Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (4 page)

Dawn broke leaching a pale pewter light through his bedroom curtains. Richie silenced his alarm with an annoyed slap and groaning, showered, and dressed, in his sleep-deprived state. The sky had grown dark; rain-bearing clouds hung over the town threatening a downpour.

He lived in a block of flats overlooking the river and was on nodding acquaintance with his neighbours, who seemed to change by the hour, the flats being generally bought for quick sale investment purposes. But Richie wasn’t going anywhere. The isolation suited him; he’d had enough of kindly neighbours to last him a lifetime. After the accident, they couldn’t do enough for him. Mrs Merchant and Miss Tillett living in the houses next-door made it their business to call on him with casseroles, cakes, and kind words, until he’d felt suffocated under a mountain of solicitude.

The janitor, who was cleaning the foyer, grunted a good morning when Richie appeared dressed for jogging in a black lightweight tracksuit then carried on swabbing the floor with a mop.

The morning air was crisp and, as he headed for his car, he could feel the first spots of rain on his cheek. Inserting his key in the ignition, Richie noticed that the light shower was turning heavier by the minute. Good, he thought, there was nothing like heavy rain to keep the early risers indoors. Traffic was sporadic and the drive took him twenty minutes. He parked on the corner of Bramble Lane outside a bungalow that looked as if it had seen better days. He assessed that by the condition of the place an elderly person lived there, as the curtains hung limply at the windows and grubby grey nets grew in abundance.

Tugging his hood over his head, Richie jogged in the direction of number thirty-four. The bin bag stood outside on the pavement. Skirting it, he ran the length of the road to where it petered out into a track
, which wound through the woods and then retraced his steps whilst watching to see if anyone was up and about at number thirty-four. He was wet through, so shaking the worst of it from his hood, he jogged back along the pavement picking up the black bag with a fluidity of movement that surprised him. Increasing his pace, he reached his car, slid the plastic bag into the boot and drove back to Hastings Buildings. The office filing room was the place to search through rubbish, not in his flat; you just never knew what you’d find or in what condition, he thought dragging the bag up the stairs.

After making a cup of strong black coffee and taking a biscuit from Sandy’s secret store, he changed out of his wet clothes and hung them in the filing room. Then pulling on the dry tracksuit he’d brought with him, he sat on the floor to inspect the rubbish from the house in Bramble Lane. After lining the floor with plastic sheeting, he opened the small window. The room was not much larger than a store cupboard, with shelving units
, containing stationary and office equipment, on either side almost meeting in the centre. Richie pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, opened the neck of the bin bag then tipped its contents on to the floor. The first thing he noticed was the lack of smell and rotting food scraps. Gingerly, he lifted up plastic containers, cardboard packing, empty beer and coke cans but the story was the same. Either the Lawson family permanently ate out or had an efficient food recycling system. He supposed there was always the faint possibility that they used the house infrequently and ate in another property altogether. He didn’t consider the latter premise in depth as it could be easily verified upon further investigation.

Picking over the remnants scattered at his feet, he noticed a receipt from Marks and Spencer for food, an online delivery bill from Tesco and an empty champagne bottle. What had the Lawson’s been celebrating? He was beginning to think he was wasting his time when an envelope caught his eye. It was from Lloyds
Bank; he recognised the logo on the reverse of the envelope. His clients’ bank account was held by Lloyds and it did cross his mind to consider the possibility that, if what Rowena Shaw had told him was true, then the Lawsons could easily have intercepted letters from her bank along with other relevant correspondence.

Removing the champagne bottle with care, he placed it to one side then re-filled the bin bag and tied it securely. There was no reason why it shouldn’t go out with the office rubbish the following day. At his desk, he slid the bottle into the bottom drawer alongside the coffee cup bearing Rowena Shaw’s fingerprints then opened his laptop and updated his file.

When Sandy arrived, the office bore no signs of its earlier use. Richie was still updating his computer, the kettle had just boiled and apart from the faint smell of wet clothing and his casual attire, there was nothing unusual.

It was ten o’clock and Sandy was drinking her second cup of coffee when Richie rang through from the inner office. “Miss Smith
, would you be kind enough to ring DCI Norman Freeman at the Met? You’ll find the number on file.”

With her usual efficiency Sandy did as requested and Richie was soon talking to his old mate.

“Good Lord, Richie, what a surprise. How are things? Still taking the bread from out of our mouths?”

Richie smiled, Norm never changed. It felt good to hear his voice after so long. “Business isn’t exactly booming but I’m sticking with it. In fact that’s why I’m ringing. It’s about a case I’m working on.”

“I see.”

“I don’t like bothering you but I’ve no way of moving forward with this. It’s fingerprints; I’ve got two items requiring identification and elimination. I’m coming up to London in the morning and I wondered if you’d be able to meet me?”

Richie heard the rustle of paper and guessed that his friend was looking through his desk diary. “ Yes, drop into my office about ten, your old mates would be glad to see you.”

He hesitated,” I know this is a big ask, Norm, and I don’t want to make things difficult for you but could I meet you in the Bunch of Grapes at about twelve
instead?”

The thought of going to London made him break out in a cold sweat. He could feel it prickling his armpits and hastily wiped his damp forehead with his handkerchief. There were times when you just had to bite the bullet. If Andy Lawson and his wife were petty crims., their details would be held on the nationwide database, similarly if his client had a past, hers would resurface in the same manner

Back in the storeroom, Richie picked up his damp tracksuit and pushed it into a plastic carrier, which he removed from a shelf in the filing room then entered the outer office. Sandy had a single earpiece from an IPod lodged in her left ear.

“Who’s flavour of the month?” he asked.

“It’s a language lab transmission actually, I’m learning Russian.” Sandy looked up at him waiting for the smart reply but he just nodded.

“I’m off to London for a bit. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” he said, carrying two bags, one containing his wet tracksuit and the other containing the reason for his visit.
He’d isolate the fingerprints in his flat later. He stopped in the doorway. “Oh and don’t forget to put out the bins,” he said.

The man was a stranger. I’d smelled a faint aroma of cologne as he’d kissed my cheek and noticed that he kept looking at his watch as if in a hurry.

“Do I know you?” The question seemed to be permanently glued to my lips.

He frowned and I could see he was making up his mind whether I was serious. “Neil Stafford. We met at Andy’s fortieth. How are you by the way? Your brother told me about the accident.”

The world tilted once more as I wrapped my arms tightly around my body. Who was this man? How could we have met at Andy’s birthday party? In addition to which Andy Lawson was not, and had never been, my brother. Luckily an answer to his question was not required as he glanced again at his watch and said, “Goodbye, sorry to dash,” before leaving me standing in a daze on the pavement.

Behind me lay the offices of Richard Stevens; he was my only hope. Waiting at the bus stop I tried Owen’s number once more only to be met with the inevitable recorded voice asking me to leave a message. This time I declined the invitation.

It was two days later before I saw Neil Stafford again. I’d decided to search the local newspaper archives for any reports of the mysterious accident, the details of which I knew nothing. The offices of the Courier were situated in a side street off Manor Road. A young woman called Catherine led me into a room overlooking the street where back copies of the paper were kept on Microfiche. She spent a few moments showing me how the machine worked then left me alone.

It was a frustrating and monotonous task and I found my gaze returning to the street. Then I saw him. Neil Stafford was leaving a building opposite and was in deep conversation with the man who said he was my brother. They were sharing a joke. Both men were laughing uproariously until Andy slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a thick brown envelope, which he gave to Stafford.

There was an air of conspiracy between them. Neil Stafford tapped the side of his nose with his finger and my ‘brother’ laid a hand on his shoulder. I was certain that money had exchanged hands and even more certain that it had something to do with me.

I suddenly lost interest in my search. Realising that I was paying someone to do the donkeywork, I decided that for the present I’d assume the identity of Sarah Lawson and live her life to the full. But there was no way I was going to give up on Rowena; I would simply put her to rest for a while, until I could find out the truth.

Leaving the Courier, I walked down Manor Road and turned into Victoria Park where I lay down on the grass in the sunshine and soon fell fast asleep. When I awoke, the sun had moved so that I was lying in the shade. The sound of children’s voices drifted towards me from the direction of the play area as I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and focused on my surroundings.

I looked at my watch, a habit that was hard to break. What was there to rush home for now? Empty days stretched before me until I could start work again. I’d already more or less decided that I’d leave my identity crisis in the hands of Richard Stevens so what was the point of getting more stressed about the situation. I knew who I was and where I lived - I just had to prove it.

Standing up
, I stretched and walked past the duck pond to the artificial lake where rowing boats and pedalos
bobbed on its surface. Two optimists were rowing across the lake to a heavily wooded area with a picnic basket and some teenagers were pedalo racing amidst shouts and screams. I wondered how long it would take before I could be as carefree and knew that until I was back in Bramble Lane and using my own name that could never happen.

There was a large area of green-belt land encompassed within the park, which led to a high point overlooking the town. It was known as The Heath, although it was technically parkland. After I climbed the grassy knoll to the spot where the council had erected benches, I watched the shifting scene below me. The High Street was busy with traffic and shoppers, the side roads fanned out towards the suburbs and in the distance there was the motorway with its constant hum of traffic. Directly below me at the edge of the park was a primary school. It was almost half-past three and a line of cars
, containing mothers waiting to pick up their children, snaked around the perimeter of the park.

Deciding that it was time I went back to the flat, I retraced my steps to the entrance of the park and caught a bus
, which was conveniently waiting at the stop, the driver having left his cab to smoke a quick cigarette. As the bus skirted the primary school, I noticed Hannah Lawson’s car pulling out in front of us.

I watched as she negotiated the traffic on the High Street and waited anticipating the direction she would take in order to arrive at Bramble Lane. She would need to drive out of town on the Milton Road, follow the duel carriageway south until it joined Manor Way and then left into Bramble Lane.

The car was plain to see, its distinctive custard yellow colour making its journey easy to follow. At the end of the High Street she took a right turn on to Milton Road but contrary to my expectation she avoided the duel carriageway and sped northwards on to the Litton bypass. Due to the rush hour traffic the bus progressed slowly down the bypass before turning into the Crossfield estate and out into the maze of streets in a run-down area known as the Cuttings. As the bus stopped, I watched an elderly couple struggling to manage the stairs with their shopping before making their way down the road. Then I saw it - the custard yellow car. I watched mesmerised, as Hannah Lawson closed the car door before she and her children walked up a debris-strewn garden path and gradually disappeared from my view. I was intrigued; who she was visiting and why?

As evening shadows lengthened, I closed the cheap cotton curtains and switched on the television for the news broadcast. The picture flickered on the small screen and once more I felt anger bubbling up inside me. My forty-inch flat-screen TV in Bramble Lane was a far cry from the flickering image I was being forced to watch. I’d rung Richard
Stevens’s office as soon as I returned to the flat but his receptionist told me that he’d left early and that he’d be in London for a day or two. I left a message asking him to contact me on his return and tried ineffectually to put the sight of the yellow car out of my mind.

I was in the middle of making an omelette, whilst listening to the news filtering in from the living room, when I heard a familiar voice. I’d missed the initial report but entered the room as a reporter from BBC Wales Television was standing outside a shop in the centre of Cardiff describing a burglary that had taken place on the premises in the early hours. I recognised Glyn Morgan immediately; he’d been a newspaper journalist, when I’d known him, a lifetime ago.

Glyn and I had formed a friendship at university which, after we’d graduated, developed into something more. But as fate would have it the relationship was destined to become a brief fling, as I met Owen and from then on there
was
no one else.

Turning away from the screen, I began to wonder how to contact Glyn. The BBC would have his number I was sure. Deciding to sleep on it and ring first thing in the morning, I ate my meal, searched for something to watch on TV and dozed in the middle of a film I’d seen before.

Dreams punctuated my sleep - disturbing, complicated dreams that drifted away like morning mist once I opened my bedroom curtains. A street cleaner, sitting on what looked like a converted golf buggy, chugged his way down the pavement on the opposite side of the road to the flats which showed the same dreary lack of imagination in their construction as the block that housed mine. However, one dwelling stood out amongst the rest. The door was painted a glossy black with a brass number plate situated to the left of the front door. At the windows, silver grey metal strip blinds twinkled in the morning sunshine. If it were possible to call such a place stylish then it would have fallen into that category.

As I cradled my first cup of tea of the day, I wondered who lived in the flat opposite but before I could give full reign to my imagination the black door opened and a woman, in her late twenties with blonde hair swept up into a French pleat, emerged. She was wearing a charcoal-grey dress and jacket and carried a laptop case. My curiosity was heightened when I saw her slide into a sleek black convertible parked in front of the building. It seemed odd to me that she was living in such a dreary location. As if to endorse my theory the old man, who’d been feeding the birds in the rain, appeared from a doorway, spat into the gutter and then shuffled off in the direction of the river.

He was another mystery I planned to solve. Why did he think I was Sarah? Who had told him my name? I knew it hadn’t been me. What I found unable to fathom was the reason behind it all. Fraud, once more leapt back at me like a slap. There were ninety thousand pounds and a house in an up-market location to consider, no mystery there. But you’d have to be pretty desperate to concoct such a scenario, as there was always the possibility of discovery. How could Andy Lawson and his wife be sure that there wasn’t someone out there ready to back up my story? The odd thing was that for the life of me I couldn’t be sure who that person could be. Owen hadn’t picked up my messages or if he had he was ignoring them.

The morning news programme on the television
had reminded me I needed to contact Glyn. Picking up the phone I rang directory enquiries and asked for the telephone number of the BBC Studios in Cardiff. When I’d eventually been given a number, which I rang with shaking hands, I waited an age until a disembodied voice answered my query saying, “I’m afraid Glyn Morgan isn’t available.”

“It
is
rather urgent that I contact him. I wonder if you’d have his mobile number.” I tried to sound less needy than I felt.

“I’m sorry. Mr Morgan is flying to Tokyo today but if you’d like to leave your name and number perhaps he could ring you when he returns.”

“Is he likely to be away for a while?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”

With a sinking heart I left my name and number as suggested.  Putting down the phone I felt like Alice in Wonderland, trapped and falling deeper into the centre of the earth but I had no white rabbit to help me find a way out of my predicament and could only hope that my faith in Richard Stevens was not misplaced.