Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (10 page)

I couldn’t sleep. When I did drop off for a brief moment, it was to dream of Owen. The bottle stood on my bedside table. In the faint light of dawn I could just make out my name. It shone like a beacon. That at least hadn’t been a dream. The rest was a living nightmare
.

Inspecting it more closely I saw that the prescription had been filled in London. But I knew that I had a corresponding, up to date, prescription from Doctor Watkins at the Lockford
practice when I first moved here.  In the confusion of the past few days, I’d not thought about contacting my doctor. He’d have my details at the surgery. I decided to ring to make an appointment, as soon as the practice opened.

In an optimistic mood I took a leisurely shower and dressed in a blue cotton dress. The sun was up. I ate breakfast and for once was able to taste my food instead of mechanically going through the motions. At a quarter to nine I rang the surgery, gave my name and asked for an appointment with Doctor Watkins.  The receptionist told me that Doctor Watkins was on holiday but a locum, a doctor Barker would be taking his patients.

“Rowena Shaw, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“And you say you are registered with us?”

“That’s right, yes.”

“Hold on a minute.”

I waited whilst listening to the sound of the Entrance of the Queen of Sheba playing in my ear.

“I’ve checked our computer records and the name Rowena Shaw has been changed to Sarah Lawson. Change your name did you, dear?”

Her patronising voice was the last straw.

“No I did not!” I shouted into the mouthpiece. “Who said I did?” I was so furious my hands were shaking.

“Er, I think you should have a word with Doctor Watkins when he returns from his holiday. He made the changes himself. Perhaps he can answer your questions then. Would you like me to make an appointment for you in three weeks time?”

I slammed down the phone and burst into tears of anguish. How long was this going to last? I was Rowena Shaw and no one was going to make me believe otherwise.

The pleasure of the day faded. I threw the pill bottle into the bin and left the flat. When I ran out of my current supply, I’d have to buy a new supply over the counter – there was no way I was going to admit I was Sarah Lawson to Doctor Watkins.

After walking aimlessly for an hour, I caught the bus into town. Andy Lawson worked in an Insurance Brokers office in Broad Street. It was time his ‘sister’ paid him a visit and invited him out to lunch. Anger fuelled my every step and the more I was knocked back the more determined to find out the truth I became.

The offices of Bartlett and Janes Insurance Brokers and Financial Advisors had an impressive frontage. A large plate glass window displaying their services gave the impression of a well-established firm with years of experience behind them. So this was where he would have planned the investment of my ninety thousand pounds.

I pushed open the front door, which sighed as it closed behind me. Two young women sat behind a reception desk and a man in his forties dressed in a dark suit sat at a desk near the long mahogany counter. He rose to his feet as I approached. “May I help?” he asked with a plastic smile.

“I’d like to speak to Mr Lawson, please.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Tell him it’s his sister.”

His smile became more genuine.  “Hello, I’m Peter Bartlett, pleased to meet you at last.”

He led me through the outer office, down a small passageway and into a room where Lawson, another man, and an older woman were sitting behind desks staring at computer screens.

I could see he was flustered. He stood up, started to walk towards me and thought better of it. His initial shock at seeing me had given way to concern. “Sarah? Is everything alright?”

“Fine,” I said. “Just thought it was time I saw where you worked. I wondered if you’d like to come out to lunch.”

He looked at his watch; it was five to one. “Er, I....”

“Of course he’ll come,” Peter Bartlett interjected. “Nothing here that can’t wait eh, Andy?”

“No, I mean, yes. Just give me five minutes.”

“No problem. I’ll just sit here until you’re ready.”

As I waited, I looked around his office. The woman smiled at me, the man too; Andy still looked uncomfortable which gave me an immense sense of satisfaction.

Later, as we sat in a restaurant on the corner of High Street and Broad Street I realised I could see the offices of my private investigator.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to stop acting the goat, Sarah. That nonsense has really unsettled Hannah.”

I smiled and dug my fingernails into my palm.

“What would you like to eat?” he asked handing me the Menu.

“My favourite of course. You should know that by now.”

He hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second.  “And what is your favourite today? You change your mind so often, it’s hard to tell.”

“Let’s see if you can remember. It’s really just the same as always.” I was beginning to enjoy watching him squirm.

“Still playing games? OK, if that’s the way you want it.” He called the waitress over.

“We’re ready to order now. I’ll have the salmon fishcakes and my sister will have the Penne Arabiata, please.”

So, he was good at guessing games. That didn’t prove anything. However, it was as if he’d pricked a balloon with a pin, deflated, I waited for the order to arrive.  The rest of the lunch hour was unremarkable. He talked about cricket and the people he worked with. I listened.

Afterwards
, he walked me to the bus stop, and when he left I turned and walked back in the direction of Hastings Buildings. I was heartily sick of Sarah Lawson. The time had come to kill her off for good.

PART TWO

BEFORE

The sun was sinking on the horizon leaving dusky fingers stroking the headland and turning the cliffs to indigo. Owen Madoc packed away his easel and paints and headed back to his car. He’d found the cottage on the coast of South Wales six months ago. It was a bit run down but the price had been right and the repairs were superficial. He’d been born in the area and knew it well, in addition to which it wasn’t a million miles away from London via the M4.

In the past year his paintings had begun to sell in earnest, so it made sense to be within driving distance of the galleries. Mark Furnish had assured him that his coastal scenes were flying off the shelves; he couldn’t get enough of them. The Furnish gallery was small by comparison to some of the more prestigious ones in London but it was situated in a side street off Covent Garden
and was a popular haunt of tourists looking for reasonably priced pieces of original artwork.

He walked back up the beach, placed his equipment in the boot of his car and drove the mile and a half to his cottage. He could have walked the distance and had done so many times but never carrying an easel and paints. The view of the coast was magnificent, the peaceful solitude of the location, a bonus. Screeching herring gulls diving to shore woke him every morning as the smell of late summer wafted in through his bedroom window.

Rowena loved it from the start and had insisted on making the interior as comfortable as possible. He’d told her not to bother; he would use it as a studio and a place to rest his head, it didn’t need an interior designer. However, it didn’t make a scrap of difference to Rowena, once she had the bit between her teeth there was no stopping her. A week after he’d settled in, she drove down with a boot full of soft furnishings, which she arranged in her own inimitable style. It was one of the things he’d first noticed about her, when he’d met her at Tom’s party - she had great style.

Owen planned to spend a month or two painting and when the weather deteriorated he’d return to the city. His only contact with the outside world was via his mobile, which he frequently switched off
, finding the silence more appealing. Rowena came down at weekends bringing with her half the contents of the local supermarket and a breath of London air lingering in her conversation.

He opened the fridge and removed a can of beer then walked outside. The wooden veranda had
been in a sorry state when he’d first seen the place but had soon been restored by a couple of coats of paint. The chairs and cushions were Rowena’s idea.

The evening air was warm against his skin. In the distance he could hear the sea sucking at the pebbles on the shore and spitting them out as the tide turned. Salt lingered on the breeze as he closed his eyes and let the evening descend.

It was his habit to get up early to catch the light, work until late morning then take his easel down to the beach and work there for the rest of the day, weather permitting. Luckily it had been a good summer May, June and July had been hot and sunny, August was proving a little temperamental but Owen had completed his groundwork sketches from which he intended to work during the rain-filled days.

He was in his studio when he heard the sound of tyres bouncing along the gravel in the lane, followed by a screech of brakes as her car drew to a halt; Rowena was a terrible driver.

“Owen, give me a hand, there’s a love,” she called up to him.

He smiled as he put down his brush. “No peace for the wicked,” he muttered with a grin.

She was wearing a blue cotton sundress, her hair shining like waves of gold; he wanted to paint her but knew he couldn’t do her justice. Opening the boot of her car she picked up two supermarket carrier bags and kissed his cheek as she passed him. “Plenty more, darling.”

He smiled ruefully. “I didn’t doubt it for a moment.”

After the car had been unloaded and he’d placed her weekend case at the foot of his bed, Owen followed her into the kitchen where she was already switching on the kettle. He slid his arms around her waist and turned her to face him.  “Missed you,” he said kissing her.

“Me too, sweetheart. Now let’s have a caffeine fix and you can tell me how you’re managing without me.”

Later, sitting on the veranda, Rowena, stretching her long legs to catch the sun, said, “I met Mark Furnish yesterday. He thinks it might be possible to stage another showing in September. He was going to ring you about it on Monday.”

“If that’s the case, wench, you are going to have to stop enticing me away from my work.”

“Do you mean that? You won’t be ready?”

“Actually
, I think I’m well on the way to meeting the deadline. I can probably spare the odd weekend to have the pleasure of my beautiful girlfriend and still have enough work to suit Mark.”

“I’m dying to see them.”

“You know the drill, my angel - only when I’m satisfied that they’re finished.”

“I could of course slip into the studio when you’re asleep.” She
rested her head on his shoulder.

“But you won’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certain.”

The next day, h
aving spent most of the next morning in bed, they were sitting outside as the sun rose to its height leaving the veranda in shade.

“Lunch time.” Owen stood up. “I think we’ll walk to village and have lunch in the pub. Then afterwards we’ll see what the view is like from my bedroom.”

“We could always skip lunch,” Rowena said smiling up at him.

“We could, but this way we won’t have to get up because we’re hungry and besides the thrill of anticipation makes the pleasure even greater, I always think.”

“What a man, he thinks of everything.” She held out her hand for him to pull her out of the chair then, leaving the cottage, followed him down the lane.

A steady trickle of customers slid through the doors of the Mark Furnish Gallery. The initial reception for the press was over and the serious business of selling was in progress. Mark drifted around the room like a galleon in full sail introducing Owen to those people who
m he knew were most likely to buy his work.

This part of the business was the bit Owen most disliked. He hated having to sell himself; the paintings, he reasoned, should stand alone without having to explain where he’d found his inspiration and the reasons why he’d chosen to paint the sky in a particular manner or why he’d chosen water colours in favour of oils for this collection.

However, he answered each question politely, smiled when necessary and thanked them for their kind words and even kinder purchases. He saw Rowena effortlessly moving from one person to another and envied her grace and natural charm. She looked up and moved towards him.  “Need rescuing?” she whispered as she kissed his cheek.

He nodded.

Turning to the man, who’d been endlessly boring Owen about his own attempts at using watercolour, she said, “Excuse me, I do hope you don’t mind me interrupting your very interesting conversation with Mr Madoc but he’s required rather urgently on the telephone.”

Owen followed her as she led him into a side room away from the main gallery. Closing the door firmly behind him, she turned the key in the lock then slid her hand around his neck and drew his head forward to reach her lips. Her lovemaking was measured, silent and satisfying.

Afterwards, she smiled, ran her fingers through her hair and unlocked the door. “Feeling better?” she asked.

“Infinitely.” Owen slid his hand down her back to rest on her buttocks as she stepped into the Gallery.

The evening was proving to be a success. Mark Furnish was unable to hide the fact as his Cheshire-cat-grin spoke volumes. He was talking to a tall man with black hair as Owen approached.

“Over here, Owen ducky, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’s just bought Indigo Night.”

Owen groaned inwardly. “Very pleased to hear it; thank you so much,” he trotted out the phrases with an equable smile.

“My pleasure,” the man replied as Mark explained.

“This is an old school friend of mine. Owen Madoc, meet Andrew Lawson.”

His hand felt cold to the touch. It occurred to him that Andrew Lawson didn’t appear to be anything like Mark’s usual friends. His initial impression being confirmed as Mark added, “Andy wanted to buy the painting as a present for his new wife. They’ve only been married a month. How sweet is that?”

Later when Owen and Rowena were back at his flat she asked, “Who was that man I saw you and Mark talking to?”

“Which one?”

“The tall, dark and handsome one, of course.”

He hadn’t noticed it before but her description was spot on. Recognising he’d been too quick to pigeonhole him as one of Mark’s gay friends, he replied, “His name’s Andrew Lawson. He’s one of Mark’s old school friends. He bought Indigo Night.”

“Did he now? Good taste as well.”  Rowena moved towards him and slipped out of her robe. “Time for bed I think.”

The sale of his seascapes went well. Mark was constantly asking when Owen could show more of his work. Whilst facing the prospect of winter and of fading light Owen had doubts about whether he’d be able to fulfil a commitment that felt like painting by numbers.

Aware that his career was at the point of turning into something worthwhile at last he made a decision to spend the winter at the cottage. It was where he felt at one with the elements and although it wasn’t exactly equipped for winter weather, he’d make the best of it.

“They call it suffering for your art, darling,” Rowena said on one of those, end of summer, evenings when winter seems so far off.

“What about you?” he asked. “I can’t expect you to suffer as well.”

“No problem. I’ve got more than I can handle in work at the moment and besides, I’m sure I’ll be able to pop down now and then, so that you don’t forget what I look like.” She kissed his lips. A kiss filled with promise and he wondered how he was going to get through the long winter months without her.

Before he finally moved into the cottage for the winter Owen was walking down Regent’s Street in the direction of Piccadilly when he saw the man who’d bought his painting again.

“Hello, Mr Madoc.”

Owen hesitated. “Mr Lawson, isn’t it?”

“Andy, please. My wife loved your painting by the way; you’d be amazed how many of our friends have commented on it.”

“Very kind, thank-you,” Owen churned out the usual reply and prepared to move on.

“I’d be interested to see more of your work. Mark told me you are about to start on a new collection.”

“That’s true. I’m off to my cottage in Wales to seek inspiration. Whether any will come is debatable.”

Lawson smiled. “Let’s hope so.”

Standing nearby was a woman trying to control a young child, who’d decided he wanted to stay inside the toyshop, whilst an older girl leaned against the shop doorway. The woman was tall, had nondescript features and mousy hair, which hung lankly to her shoulders. Andy Lawson beckoned to her.

“I’d like you to meet Owen Madoc, the artist who painted Indigo Night.”  He turned to Owen.

“This is my sister, Sarah,” he said.