Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (11 page)

At the beginning of the week Rowena had been her usual organised self and had stocked the boot of his car with cans, dried food and enough bottles of wine to satisfy the thirst of a raging alcoholic.  “It’s going to be a long winter. Besides, you know how much I like a glass of chilled Chardonnay before we make love,” she promised

“Hope you’ve packed enough then,” he said, kissing her.

He supposed that some promises were always meant to be broken. But it had still come as a shock when, the day before he was due to drive down to the cottage, Rowena had hit him with a bombshell.  She arrived at his flat flustered and lacking her usual poise. After a hurried greeting she put a hand up to his cheek. “Owen, I …”

He held her at arm’s length, afraid now.  “What is it?”

“I’ve been seconded to New York for two months. I won’t be back until just before Christmas. I can’t say no. It’s my career on the line here.” She ran her fingers distractedly through her hair.

He laughed with relief.  “Thank God.”

She looked up at him. “That’s not quite the reaction I’d been anticipating.”

He laughed again. “Come here; I thought you were going to end it - you looked so serious. Two months is nothing, as long as I get you back at the end of it.”

She relaxed against him. “As if I could end it. You know how I feel, how I’ve always felt.”

“We’ll get through it, you’ll see. By Christmas, I’ll have a whole new collection ready. Without your distracting influence, I’ll be churning them out by the lorry load.”

They both realised that he was humouring her. Owen doubted if he could work efficiently without the knowledge that she was only a phone call away, a motorway separating them, and he knew that she could see through his bluff.

“When do you fly out?” He poured two large measures of brandy into their glasses.

“Tomorrow evening. I’ve been rushing around in a flat spin today getting everything ready.”

“You had no idea that this was coming?”

“I’d be lying if I said that it was a complete surprise, nevertheless, it all happened so suddenly. I was hoping that it might have
been in the New Year and that perhaps you could have come to the States with me for a while. It would have been a chance for Mark to promote you in the American market, especially with a new collection ready.”

He smiled. “You’re not in P.R. for nothing, sweetheart.”

“That’s me, always an eye on the main chance. But seriously, it’s worth thinking about. Maybe I can put out a few feelers whilst I’m there.”

“What am I going to do without you?”

Their lovemaking that night was tender and poignant both of them knowing that this was all there would be during the coming months and when Rowena eventually awoke, it was to see Owen propped up on an elbow drinking in every glimpse of her, as if it was to be his last.

He drove to the cottage later that afternoon. Rowena had insisted that they say their goodbyes in the flat. She hated tearful airport farewells then looking longingly out of the window of the aircraft, as the land below slipped away.

“Don’t forget to keep your mobile charged. I’ll ring you every day, once I’ve got the time difference sorted,” she said, leaving him standing on the pavement outside his flat. The last glimpse he had of her was a hand raised in the taxi’s rear window.

The drive down to the cottage was uneventful. The late October weather was reasonably warm. The weathermen forecasted an Indian summer and although the trees looked dispirited, their leaves pirouetting to the ground like aging ballerinas, he had to admire the depth of colour that the autumnal weather had produced. The colours would look great on canvas.

In spite of the fact that Rowena would be on another continent Owen felt positive about starting his new collection. If the weather continued for just a few more days it would give him a head start. He began to make plans, ideas slowly shifting into formation.

He was whistling as he drove down the lane to the cottage, which greeted him like an old friend. It was nearly two months since he’d left but the rooms smelled of pine and the lavender air freshener that Rowena had liberally sprayed around the place before they’d locked up, and which still lingered.

He unloaded the car, filled the kitchen cupboards and the fridge with food then carried his canvases up the stairs to the studio. The ea
rly evening sun had disappeared, the clocks having gone back the previous weekend, and the night was eager to begin. Owen switched on the light. The studio smelled of a heady mixture of linseed oil, paint and white spirit. Stacking the canvases in a corner he stood at the window. He’d had the two smaller ones replaced with a larger one soon after he’d moved in and which effectively caught the early morning light enabling him to work longer.

The black block of the headland loomed in the distance. Three lights blinked in steady progression across the bay as a boat headed for the harbour. An intermittent patch of light lit the water from the lighthouse that was hidden by the coastline and he thought, if only he could capture this night on canvas.

He knew he’d made the right decision to come to the cottage. With so many ideas floating around in his head he couldn’t wait for the morning to come so that he could begin.  Later, opening a bottle of wine, he drank to Rowena’s health and slumped into bed pleasantly inebriated. It was the only way he could get through the night without wondering if her plane had arrived safely. The thought that it had not was too much for him to contemplate.

He awoke with a steady thumping pain behind his eyes and resolved to go easy on the wine in future. Perhaps he’d call in at the store in the village and pick up a few cans of lager instead. Not that he’d planned on spending his days in an alcoholic stupor.

After taking a couple of painkillers, drinking a mug of black coffee and eating a couple of rounds of toast, he walked onto the veranda and felt the faint warmth of morning sunshine on his face. The air was crisper than it appeared. He could almost smell winter begging to begin. Sliding his arms into a hooded fleece jacket, he jogged down the lane in the direction of the path that would take him across the fields to the coast.

Dew dampened the ground underfoot, his sandals were just strips of leather secured at the ankle and the wet grass stroked his toes. He took a deep breath. It was as if he were alone in the world, except for a few circling gulls that cawed expectantly waiting for scraps of food.  “Sorry to disappoint you, old sons, I haven’t been here long enough to have any stale bread. Come back again next week, it might be a different story.”  Aware that he’d resorted to talking to seagulls, he thought, it’s only the first day, what idiosyncrasies will I develop by Christmas?

The sand was hard underfoot. It stretched from the water’s edge to the bank of white pebbles stacked in front of the moss-covered dunes. He began to pace out the shoreline from the headland to the point at which the coastline curved away from the bay in a series of rocky outcrops that rose into a sheer cliff.

As he walked, Owen felt the breeze strengthening, bringing with it a distinct autumnal chill. If he was to work in the open air, he had to find some sort of shelter before the weather changed. He was beginning to doubt that he’d be able to fulfil his promise of producing a collection under such c
onditions, when he discovered the cave.

Walking across the pebbles to the base of the cliff, he climbed over rocks made smooth by the tide and saw the entrance to a small cave
which was large enough to provide shelter and offered spectacular views of the sea, headland and bay. It was perfect. But before he could take up residence he had to discover whether the sea at full tide would make the route to his hideaway impassable. He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven. By the look of the level of wet sand it seemed as if the tide was on the turn, which meant that his route would be clear.

Feeling positive about his hideaway, he walked back along the beach until he found the path leading to the village. Tomorrow he would bring his sketchbook to the cave and make a few preliminary drawings. He felt the familiar thrill sweeping through him and couldn’t wait to begin. With the breeze behind him and the sun at its highest Owen removed his fleece jacket and tied it around his waist. Gareg Wen was little more than a few houses scattered like children’s toys in disarray, a church, general stores and a pub that served food. He headed for the pub.

He’d met Lloyd, the pub landlord, in the summer and had made the acquaintance of the vicar, also Mrs Llewellyn who ran the general stores.  When his eyes became accustomed to the dark interior, after the glare of the sunlit road, Owen saw that Lloyd wouldn’t be hard pressed to produce a meal for him at short notice. Most of the tables arranged in front of the curving oak bar were empty. Sitting on a bar stool reading a paper was a man in his sixties wearing a navy Guernsey sweater. He grunted a greeting as Owen approached.

“Pint of lager, please, Lloyd, and the lunch menu,” Owen said.

A young girl in her late teens was hanging up her jacket at the back of the bar.

“Lunch menu for Mr Madoc please, Lorna; late again are you? I’ll have to dock your pay my girl.”

“Oh now don’t start, Dad, I only been clearing up your mess in the kitchen and posting your letters.”

Lloyd laughed. “She got an answer for everything that one.” He nodded at Owen. “Got to keep her on her toes now, haven’t I?”

The man reading his paper looked up. “When is your missus back from her sister’s then, Lloyd?”

“Next week, thank God. Never thought I’d say it though. Women, they’re good for some things, even if they nags the pants off a man.”

Owen smiled, took his pint and sat at a table near the window. He missed Rowena already and wouldn’t mind listening to her nagging him for a bit.

“You’re that painter what bought the cottage at Fallow’s End,” Lorna said
, handing him the lunch menu. “Do you paint women? Cos if you do, I wouldn’t mind making an extra bob or two.”

Her eagerness wasn’t surprising. What was there to do for a teenager in a place like this? He almost wished he could say yes.

“Sorry. I’m not a portrait painter. But I can assure you that if I was, I’d jump at the chance of having a lovely young girl like you as my model.”

He could see his reply had satisfied her. She blushed. “Just let me know when you’re ready to order then, sir.”

He watched her walking away and wondered whether she’d stay in Gareg Wen or would she be tempted to spread her wings for the bright lights of Cardiff. As she reached the bar, she turned, tossed a lock of her dark hair over her shoulder and smiled at him. There was no doubt in his mind that it would be the latter.

The nights were drawing in. Owen had made a series of preliminary sketches of the coastline and bay prior to starting work on the canvases but he was restricted by the lack of daylight.

After a day spent in the cave sheltering from a stiff onshore breeze, he decided to walk along the cliff path to stretch his legs before returning to his cottage. He packed his sketchbook in his portfolio, closed the zip and walked towards the rough steps leading to the cliff top.

The muscles in his calves were cramped and he stamped his feet on the steps as he climbed. The tide was coming in. He’d been watching the sea whilst marvelling at how it changed from day to day. His imagination had already transferred the images to canvas, the spray rising in the air like a bride’s veil, the changes in colour as the sky darkened, the possibilities were endless.

“Hello again.” The man, who’d been propping up the bar in the Anchor the day he arrived appeared on the path. He stretched out his hand. “You’re that painter fellow, I understand. Duncan Jones; good to meet you.”

Shaking his hand Owen introduced himself, adding, “Do you live in Gareg Wen?”

“Not in the village itself. My wife and I bought a plot of land on the cliffs and built our dream home. We’ve been here six months now. Great place, we love it.”

“Lucky you.”

“Where are you headed?” Duncan asked.

“Nowhere in particular. I’ve been sheltering in a cave all day
, sketching, just thought I’d stretch my legs before heading back to the cottage.”

“In that case, why don’t you come along and join Megan and me in a spot of afternoon tea? She usually puts the kettle on after I’ve had my walk.”

“I’d like that, thanks. You’re sure your wife won’t mind an itinerant painter landing on her doorstep?”

“She’d be thrilled to bits. But be warned, she’ll want to know everything about you down to the size of the pants your wearing.”

Owen laughed, “I’ll heed the warning.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected the house to be like or whether he’d even considered the thought as he followed Duncan along the cliff path. At the highest point the path divided and taking the route that veered to the right they came across a gate in the middle of a low hedge bordering. It led to a landscaped garden. However, he could never have imaged the building that stood before him. An architect with futuristic ideas had obviously designed the house, the back of which was divided into two storeys by an aluminium and glass balustrade, a balcony running along its width. One-way-view windows reflected the late afternoon sun like sightless eyes and Owen anticipated that the view from inside would be spectacular.

“Bit of a shock eh?”

Owen nodded. “I should say so.”

“I was in the business. I’m a retired architect. This was our dream.”

Duncan’s wife, Megan, was a woman in her early fifties. She wore her curly pepper and salt hair tied back in a ponytail with a coloured scarf that matched her long flowing skirt. Owen could imagine her in Glastonbury in green wellies smoking dope and swaying to the music of a folk band. She seemed vaguely familiar.

When she spoke
, his image of her dissolved like sherbet on the tongue. “How do you do, Mr Madoc; I gather you’re spending some time in the cottage at Fallow’s end.” Her voice was cultured and deep, with just the faintest trace of a Welsh accent.

“That’s right, but please, it’s Owen. Mr Madoc makes me feel
in my dotage.”

She smiled, “How do you like living in Fallow’s end, Owen?”

“Fine, it’s just right, plenty of peace and quiet and the views around the coast are awesome.”

“Awesome indeed and quite inspiring I should imagine. Now
, I suggest Duncan takes you upstairs, whilst I make us some tea. I hope you’ll find the view from our Crow’s Nest equally as awesome.”

He could see why they referred to the room as the Crow’s Nest; the view from there encompassed the coast
, and the endless expanse of sea, to perfection. But that was where the similarity to a crow’s nest ended. It was a large room, windows taking up the whole of one wall. Light flooded in from every direction and Owen’s artistic soul envied them living in such a location.

The sea, now as calm as a millpond, was the colour of liquid gold trickling from an alchemist’s jug, the coastline cradling its precious gift in its arms.

“You like?” Duncan asked.

“It’s magnificent; truly inspirational.”

“That’s the idea. It’s why we built the house here, for Megan.”

“Your wife paints?” Owen asked.

Duncan Jones shook his head. “Not exactly, although she is an artist; she’s a writer.”

The pieces of the jigsaw suddenly fell into place. Owen’s previous musings had not been so very far from the truth. Megan Lloyd Jones was a well-known author who wrote very successful psychological thrillers.

“You must think me a complete idiot.”

“Not at all.” Duncan sat in a chair near the window and indicated the one opposite. “Please sit down.”

“Not to recognise your famous wife at first sight is unforgivable.”

His host grinned. “More like a relief. Part of the reason for living out here is anonymity. Since breaking into the American market
, Megan is constantly pestered for book signings and tours in faraway places. She hates all that razzmatazz, it distracts her from her true vocation – simply being a writer.”

“Yes, I can imagine, although I’m still longing to jump on that band wagon in order to have the luxury of avoiding it.”

When Megan arrived with tea, Owen felt uncomfortably aware that he should make some reference to her celebrity status. “I’m sorry I,”…he began but she quickly silenced him with a wave of her hand.

“ Let’s pretend you’ve never heard of me and we’ll get along just fine.”

Later, watching the sun sink on the horizon turning the pot of liquid gold to a mirror covered with a gossamer pink veil, Owen sighed, aware that his thoughts were becoming more poetic by the minute.

“If I could only capture that, I’d go back to London a happy man.”

“You will, I’m sure of it.” Megan joined him at the window. “Please come again, anytime, bring your sketch pad. It’s got to be preferable to sitting in a damp cave in November.”

Owen couldn’t believe his luck. “You mean it? I wouldn’t get in the way?”

Duncan placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Does it look as if you’d get in the way? This place has more rooms than Cardiff Castle. Like Meg says you’re welcome, anytime.”

When he reached the bottom of the garden, Owen turned and waved as he closed the gate leading to the cliff path. He was thrilled at the prospect of working in the Crow’s Nest and thought how much he would like to take up the Joneses kind offer. It was dark when he walked back down the lane to his cottage. He almost didn’t see the woman as she stepped out in front of him.