Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (5 page)

The rain was a surprise. It fell like arrows out of a seemingly blue sky. I sheltered in the bus stop as dark clouds gathered and a cool wind blew my skirt against my legs. By the time I arrived at my flat, the force of the rain had soaked through my clothes. I heard the telephone ringing as I turned the key in the lock.  Sliding my arms out of my wet jacket, I picked up the phone.

“Is that Sarah Lawson?

My heart began to beat faster. The voice belonged to a woman with a strong Welsh accent.

“Who wants to know?” I answered carefully.

“I won’t forget what you did.
”

I was speechless for a moment then stammered, “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t.”

The woman laughed; a dry humourless sound that made me shiver. “Well now, let me jog your memory shall I? Friday 27
th
May, ring any bells?”

I was starting to get angry. “Look, I don’t know who you are but I don’t propose to enter into your little game, whatever it is.”

“Still pretending it didn’t happen then? I thought as much. You can’t fool me though and I intend to make you pay for what you’ve done to my son.”

I slammed down the phone in disgust. This was the last straw. I should ring the police immediately. Intimidating phone calls, loss of identity, what next, I wondered. I looked at the telephone, even picked up the handset, but my courage failed me. If the situation sounded crazy to my ears what was it going to sound like to the police? They’d already decided I was deranged after my insistence that I lived in Bramble Lane and that the Lawsons were strangers. Replacing the phone I sank to my knees on the rough carpet. When it rang again, I ignored it. Then I stripped off my clothes, stood in the shower and attempted to wash away the horrors of the last few days. Andy Lawson and his family slid, with the soap, down the drain and with the unknown caller filtered through the pipes into the sewerage system.

Later, wrapping a towel around me, I picked up the yellow pages, ordered a Pizza then dressed in a pair of cotton pyjamas. Refusing to think about any of it I opened a bottle of chardonnay that I’d bought in the supermarket earlier and poured a large measure of the chilled wine into a glass.

It’s impossible to instruct one’s brain not to think; it does so like a disobedient child regardless of instruction. I kept searching my confused memory banks for the owner of the voice on the telephone but it was a waste of time, I just couldn’t remember. However, I was certain that
it didn’t belong to any of my friends but couldn’t swear that I definitely hadn’t heard it before. There was something familiar about it but try as I might it wouldn’t come instead it kept circling in the background begging to be pulled into the light. However, no illuminating beams were forthcoming.

There was always
a possibility that she’d ring again and this time I’d be ready. I had dialled last number recall but the number was withheld. Filling my glass once more I began to relax and, finding a station playing classical music on the radio, picked up my book and waited for the Pizza delivery. Whether it was relaxing effect of the wine or not, I sat up with a jolt suddenly remembering the significance of the date – how could I ever have forgotten – it was meant to be my wedding day.

The sound of a van pulling up in the parking area was followed by the slam of a door and footsteps hurrying across the walkway. I was standing near the door when the bell rang.

The young Pizza delivery boy grinned. “Hello again, having an early night?” He eyed my pyjamas and smiled. “House too big for you was it?”

I’d taken the Pizza from him and was searching in my purse for payment when I realised what he’d said.

“Excuse me. What did you just say?”

“Sorry. None of my business I know. Just that the last time I delivered Pizza to you it was in the house on Bramble Lane – great big place – number thirty-four if I remember rightly.”

It was a shock. I gulped, stared, and then stammered a reply, “You remember me?”

“Yeah, course, I never forget a face, it’s a habit of mine to remember all my customers – never fails – I’ve got a knack my boss says.”

The veil of confusion began to lift as I remembered ordering a Pizza delivery from the same firm soon after I’d moved in.

“I know this is going to sound odd but you don’t remember the name I gave, when I made the order from Bramble Lane, by any chance?” My heart was beating faster, at last someone knew me.

He grinned and said, “No prizes for guessing eh; let me see now.” He stroked his chin and flipped open an order pad. “Mm not so good with names but orders for 34, Bramble Lane have been booked under the name Lawson. Says so here in black and white. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your own name?”

I stared at him, hope dissolving and floating away on the breeze. “No, it’s just some friends were staying with me at the time. I think I owe them some money for the delivery.” The explanation sounded ridiculous, even to me
, but I could feel tears pricking my eyelids and my voice verging on hysteria.

Pizza lad backed away and I realised I must look quite mad, standing there in my pyjamas grinning in an attempt to hold back the tears. I asked his name.

“Tom. Tom Devlin.”

I searched in my purse, took out a fiver and handed it to him as a tip. “Thank you, Tom Devlin. Thank you for remembering my face.”

He left and I heard him whistling as he pocketed the money and made his way back to the van.

The Bunch of Grapes was like most wine bars in the city, beech laminated floor, metal tables, black leather armchairs and potted plants that looked so healthy they had to be plastic. Richie sank into the soft leather armchair near the window, put two glasses and the bottle of Merlot
on the table in front of him and, with one eye on the street, waited for DCI Freeman to join him.

Norman Freeman was an exemplary cop but one with a human face. Rules were there to be bent as long as the bending fell within the loose letter of the law. He never crossed the line but could be relied upon in an emergency. Richie had found him a good friend when he’d been in the firing line after beating Phillip Heaton to pulp. Some of his so called mates had shrunk into the background, unwilling to stand up and be counted where he was concerned but not Norm, he’d stood his ground at the disciplinary hearing
by insisting there were extenuating circumstances responsible for the attack and refusing to be swayed into taking the easy route out of the situation by having him expelled from the force. Nevertheless, it must have been with a sigh of relief that he’d seen Richie take the initiative and hand in his notice.

Six foot four, muscular framed and with eyes that missed nothing, Norm opened the door of the wine bar and greeted Richie with a wave. “Sorry, have you been waiting long? I got caught up in something – you know what it’s like.”

“Not anymore.”

“No regrets?” Norm filled the chair opposite him.

“Not one, thank the Lord; my own boss now.”

“Yeah; business good is it?”

Richie poured the wine and handed a glass to his friend. “Not bad. I make a living, which is all I ask.”

After catching up on news of colleagues and changes at the Met since Richie’s days, Norm said, “What’s this all about then?”

“It’s this case I’m working on.  A woman called Rowena Shaw contacted me insisting that strangers have moved into her house, placed her in a flat she has no memory of ever having lived in, and are trying to make out that she’s someone called Sarah Lawson. These strangers are claiming to be her brother Andy and his wife and kids. She wants me to find out what’s going on and to re-establish her identity,” Richie explained. “There’s also a question of the theft of ninety thousand pounds to consider.”

“Mm,” Norm stroked his chin. “Not your usual divorce case then?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Does she seem like a nut case?”

“No. That’s the thing. She seems completely normal; so much so that my immediate impression was that she was telling the truth.”

“Aren’t there any neighbours or friends who can corroborate her story?”

“That’s the problem.” Richie put down his empty glass. “She doesn’t know any of the neighbours as she’s only recently moved down from London. She says she works for a consultancy firm, Aston and Cooper but when she contacted them, the information they gave her was that Miss Shaw had decided not to transfer to Lockford and they believed she was working for a firm in the States but could give her no forwarding address.”

“And where do I come in?” Norm raised his glass and looked at Richie over the rim.

“Well, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve removed some fingerprints from a couple of items and need to know if their owners have a record.”

“If it gets out that I’ve helped you, that’s my job
up the Swanee.” Norm frowned. “But as I said on the phone, I haven’t forgotten old times. Hand them over. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

Richie slid an envelope across the table which Norm placed in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I really appreciate this.”

“We miss you on the force you know.”

Richie smiled ruefully. “Glad to know someone does.”

Freeman stood up. “Now then, business over, I’ll fetch
you another drink, I’m taking a long lunch hour and Cheryl is picking me up after work, so no driving but even so, I’ll be dropping off over my desk if I join you. So it’s black coffee for me.”

When he returned from the bar, he said, “Tell me, what
life is like down south, my friend? I’ll be retiring in a year or two and it would be good to move out of the city.”

At five past three Richie stood on the pavement outside the wine bar and hailed a taxi to take him back to his B&B in Earl’s Court. He could have taken the tube but thought ‘sod it’ and called a cab instead. He didn’t admit to himself that he’d chosen to ride in the taxi so that he could watch the changing face of the city that had been his home for most of his married life. He missed London but knew that he’d never return; too many memories
, lingering within its doorways, threatening to jump out at him at the least provocation.

The hustle and bustle of the main streets mesmerised him as he watched shoppers, workers and the homeless jostling down the busy
walkways, independently existing within the framework of commerce. He could smell the river and longed to stroll from Chelsea embankment to the Tower without remembering that on hot summer days it was a favourite jaunt of the family - his family, the one that had ceased to exist.

“This OK for you, Guv? The road’s blocked, accident, I think. I can see a blue light up ahead.” The taxi driver half turned towards him.

“Fine, how much do I owe you?”

Leaving the taxi and walking the rest of way he decided to make the most of his last night in the city. He’d promised himself two nights away and couldn’t believe he’d stuck to his resolve. He had his client to thank for that.

The taxi driver had been right. It
was
an accident. An old man lay at the side of road. It was obvious he was one of the city’s underclass, a homeless vagrant. Knowing from experience that his face would be mottled, his nose red and bulbous and he’d be wearing cast off clothes that were far from clean, he had watched the usual ghouls edging forward, desperate for a peep at someone else’s misfortune. The screech of an ambulance siren rent the air, followed by the parting of the waves of traffic, as a vehicle appeared with blue lights flashing like beacons. The sky had darkened heralding rain. Richie, acknowledging the fact that the paramedics were no longer needed, made for the relative anonymity of his bed-sit.

He awoke to the forgotten sounds of the city waking from slumber. The pit-pat of heels on the pavement followed by heavier footsteps, insistent, angry, car horns, the distant hum of traffic; it was a world that had once been as familiar to him as the nose on his face; it was the early morning rush hour.

Norm had said he’d ring him on his mobile number as soon as the search was completed and Richie anticipated it would take a while. He could have spent the night at home and returned the next day but having made the effort to conquer his fear of returning to London, he decided to take the next step and spend the following day visiting a few old haunts. He’d stay clear of the river; he wasn’t ready for that yet.

After a hearty breakfast, cooked by a landlady who had three strapping sons and knew from experience how to fill a man’s stomach, he threw his overnight bag into the boot of his car, locked it and walked to the nearest tube station.

Rush hour was over. The escalators were easy to negotiate, shoppers, teenagers with nothing to do, and members of the grey brigade, his son’s description of anyone over forty, made their way down into the bowels of the earth. He followed the direction of the Victoria Line down a white-tiled tunnel from which the faint strains of a violin drifted eerily towards him. Turning a corner he saw the musician, a young man in his early twenties, tall and thin with a faint outline of stubble on his chin. He was talented, one of the many whose talent was not necessarily the vehicle to instant success. Richie threw a pound coin into the rapidly growing collection in the violin case.

As he walked away he thought about the young man. A student
, he decided, trying to eek out the expenses of living in the city by doing what he did best. There was always the possibility that a few years down the line he’d be dressed in a black tailcoat and bow tie whilst leading an orchestra in the Albert Hall. Then he felt the dreaded black cloud descending. The young man had a future; it hadn’t been smashed away by drunken driver.

Focusing hard on the tunnel in front of him, he concentrated on the minutiae of the day until the cloud dispersed and he heard the rumble of the trains. As he waited on the platform he felt a sudden warm gush of air being pushed out of the tunnels and blowing towards the waiting passengers. There were changes, as in any city, since Richie had lived and worked there but they were superficial, tube stations given an updated look, new department stores, boutiques and wine bars where once had stood grey uncompromising office blocks and shabby apartments decaying under a weight of pigeons’ excreta.

Leaving the Victoria Line at the next stop, which was Green Park, he followed the directions for the Piccadilly Line. He could have walked the short distance but relished the chance to use the underground trains, sucking up the atmosphere like a vacuum cleaner, enjoying every last dusty footstep he took towards the hive of activity surrounding Piccadilly Circus. The air was warm as he walked down the Haymarket inhaling the scents and sounds of the city. Taking a shortcut in the direction of Covent Garden he found a small café with tables and chairs arranged outside in the sunshine. He sat down, ordered a cup of strong black coffee and watched the world go by.

Sitting at a nearby table was a beautiful woman. Describing her as anything else would be doing her an injustice. She was groomed to perfection; blonde hair pulled back off her face and twisted into a gleaming knot, understated ma
ke-up and her clothes the epitome of city chic. Once upon a time such a woman would have sent his blood pumping but now he cast an appreciative glance in her direction then carried on drinking his coffee and continued to watch the passers by.

However, the sight of the woman had started a chain of thought that culminated in Bramble Lane. It hadn’t been too difficult for him to assume the identity of a member of the council enquiring about refuse collections in the area. Similarly his client’s f
ace was regular and well formed, there was not a single feature that was out of proportion, her nose was straight and neither too long nor too short, her lips were plump and her blue eyes were well spaced. It would be perfectly possible to alter her hair and make up in such a manner as to resemble the woman at the nearby table for example.

With this thought uppermost in his mind he walked towards the market, which as usual was busy with shoppers. Strolling along the aisles between the stalls with the sun shining through the glass roof of the covered market, Richie decided to look for a gift for Sandy.

He discounted the customary badly made trinkets in favour of a stall that sold hand made jewellery. Its creator, a hippy-girl-woman, sat on a stool with a pair of pliers in her hand as she fashioned what looked like a reel of wire and some brightly coloured stones into a delicate necklace. He watched mesmerised at the transformation.

“That’s really lovely,” he knew he sounded surprised.

The girl noticed. “You didn’t think it would be?”

He smiled. “Fair enough. How much?”

“Well to such an appreciative audience, a tenner.”

“You are joking?”

“Can’t do it for less, sorry.” She started to turn away.

“No, no, what I mean is, yes, I’ll have it.”

“Make up your mind, Sport,” she said pulling out a cardboard box from a drawer at her side.

Watching her slipping the necklace inside then placing it in a paper bag with psychedelic swirls looping around her name he asked, “Aussie?”

“Pommy?”

He liked the girl. He’d been used to having to rely heavily on his intuition and it hadn’t let him down in the past. Handing her a twenty-pound note he said, “Keep the change. You’re underselling yourself you know.”

“Ta very much and yeah I do know but what can you do? They won’t pay, not now anyway. Maybe when things pick up and the telly stops going on about the recession, who knows?”

He chatted to her for a while, as there were no customers waiting to be served.
He found her to be young, talented and street wise – before he could stop himself he said, “Look it’s lunchtime, how about you joining me for a meal?”

She looked at him as though he were the village pervert.

“Nah,,,”she started.

“Don’t get the wrong end of the stick. It’s only lunch on offer. You’re young enough to be my daughter.”

She screwed up her eyes and looked at him again, made up her mind, closed the stall and said, “Why not? There’s an Italian just around the corner – that do?”

“Sure.” He followed her flowing skirts, with a spring in his step. It was the first time he’d shared lunch with a stranger of the opposite sex since before his marriage and in spite of himself - it felt good. The part that said, it was because she reminded him of Tess he pushed to the back of his mind.