The Dead Wife. Sue Fortin

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       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.