by Sue Fortin
As a mother, I cannot let this matter rest until it has been fully investigated again and I would urge you to sign this petition to help me gain the publicity I need to apply enough pressure on the police to reopen the case.
Thank you.
Sonia Lomas
Steph’s stomach gave another roll of anticipation. This Sonia Lomas was serious; she wasn’t a crank at all. She was a mother fighting for her daughter’s memory. Steph couldn’t help comparing her own mother to Sonia Lomas and instantly wished she hadn’t. It struck a painful chord – Wendy was so out of tune with motherhood. Steph pushed the comparison away and typed ‘Elizabeth Sinclair’ in the search bar.
The story of Elizabeth’s death was towards the end of the page and it gave a few more details. Steph picked up her pen and notebook from the coffee table and made some notes.
Elizabeth Sinclair
30
Married to Harry Sinclair
No children
Born in London. Mother – Sonia Lomas, Care Assistant, Hackney
No siblings
Father? Not mentioned
2 years ago – found unconscious – died later in hospital
She then searched the name Harry Sinclair. Steph knew the Sinclair family had a large estate in the north-west of England which was a holiday resort centre, and was aware of the backstory, how their great-great-grandfather had won another man’s estate during a game of poker back in the early 1900s. The family had managed to hold on to their position, wealth and prosperity through two world wars and several recessions. The younger generation of the Sinclair family consisted of three brothers who had managed to turn what had become a failing business into a highly successful company. Max Sinclair had inherited the home, which had been in disrepair after years of financial pressure. He had turned the fortunes of the Sinclairs around by developing the 150-acre site into a commercial high-end woodland-activity-type business. Max’s vision had been much more upmarket, and the log cabins inspired by his time working on a ranch in Texas where he’d met his wife-to-be, Prudence Cutchins. When his sons had come on board their vision had broadened the estate further and encompassed not only all things outdoors but water sports, rock climbing, mountain-bike trails, hiking and a health spa.
This was as much as Steph knew from her time living in the Kendalton area and from her briefing with her boss, Tim, about her assignment. Now she needed to dig deeper with her research. The next person to check out was the husband himself, Harry Sinclair.
This proved harder than she expected. There was next to nothing on the internet about Harry Sinclair. There were a few photographs of him and his brothers, sometimes with his mother in shot, standing outside a stately-looking home which would be worthy of Downton Abbey status. The three brothers looked very striking, all sharing their mother’s dark hair; the older two had theirs cut short, while Owen, the youngest brother, wore his a little longer, which reminded Steph of some sort of art-student type. Dominic and Owen were smiling, whereas Harry’s expression was sombre. Steph checked the date of the photograph. It was six months ago, so that also made it a little over eighteen months since his wife had died, in which case he was excused for looking pretty miserable. Although, as she looked at the photograph again, she wasn’t sure if miserable was the right word. He looked more … serious … moody even.
Steph read some of the articles about the resort the family had opened, but there was very little personal information.
Eventually, she came across an online local newspaper which had reported the death of Elizabeth Sinclair. It wasn’t much, but it did give a little more information. It would seem Elizabeth had taken the family dog for a walk which was later found wet and covered in mud. It was assumed that the dog had gone into the water and Elizabeth had taken it upon herself to rescue the much-loved pooch but had become entangled in the weeds just below the surface.
After another half an hour of searching, Steph surveyed her notes.
Harry Sinclair
Middle brother – 35
Widower
Stays out of the limelight
No comments found concerning the death of his wife
Dominic Sinclair – named after GGG
Older brother – 37
Director
Driving force of the company
Attends lots of business and social functions
Divorced – 1 child – 15, boy – with former wife
Another child – 7 – with current partner – Lisa – together 10 years
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.
