Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (12 page)

Moonlight lit her face in the darkness so that she appeared ghost-like in front of him. Owen wasn’t sure who was the most startled as they both spoke at once.

“I almost didn’t see you, I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s my car; it won’t start.”

They both laughed to cover their embarrassment.

“It stopped at the top of the lane and I couldn’t get it to budge. I saw the outline of a cottage and walked down the lane. I rang the bell but there was no one home,” she explained.

He noticed that she was wearing a thin jacket and that a cold wind had suddenly sprung up. “That’s my cottage. Why don’t we walk back and I’ll ring the garage in the village; they’re usually open until late. Jim Jackson can take a look at your car while you wait. It’s got to be warmer than hanging about here.”

She hesitated.

“My name’s, Owen Madoc by the way.”

“Thanks, I’m really grateful,” she said following him down the lane.

Once they were inside and he’d switched on the overhead light. He thought she looked familiar.  “Have we met before?” he asked.

She hesitated.  “I think perhaps we have. Are you the artist who painted Indigo Night?”

“I am.”

“Then, yes. I’m Andy Lawson’s sister, Sarah.”

She didn’t look the same. He remembered a rather plain girl with lank brown hair. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure – you look different.”

She smiled. “I’ve changed my hair colour. I often do, but everyone seems to think being blonde suits me so perhaps I’ll stick with this.”

It wasn’t just the colour of her hair, this girl was well groomed – her make up immaculate, her fingernails painted a vivid red. It was later that he realised she’d reminded him of Rowena.

He left her in the cottage whilst he took her keys back up the lane to the garage. After a while Jim returned with the car and said, “Daft piece just run out of petrol.”

“And she didn’t notice?” Owen asked incredulously.

“Well to be fair, petrol gauge was a bit dodgy. Fixed now though. Nothing a good tap with a spanner couldn’t sort out.”

“Right, thanks, Jim. How much?”

“Let’s say you can buy me a pint or two in the Anchor on Saturday night.”

Owen drove the car back down the lane and parked it outside the cottage. She was sitting in the living room looking out of the window.  “All fixed. You were out of petrol. When you get home I’d have someone look at that petrol gauge if I were you.”

“God, how embarrassing. How much do I owe your friend?”

“He’s going to settle for the price of a pint or two so don’t worry I’ll see he’s OK.”

“No, really, I can’t let you do that.” She fumbled in her handbag but he crossed the room and put his hand on her arm.

“It’s no problem. It’s my pleasure.”

“Thank you so much.” She stood up. “I’ll be off then.”

Owen, watching her taillights disappearing up the lane, was sorry that he hadn’t asked her if she’d like to stay for a drink. Something had held him back. Perhaps it was a reluctance to share his cottage with anyone other than Rowena. Or perhaps it was because she reminded him too much of Rowena. He wasn’t sure.

Two weeks passed before the weather closed in with a vengeance. He’d used the cave most days and had progressed with his sketches until he felt confident enough to transfer them to canvas. He’d hesitated to take up the Joneses offer as he hadn’t seen either of them again and was reluctant to impose on their good nature.

It was on one particularly rain-swept day, when he was making his way up the beach, that he saw Megan again.

“Hello, I’ve been meaning to give you a call. This weather is set to stay like this for the next few weeks, according to the forecast. I told Duncan we couldn’t see you freezing your butt off on the beach.” She tucked her arm in his and walked alongside. “So I’ve cleared a corner of the Crow’s Nest for you. Bring your canvases up when you’re ready. You can leave everything at our place for as long as you like. Look on it as a second studio. Duncan’s off to Edinburgh for a month; he’s my manager and has some business
requiring his attention and, well, I’m in the middle of plotting a fourth Hardie Bankcroft novel, so you won’t be disturbed.”

“That’s very kind of you. But wouldn’t I be in the way?”

“Not at all. Much as I like my own company it would be good to think I’m not totally alone for the rest of the month.”

“In that case I’ll take you up on your very generous offer. You’d be saving my butt in more ways than one.”

He heard her laughter drifting on the wind as she walked up the steps leading to the cliff path, leaving him with the feeling of optimism at the prospect of working in such surroundings.

Megan hadn’t exaggerated about the weather. Two days after he’d started work at their house, storm clouds hung over the bay reducing the light to that of dusk before discharging their load amidst an almighty rumble of thunder. The view was spectacular. Owen immediately began to transfer the pewter sky to canvas in splurges of dark grey, violet and cobalt paint.

The hours passed in a flash as he concentrated on mixing the colours until he was satisfied with the result. Eventually he looked at his watch and realised it was nearly seven o’clock. Three days ago, when he’d arrived with his equipment, Megan had produced a spare key. “I’ll be somewhere around but in case I’m in the middle of something it makes sense for you to come and go as you please,” she’d said.

He placed his brushes in the leather roll in order to transfer them to his cottage for cleaning. He’d abandoned watercolour as he thought the dramatic changes in the weather would look better in oils. As he walked towards his car, the rain and wind lashed his face and he silently thanked his lucky stars for Megan and Duncan Jones. His previous meeting with Sarah Lawson in the lane was totally forgotten.

Owen had been working in the Crow’s Nest for ten days when he returned to his cottage to find a parcel wrapped in brown paper waiting for him on the veranda. He picked it up and read,
To Owen Madoc, My Good Samaritan.

Carrying it inside, he put his brushes on the sink drainer in the kitchen then opened the parcel to reveal a box containing a bottle of Fine Malt Whiskey and a card.

Thank you, once again. Sarah.

She must have delivered it herself, he thought. How had she known it was his favourite brand? The
question had barely formed when his mobile vibrated in his pocket followed by a chorus of the
Star Spangled Banner
which Rowena had so thoughtfully downloaded for him before she left for the States.

“Hello, darling.”

“Rowena, sweetheart, how’s it going in the big apple?”

“I’m making progress, in fact I think I’ve got it all sown up.”

His spirits rose, “Does that mean you’ll be back earlier than you expected?” He hated the needy tone that was obvious in his voice.

“’Fraid not, in fact quite the reverse. It looks as if I’ll be staying here over the Christmas period. I’ll explain later, darling, I have to rush. Missing you - love you loads.”

He started to reply but heard the disconnected signal as the line went dead.  The euphoria of the day dispersed in an instant. He picked up the bottle of whiskey and went into the kitchen to find a glass.

It was one of those rare November mornings that began with the sun shining out of a clear blue sky and a crisp white layer of frost coating the ground. Owen awoke with a hangover. Not the worst one he’d ever had, which was a tribute to the distillation process of the fine malt whiskey, copious amounts of which he’d drunk the night before.

In the kitchen he downed a pint of water then refilling the glass started on a second. Contrary to popular belief, he’d found that coffee seemed to make his hangover worse. He opened the front door and drew in a deep breath of salt
- tinged air. He’d ring Rowena later to find out what was going on then work like the devil, trying to forget that she’d be still away during the Christmas holiday.

His resolve faltered as he showered and dressed. He was going to miss her. If only he didn’t have this deadline to keep he’d fly over the Atlantic on the next plane.

He decided to give the Crow’s Nest a miss for a couple of hours, at least until after he’d phoned Rowena. Perhaps an early morning walk on the beach with his sketchpad would blow away the remains of his hangover.

The grass
scrunched under his feet like tissue paper leaving behind the outline of his trainers in the frost. It was still only ten past eight and yet he could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Seagulls swooped to the shore, where, in the distance, he could see someone with a carrier bag throwing pieces of bread into the sea.

The image was lost to him as the path dipped and the dunes rose
up in front of him. A light breeze swept sand over them changing their solid outline into a shivering mirage of liquid mercury in the crisp morning air. Emerging from the path he climbed the shifting sand until the beach spread before him. He was alone. The gulls were left pecking at the remains of the bread floating on the water but their benefactor had disappeared.

Striding towards the headland, Owen felt his spirits lift along with his hangover. Taking deep breaths, he jogged back down the beach in the direction of the cave. If he could capture the shimmering morning before it settled he’d be a happy man.

He didn’t see her until he reached the mouth of the cave. She was sitting with her back to the rocks looking out to sea.

“Hello.”

“Good Lord, it’s you.” He was aware that his surprise at seeing her so unexpectedly had made him state the obvious.

“I think so, yes.” She laughed.

She was dressed in jeans and a padded jacket. Her hair was the best thing about her, Owen decided. It gleamed like spun gold in the sunshine and she’d done something to her eyes, they reminded him of the way Rowena applied her eye make-up – subtle yet dramatic.

“You were the last person I expected to see this morning.” He sat on a rock near the entrance to the cave. “But it does give me an opportunity to thank you for the whiskey. There was no need, but thanks anyway.”

“My pleasure.”

“Are you staying in Gareg Wen?”

“I might. I decided to come and deliver my thank-you gift yesterday and then on a sudden impulse thought I’d stay overnight at the Anchor. I have to admit that this morning, when I saw the beach and the glorious weather, I phoned work and took a long overdue two-week holiday. So I’ll probably stay around for a bit longer.”

Owen followed her gaze to the horizon where a container ship sat like a child’s toy as if perched on the edge of the world. He opened his sketchbook and took a pencil from his pocket.

“What work do you do?” he asked, as his pencil slid over the paper in short sleek lines.

“I work for Fox and Knight, the publishers,” she said watching him. She stood up and stretched. “Rocks are not the most comfortable seats in the world. I think I’ll leave you to it, Mr Madoc. Perhaps we’ll meet again before I leave.”

“Sure to; I pop into the Anchor for a nightcap occasionally. By the way, it’s Owen.”

It was nearly three o’clock when Owen finally left the beach. The sun was lower in the sky and shone directly into his eyes as he left the path and walked down the lane to his cottage.

He’d left his mobile on the kitchen table. It was ringing as he opened the door. He rushed towards it afraid it would cut to voice mail and he would miss Rowena. It was Mark Furnish.

“Owen, old man, how are you doing? Working hard, I hope.”

“It’s OK, I’m OK”

“Good, good, glad to hear it. The thing is…,”

Owen recognised Mark’s tone, when unpalatable news was to follow.

“Well the thing is, Drew Mailer the art critic from the New York Post is coming over from the States and he’s staying with a friend of mine. You met him at your last exhibition - it’s Lew Rockfield. Anyway Mailer was very interested to see more of your work and I sort of told Lew that I didn’t think there’d be a problem if we brought
forward the date of the end of January’s showing.”

Owen groaned, “How far forward?”

“Let’s say the fifteenth of December.”

“Let’s not.”

“Don’t be like that, sweetie. Mailer has the American Market at his fingertips. He knows all the right people. This could be very good for you.”

“It will mean me working morning, noon and night.”

“I have complete faith in you. You can do it; I know you can.”

After he’d put the phone down Owen knew that he didn’t share Mark’s confidence. Although he was well on the way to fulfilling his original brief, he was aware that the creative process couldn’t be hurried. You had to allow for inspiration and his was in New York, although if he thought about it, Rowena might be a distraction, a very welcome one but a distraction nevertheless. Perhaps he could meet the deadline after all. He looked at his watch - a quick bite to eat and then he’d drive over to Duncan’s place. Walking would take too long, every second counted.

Megan was in the garden when he arrived. She was smoking a cigarette.

“Filthy habit,” she said. “I’d given it up too.”

“Problems?” Owen held the gate open with his back, his arms holding the canvases.

“You could say that. My psychotic heroine is showing signs of complete normality. I can’t allow that to happen now, can I?”

“Tricky.” Owen stood beside her and looked out at the bay. “If only I could capture that, I could make a fortune.”

“You sound as if you’ve problems of your own to deal with.” She stubbed out the cigarette on a fence post.

“Deadline’s been brought forward. I’ve to be back in London for a showing on the fifteenth of December.”

“Christmas in Gareg Wen is out then? Pity.” She took his arm. “So back to work for both of us, it would seem.”

The month passed
without Owen being aware of it. At first he’d resented the fact that he’d be working flat out but, as he became absorbed in the creative processes, he began to enjoy himself. Days passed in the Crow’s Nest, each canvas transforming the scene before him into something more tangible.

On the
sixth of December Owen awoke with the realisation that he’d be more than able to fulfil his commitment to Mark. And with the emergence of rational thought, came two startling facts, first and foremost he hadn’t heard from Rowena in over a week and secondly he’d broken his half-hearted promise to meet Sarah Lawson in the Anchor the previous month.

Rowena, uppermost in his mind, he resolved to ring, taking into account the time difference. His mind, now free from worry concerning his work, he became concerned about her. It was so unlike her not to keep in touch.

He breakfasted in the little kitchen at the back of the house, took a swift shower and dressed hurriedly. There was nothing more he could do to the canvases in the Crow’s Nest; the oils needed to dry out and the watercolours were stacked in his studio in the cottage. The day spread before him, empty and devoid of companionship. Then, just as he was beginning to feel sorry for himself, the heavens opened and rain drummed incessantly on the grey tiled roof. By lunchtime the wind was howling around the cottage walls like a banshee. Owen picked up his car keys and drove into the village. He would have lunch in the Anchor and afterwards he’d ring Rowena.

The Anchor was busier than he’d seen it, the incessant rain having driven most of the locals to seek the convivial atmosphere of the public bar. The vicar sat on the window seat, a copy of
The Angling Times
spread out on his lap. Grouped in a huddle near the log fire were three elderly men in the middle of a heated game of dominos. In a back room he could hear the crack of billiard balls as they shot into the pockets, whilst, above the bar the mid-day news was providing background viewing for a couple of women who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a W.I. convention.

“Owen, over here.” Duncan was sitting at a table eating fish and chips. “Join me, won’t you? Megan’s lost in the midst of her latest plot and I know from past experience that I’m better keeping out of the way.”

Owen pulled out a chair opposite Duncan, grateful for the company.  “I’m at a bit of a loose end myself. Not a lot I can do until the weekend. Then it’s just to put a few last minute touches to the collection and that’s it.”

“So you’re high and dry for a day or two, eh?”

“You could say that.”

“Fancy joining Ted and me on a fishing trip tomorrow?”

“Ted?”

“The vicar. We’ve managed to persuade old Bill Jefferies to take us out on his lobster boat.”

“In this weather?” Owen was aghast.

“Set fair tomorrow. They know the signs apparently.”

“In that case, yes, I’d love to come.”

Duncan called to his sailing companion. “Another convert joining us tomorrow, vicar.”

The vicar raised his hand to Owen. “Glad to hear it,” he said before returning to his paper.