‘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?