The Dead Wife. Sue Fortin

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.

      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