Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (6 page)

Nikki’s Italian Pizzeria was obviously popular with the market traders. Most of them knew Angie Peters. Richie guessed it was why she’d chosen it – it was safe, if he turned out to be a pervert after all.

He ordered spaghetti bolognaise for them both and they shared a plate of garlic bread. He remembered his student days and for a brief moment the years slid backwards as if he hadn’t a care in the world and was sharing his lunch with an old friend.

“So what’s this all about?” Angie asked, through a mouthful of garlic bread.

“There’s no ulterior motive. I didn’t fancy eating on my own and you looked as if you could do with a good square meal, simple as that.”

He liked her directness. But he wondered if she would ever realise that the main reason he liked her was that his daughter would have been about her age had she lived and it was she whom he missed like losing a vital part of himself.

As if reading his thoughts Angie said, “You got a family then?”

He thought about lying, about making up the wife and kids he’d lost but just replied, “No.”

She didn’t question him further and before he knew what he was doing he was explaining why. It was as if the floodgates had opened. He was telling a stranger things he hadn’t told a soul, how he’d felt when he’d identified the bodies, what it was like returning to an empty house, getting rid of their clothes, the childhood toys. She waited until he’d finished, looked at him through a fringe of dark brown curls then patted his hand.

“Tough shit,” she said as the spaghetti arrived.

She told him that she’d come to London from Melbourne two years previously. She’d studied art in Australia but after she’d qualified she wanted to spread her wings. Her flight had led her to a market stall in Covent Garden. She was keen to set up her own business and had to start somewhere.

“Where d’you live?” he asked.

She hesitated, but only for a second. “I share a bed sit with two girls just around the corner. They’re studying music at the Guildhall. They play here sometimes, usually on a Sunday morning.”

They talked about her life and aspirations until looking at her watch she said, “Got to get back, earn my living and all that. Ta for the meal, Richie.”

“No problem, thanks for the company. G’day, Sport.”

She laughed; a loud unselfconscious belly laugh that made him smile. He watched her walk away, the breeze blowing her hair around her like a curly cloud.

Afterwards, he felt as though a weight had been lifted from him. The burden he’d been carrying was lighter
.
As he walked in the direction of the Underground station his mobile rang. It was Norm.

“I’ve got some answers for you. Can you come into my office do you think?”

This time he knew he could. He’d left behind the fear of sympathetic glances from his erstwhile colleagues; it was another step along a road that was the hardest to travel. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he replied.

Most of the office staff had changed since his days at the Met but he recognised a few of his former colleagues who, apart from raising a hand or nodding in his direction, seemed to be busy all of a sudden. Richie understood their embarrassment but at last felt he could cope with it.

Norm sat behind a desk piled high with files and correspondence. “Sit down, my friend. Sorry I couldn’t leave the office. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No problem. Thanks for sparing the time. I can see you’ve enough to do.”

“Yeah, no peace for the wicked, eh? Of course you realise that what I have to tell you is confidential.

“Go on.”

“First, your client’s prints didn’t produce a match. But the prints you took from the champagne bottle told a different story. Amongst the ones you provided was a set belonging to Andrew Lawson, which threw out a match on our system.”

Richie sat forward in his seat.

“It appears that Lawson was arrested after a disturbance in a bar in the city, a while back. A Mr Owen Madoc was stabbed with a broken bottle and taken to hospital after a fight. Lawson was arrested but the case was later dropped, as Mr Madoc didn’t wish to proceed. But not before Lawson had cooled his heels in a police cell overnight.”

“I see. At least that gives me a starting point. I owe you one.”

“Who knows, I might take you up on that one day. Stay in touch, remember a good cop is hard to find.”

“I will. Let me know if you and Cheryl decide to come my way and I’ll show you around.”

Driving back to Lockford, he began to plan his next move. He needed to talk to Lawson first. Then a phone call to Owen Madoc might be in order. He was whistling to himself as he drove into the basement car park of Hastings Buildings.

  Sandy was taking a phone call as he opened the door. “Oh, hang on a minute; he’s just come in.”  She mouthed, “It’s Rowena.”

“Hello, Miss Shaw. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need to see you urgently. There have been some developments.”

He arranged that she should call at the office in an hour. But in actual fact he’d only had time for a quick cup of coffee before she arrived. She told him about the phone call and about the Pizza delivery boy. He decided not to tell her about his conversation with DCI Freeman, there was plenty of time for that later, after he’d talked to Lawson. He appeared to be listening intently but her words floated over his head. He was concentrating on the necklace she was wearing. It was distinctively fashioned from wire and coloured stones. Angie Peters’s face swam before him, a reminder that he hadn’t given Sandy the gift he’d bought for her.

I was beginning to wonder if it had been a mistake employing a private detective. There was no movement in my case, no sudden breakthrough. His receptionist had told me he’d been working in London for the past couple of days - following up a lead she’d said, but there’d been no evidence of it in our conversation the previous day.

I rang Owen’s number again but this time there was no message just a low-pitched signal. So that was the way he wanted it? He’d obviously decided not to return my calls and had even gone to the extreme measure of changing his phone number. At first I was mad; what did he think I wanted? We’d been together too long for me to be treated like some kind of stalker. My anger cooled and I was left with a feeling of overwhelming sadness
at the death of a relationship, which had once shown such promise. I’d remembered that we’d loved each other and were planning to marry, if only I could remember the rest of it.

The sound of children’s voices floated in through the open window and I looked out; they were playing football on the grass and seemed as if they didn’t have a care in the world. I shuddered, as if a ghost had walked over my grave. I didn’t hold any animosity towards Owen - relationships ended. But why was he refusing to take my calls?

Every door slammed shut in my face. There was nothing left for me but to rely on Richard Stevens’s ingenuity to give me my life back. I wasn’t expected at Aston and Cooper but people were waiting for me to turn up for work somewhere. What was I waiting for? Why didn’t I do just that? Whatever Andy Lawson had told them, it
was
supposed to be her job and after all people did get better – even if their name was Sarah Lawson. Later, as I slid into bed, I started to feel more positive about the future.

It felt good to be on the crowded bus going into town. I glanced at my fellow passengers. One young woman was trying to read her book squashed up against an overweight man. Two girls in school uniform were comparing homework. A workman in overalls was complaining to a man in a business suit about the failure of his car to start and a few early morning shoppers jostled along with the rest of us.

Classifying myself as part of the human race once more, I left the bus at the main road and walked up the hill towards the office block where Sarah Lawson worked. I’d found the address in her flat, it was on a letter from her latest employer sympathising with her illness, which had been forwarded by a secretarial agency. The main car park was beginning to fill up. I followed a group of women into the foyer.

Two women, one cradling a mug of coffee, were chatting outside an open door through which I could see a man gazing at a computer screen.

“Hi, Sarah,” the woman holding the mug said. “How are you? Just popping in for a visit?”

“Not really; I’m ready to start work. I don’t need to stay off any longer.”

She looked confused and turned to her older companion. “I thought you said…” she began but was interrupted by the older woman taking my arm and leading me away from the doorway.

“There’s been a misunderstanding here, I’m afraid.” She looked over the top of her glasses at me. “Your agency should have kept you informed. The post has been filled; we no longer require your services. You will of course be paid at the end of the month.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We explained to your brother that we couldn’t keep the post open for ever. I do sympathise, Sarah, but things change, you know how it is.”

“I think I’m beginning to,” I
replied, turning around and walking back to the exit.

So now the net was closing in. I had no job and very little funds in my bank account; the situation was desperate. On the bus back to the flat I began to wonder how much longer I could afford to pay the rent and utilities before I realised that I was being ridic
ulous. This charade had to stop. I had to confront the man who was posing as my brother and the sooner the better.

Once more the phone was ringing as I opened the front door.

“Sarah?” It was a woman’s voice and one, which I recognised. “I know you and Andy are at loggerheads but we
are
family and I’m not willing for this to go on a moment longer. Come over for dinner tonight. What do you say?”

So the mountain had come to Mohammed, I thought
, as I replied. “OK. What time?”

“The kids are having a sleep-over at a friend’s house. It’s not far from you. I could pick you up on the way back. Let’s say seven?”

“Fine,” I said.

The rest of the day passed in a flash. I was anxious. It didn’t escape my notice that the children would be absent. Maybe they couldn’t be relied upon not to say something they shouldn’t. Children could not be programmed like robots.  The memory of the custard yellow car stopping outside a house, not a million miles away from my flat made my head swim. I had to get to the bottom of it all before I was sucked deeper into this web of intrigue. It was no good simply relying on Richard Stevens; I had to take the initiative. With some careful subterfuge I should be able to beat them at their own game. There was no reason why I shouldn’t become the sister they wanted – at least for the present.

Waiting on the covered walkway outside my flat I saw her car pulling into the forecourt. Hannah Lawson wound down the driver side window and waved to me. I smiled, waved back and went down to meet her. To a casual observer it would have appeared that we were at least friends.

She seemed flustered as she backed out of the parking area and into the evening traffic. I heard her mutter a curse as she knocked the offside wheel against the kerb. The inside of the car was less bilious than its outer shell; brown fabric seat covers were littered with the detritus of family life, crisp packets, an empty plastic bottle that had once contained juice, a beheaded power ranger and a pink notebook with a Hannah Montana bookmark spilling out from its pages. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and waited for this stranger to begin talking.

“There, that’s better. I always hate that roundabout, won’t be long now, Andy’s keeping an eye on the curry. It’s your favourite. I thought we might eat in the summerhouse. It’s a nice evening, if not quite as hot as it’s been.”

A shaft of loss hit me like a needle piercing skin – the summerhouse; I’d loved it at first sight. It stood at the end of a well-manicured lawn edged by mature trees. There were shrubs with terracotta pots spilling colourful Busy Lizzies arranged around its perimeter. If I’d any doubts about the house being too big for me the summerhouse had dispelled them, besides I’d already decided to raise our kids in that house. But now there were no kids and no Owen.

The Lawson woman prattled on, how glad she was that I was joining them; she hoped that this latest bit of nonsense was over - perhaps we could all get back to normal - if I felt lonely at all, having finished work - well she could do with a hand - the house was always in a mess with the kids.

I clenched my fists and ground them into the seat cover but smiled as if her request had been a perfectly reasonable one.

Lawson’s car stood in the garage. Once again I clenched my fists – where was
my
car and what did they intend to do with my ninety thousand pounds?

“You OK?” She was looking at me intently as she drew to a halt outside the front door
.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Right then, why don’t we take the side door into the garden and surprise Andy?”

Oh what
good fun, I thought following her. He was carrying a tray into the summerhouse as we arrived.

“Just in tim.
Glad you decided to see sense, Sarah.”

Ignoring his comment I said, “Something smells nice.” It was the sort of remark that sounded reasonable I
decided. I was beginning to get used to censoring my words. There was no point ranting and raving, that hadn’t worked.

The sun was sinking in the sky casting elongated shadows over the lawn when Andy, leaving the kitchen carrying another bottle of wine, approached me, but I found it easier to concentrate on the shadow rather than its initiator.

“How are the children?” I tried desperately to remember their names. “Jack and Sally.”

Andy shot a quick glan
ce at his wife. “Jake,” he said. “His name is Jake.”

“I know that, it was just a slip of the tongue.”

Lies piled up like litter. For a moment I was aware of an uncomfortable silence until Hannah picked up her empty dish. “They’re fine.”

“How long did you say they’d be away?”

“Just for tonight. They might be spending some time with relatives soon though, especially during the school holidays.” I didn’t miss the look Andy gave his wife. This time it spoke volumes.

I nodded, which seemed to satisfy them.

Later, as night fell, they suggested we move back into the house.

“Why don’t you stay over? Your bed is still made up in the spare room. I’ve drunk too much and Andy is way over the limit. It makes sense; you don’t want to have to pay for a taxi. I’ll drive you back home tomorrow morning,” Hannah said, running the sentences into one as if in a hurry to finish them.

“Right, thanks.” I registered the look of surprise on Andy’s face. He’d obviously expected an argument.

I sat with them whilst we watched television. At least, they watched my plasma screen - I watched them. At half-past ten, Hannah offered to make some hot chocolate.

“I’ll make it, after all I know where everything is don’t I?” I said.

I noticed the hesitation; they missed a beat in unison. Then as if awakened from the same dream, they responded, “Yes, thanks.”

In the kitchen I switched on the kettle - my kettle - found the large jar of drinking chocolate that I’d bought in Sainsbury’s before this nightmare began - poured milk into a saucepan and waited for it to rise in the pan. Then I tipped an equal measure of water and milk over the powdered chocolate - exactly as they liked it.