut out of the business discussions like this.

  ‘Morning!’ came a voice.

  Elizabeth turned her head and saw Natalie, Owen’s wife, coming along the terrace with her three children in tow – the twin boys, Max and Oscar, in their double buggy and three-year-old Tilly on the buggy-board. Great, just what Elizabeth needed, the next generation of the Sinclair dynasty squawking around her. Yes, they were Harry’s niece and nephews, and on the whole they were generally lovely and very cute, but that was when there were enough pairs of hands and the adults outnumbered the children with at least a 2:1 ratio. When the ratio was not in the adults’ favour, Elizabeth struggled to find her charity.

  ‘Hi, Natalie,’ she said, plastering on a smile. ‘And hello, Tilly. Ho
w are you?’

  Tilly jumped off the buggy-board and headed towards Elizabeth, a sticky lolly positioned in her hand like a medieval jousting pole. ‘Cuddle!’

  Elizabeth eyed the lolly and noted the sticky face. Deftly, she managed to catch Tilly’s wrists and avoid any direct contact with the sweet. God knows what Natalie was thinking, letting the child have a lolly this early in the day. Elizabeth managed the briefest of contacts before picking Tilly up and sitting her on the chair opposite.

  ‘Are they still in the meeting?’ asked Natalie, jiggling the buggy into place. One of the twins, Elizabeth couldn’t work out which one, began to grizzle. Natalie rummaged in the changing bag and produced a ready-made bottle of formula milk. She offered it to the child, who immediately stopped complaining but whose cries were replaced by his sibling’s.

  ‘Here, let me hold that,’ offered Elizabeth, feeling sorry for her sister-in-law as she struggled to fish out the other bottle.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Natalie once twin number two was catered for. ‘Thanks. I was hoping Owen would be out by now. We’re supposed to be going to my friend’s today.’

  ‘What, and missing Sunday lunch? How did you manage to get a pass for that?’ Getting out of a Sinclair Sunday dinner was equivalent to a Houdini escapology trick.

  ‘It’s my friend’s birthday,’ said Natalie with a wry smile.

  ‘They’ve been in there ages,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I didn’t think it would take this long.’

  ‘Do you know what the meeting is about?’

  Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in her sister-in-law’s direction. Natalie was very sweet, but she either had no interest in the business side of things or, more likely, didn’t have the time. ‘It’s about the twenty acres that Carter Homes want to buy. Hasn’t Owen mentioned it?’

  ‘Oh, that! Yes, he did tell me, but I was only half listening. I think he said Harry and Dominic thought it was a good price and they should sell, but Pru didn’t agree and Owen backed her up. Is that it?’