Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (2 page)

I felt physically sick as we drove away from my home. I had no choice but to wait and see where
this man was taking me. He drove down the lane and on to the dual carriageway, switched on the car radio and didn’t speak throughout the journey. After a while, he took a slip road leading to a built up area then turned sharp left until we reached a block of flats.

“I hope you understand that this finishes now, Sarah.” He opened the car door and waited until I was standing on the pavement. “No doubt you’ve lost your key again.” He dug his hand into his trouser pocket. “You can have mine
, after I’ve seen you safely inside. Then I’ll have to get back. I haven’t time to spend listening to it all again this evening.”

I looked up at the block of flats. They were unremarkable in appearance, probably built in the middle of the last century and with concrete balconies overlooking a square grassed area where children were playing. I wondered which featureless chicken coop was supposed to be mine. I’d tried getting the police involved and knew that my attempt had failed miserably. There was nothing for it but to see how far they intended to go with this deception and why.

My flat, it appeared, was on the third floor. There were three further floors above, each as uninspiring as its predecessor. A lift smelling of disinfectant deposited us on a landing from which a door led to a covered walkway running outside the building. A row of drab coloured front doors, each with a brass number plate, stood in front of us, reminding me of a motel I’d stayed at in the States some years ago. Andy Lawson stopped outside number twenty-six, inserted a key then handed it to me.

“Right then,” he sighed. “I suggest you make a cup of tea and have an early night. I’ll ring you tomorrow.” He bent to kiss my cheek but I turned away. “OK have it your own way.” He shut the door behind him and I heard his
footsteps retreating and the gate at the end of the corridor closing with a clang.

Leaning back against the
wall, I closed my eyes. There was a faint smell of paint and something else. Tears slid down my cheeks as I realised it was lavender air freshener. Wiping my face with a tissue, I felt my shoe catch on something and looking down saw three letters on the mat. I picked them up, walked down the short passageway and in through the door facing me.

The living
room walls were newly painted a pale shade of primrose yellow, my favourite colour. The furniture was nondescript and signs of occupation littered the place, exactly as if I’d left in a hurry that morning to go to work. A newspaper lay on a side-table alongside an empty cup and a plate spattered with crumbs; the television remote rested on the arm of a chair where cushions showed evidence of an earlier occupation. I turned around and saw a digital radio and IPod on top of a waist-high wooden cabinet alongside which a book lay open with a National Trust bookmarker lodged in its pages.

My pulse started to race as I walked into the bedroom. The duvet was rumpled but pulled up. I never straightened mine in the mornings, as I was always in a rush to get to work. An alarm clock blinked at me from a bedside table whilst I opened each drawer of the chest to reveal underclothes, make up bags, toiletries and a jew
ellery box. Inside the wardrobe the clothes were hung neatly on hangers, the scent of Mischief drifting out from within their folds. They were thorough, I had to give them that – but what purpose lay behind it all was a mystery and one, which I was determined to unravel. I decided that since my persecutors had gone to so much trouble I’d accept my new address whilst I planned what to do next.

In the kitchen, I put the kettle on and looked out of the window to
wards a block of identical flats, and over the top of a row of terraced houses with small square front gardens, to a road crammed with parked cars. The tiny kitchen with its chipboard units painted cream was a far cry from those I’d installed at Bramble Lane. I’d chosen the new fitted kitchen so that it would be ready when I moved in, picked clean bright lines for the cabinets and bought a scrubbed pine table and chairs. Wiping away tears of frustration and confusion, I made a cup of tea and went to open the letters addressed to Sarah Lawson.

The first wasn’t really a letter, it was a card encased in a plastic envelope announcing that there was a new range of Clarique make-up, which would be previewed at a reception in a local department store on the 28
th
of the month. I put it to one side and opened the next one, which was from Marks and Spencer sending me a new credit card. It came as no surprise to see that the name on the card was Sarah Lawson. The third envelope looked official, the logo of my bank stamped on the reverse of the envelope. I put it to one side as I finished drinking my tea.

My aunt Fiona had died whilst I’d been living and working in London. The morning the letter arrived from her solicitors, I was shocked to discover that a relative, of whom I had little knowledge, had named me as her sole heir. She’d left me the house in Bramble Lane together with ninety thousand pounds.

It was at a time when things were unravelling between Owen and me, our wedding plans were scrapped and, although the details were blurred, I do remember feeling that a move to the south coast was just what I needed. As I struggled with the memory I began to feel uneasy. Something was trying to resurface, a sense that today wasn’t the first time I’d heard the name Sarah Lawson. Aston and Cooper
, the consultancy firm I worked for, had numerous clients, one of whom, I reasoned, could have been her.

I’d intended to transfer to Lockford from London and still keep my position within the company but something had gone wrong. An uncomfortable feeling
, that the day had not started out as I’d imagined, crept over me. Where had I been all day? I couldn’t remember having been to work, only coming home on the bus.

The cheque from my aunt’s estate was sitting in my current account as I’d been planning to buy a new car and have a long break in the sunshine for which I needed to have easily accessible funds. I knew that Aston and Cooper owed me a protracted break from work in view of the Santa Monica deal, so maybe I was taking that break. At least I had money available to help me sort out this mess
I thought, putting my empty teacup in the sink.

The bank statement was on the kitchen table where I’d left it. My bank at least, but not my name, Sarah Lawson, yet again. I clenched my fists and bit my lip until I tasted blood then slid the statement out of the envelope and looked at the balance of the account, which stood at a miserable £153.46. So it was not only my name that my persecutors had stolen - predictably of the ninety thousand pounds there was no trace.

At the bottom of a badly constructed Ikea cabinet, I found a half-empty bottle of brandy and poured a stiff measure into my teacup. The events of the day spun around in my head - none of it making any sense. After another brandy then another, anaesthetised, I slumped fully clothed on top of the rumpled duvet in the unfamiliar bedroom.

Awaking some time
later with a pounding headache and somewhat disorientated, I made for the bathroom and took two painkillers which were conveniently waiting on a shelf in the cabinet. My reflection stared back at me, dark circles under my eyes and a worried frown creasing my forehead. My image looked unfamiliar. Splashing my face with cold water, I went to answer the mobile phone, which was ringing from the depths of my handbag in the living room.

“Hi, Sarah, it’s Lyn.
” The voice was unknown to me. “I’m sorry to hear you still aren’t well. I just wanted you to know I’ve finished reading the proofs of
Away with the Fairies
so don’t worry about rushing back. Concentrate on getting better and we’ll see you when you feel up to it.”

For a moment I was speechless.

“I don’t understand. Why would you think I wasn’t well?” I stopped myself asking why I should be reading proofs of any kind, although the title was apt under the circumstances.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a beat then the woman replied,” Your brother called Suzanne in Personnel. We all understand; it must have been frightful for you. Get well soon. Got to go, bye.”

This was just too much. Anger fought with fear as I succumbed to a self-pitying bout of tears, which left me with puffy eyes and an aching throat. So Sarah Lawson had colleagues who were concerned about her welfare, and she was some kind of proof- reader, well that was a start. Next, there was the problem of finances. If I was to discover what was going on, I needed money - one hundred and fifty pounds would be gone in no time.

Later
, I made an appointment to see the bank manger for the following day, in the vain hope that I might be able to access my own account. Then sat down and began to make a list. Funds first and afterwards I’d hire a private detective. Next, I’d ask around to see if anyone recognised me because, although I hadn’t lived in Bramble Lane for more than a month or two, I’d spoken to the old lady who lived in the house with ivy creeping over the front porch and the man living further up the lane who regularly walked his dog.

I began to feel more positive as I placed the notepad in my handbag and made a cup of tea. How was the bank manager going to react when he saw me and not Sarah Lawson I wondered? Feeling confident that this subterfuge was about to unravel before it had a chance to knit together, I opened a packet of biscuits I’d found in a cupboard and had eaten two before I realised they were my favourite kind.

The sun shone, through a gap in the thin pink cotton curtains that I wouldn’t have bought in a fit and crept up the duvet cover t
o my face, making me blink. The previous day had passed without further incident; neither my brother nor sister-in-law had rung so I’d been left to my own devices. What was the reason behind total strangers invading my house and robbing me of my name?  The answer to that was clear enough – ninety thousand pounds and a house in Bramble Lane.

In the wardrobe, I found clothes
which more or less fitted and were neatly hung and pressed. In the bathroom, I stepped into the trickle of lukewarm water spilling out of the showerhead and washed, longing for the cleansing force of my power shower. I imagined Andy and his family using my new bathroom, the children splashing in my outsized bathtub and their mother making up her face in the mirror. Turning off the apology for a shower, I dried my body with the rough towel that stood on a rack near the bath and began to outline a plan of attack. Selecting a pale grey trouser suit and crisp white cotton blouse from the clothes in the wardrobe, I tied my hair back into a wispy knot, applied make-up and walked purposefully out of the flat.

I’d become used to travelling by public transport since
moving into Bramble Lane, as the journey to town was short and it didn’t seem worth using my car and going to the trouble of finding a parking place. Now I had no choice. What had they done with it? Andy had been driving a navy BMW, so where were they hiding my silver grey Audi? I felt tears of anger pricking my eyelids.

The bus was crowded. I sat alongside a young man with an IP
hone earpiece glued to his ear and sighed as two women sitting in front of me coughed and sneezed their germs into the air. Eventually, the bus stopped at the bottom of the High Street and I followed the rest of the alighting passengers into the busy street.

Inside the bank, a middle-aged woman wearing a name badge showed me into the manager’s office. “Miss Lawson, please sit down,” he said, and my heart sank as I removed the statement from my handbag.

“I was surprised at the balance of this account,” I began, “perhaps you could take a look at it for me?”

The manager’s nameplate stood on his desk. Mr Briggs
smiled at me, glanced at the statement then typed in a command on his computer keyboard. “This appears to be correct,” he said.

“Really? Then perhaps it might be possible for you to trace another account for me? Sometime ago I had an account of mine transferred from your Regent Street branch in the name of Rowena Shaw.”

He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “I’m afraid, I don’t understand.”

“It’s my business account. I use the name professionally. You’ll find it in your records. I’ll give you my signature as proof of identity - you must have it on file.” I could hear a note of panic creeping into my voice. He’d recognised me as Sarah Lawson, even clasped my hand like we were old friends. He was looking at me now as if I’d lost my mind.

He turned to the computer screen and tapped the keyboard.

“There should be a balance of over ninety thousand pounds in the account,” I explained.

Turning to face me once more, he frowned. “First, let me say, Miss Lawson that this is a most irregular request. I’ve searched our account database for verification purposes only, to see if we carry an account in the name of Rowena Shaw. But I must stress that under no circumstances would I be able to divulge any details of the contents of that account to you – not without strict controls to establish your right to access the account. A signature alone would not qualify I’m afraid.” He looked uncomfortable. “However, as it turns out, no such account in that name exists in our branch at this present time.”

Trying to regain an appearance of composure after such news was difficult but I think I managed to sound plausible. “You must think I’m a real scatterbrain, Mr Briggs. I’m afraid I’ve let things slide financially. Of course my business account must still be held in London. I’ll contact them later. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

“No problem. Is there anything else I can do for you?” He sounded relieved.

“Er, yes, as a matter of fact there is. Could you tell me how the rest of my accounts stand at present, it will save me having to queue at your enquiry desk on the way out.”

I was praying there were other accounts and Sarah Lawson wasn’t quite as impoverished as she appeared to be.

“Of course, now let’s see.” He turned back to his computer screen. “Ah, yes, your Deposit Account stands at two thousand five hundred and ninety pounds, and of course there is a Savings Account with a current balance of three thousand pounds.”

I smiled. “Thank you so much for your help. I’d like to make arrangements to close both the Deposit and Savings Accounts and transfer the balances to my current account, please.”

He looked as if he was about to make a suggestion, stared at me for a moment, changed his mind, and opening the top drawer of his desk, removed a transfer slip and asked me to ‘sign on the dotted line’.

I held my breath – this must be the time he’d see that Sarah Lawson’s signature didn’t tally with his office records. But he hardly gave the signature a second glance – why would he – he knew me and I was signing the form in front of him – why would he bother to check?

I thanked him despondently and
shook his outstretched hand.

“Anytime, Miss Lawson. Give my regards to Andy. Tell him I look forward to our game on Sunday and even more so to the nineteenth hole afterwards.” He laughed at his own joke and walked me to the door.

Later, sitting in Starbucks, my hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate large enough to drown in, I pondered on the fact that the bank manager had no difficulty in accepting my identity as Sarah Lawson, the problem only arose when I’d tried to make him accept me as Rowena Shaw. Was it a coincidence that he just happened to be a golfing buddy of the man who was professing to be my brother?

The scars under my hairline began to p
rickle uncomfortably; removing my hand from the mug, I absent-mindedly massaged them and stared into the street.