Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (7 page)

There was no possibility of him posing as another official. It was too risky. He had to find another way of engaging Andy Lawson in conversation without arousing suspicion. Richie, assessing the situation, found that he kept returning to the children. Busy fathers usually spent time with their children at weekends, took them to the park, whilst mothers had a break. Surveillance of the property was required and he knew exactly how to achieve it.

Opening up the Internet application Google Earth, he homed in on Bramble Lane then eased the cursor back until each side road and geographical feature lay before him. He saw a heavily wooded area at the rear of the property beyond which lay fields that appeared to stretch in the direction of the house where Sandy’s father lived.

He stood up and walked into the outer office where his receptionist was busy filing her nails and applying a coat of peach coloured varnish. “I need Bruce.”

She didn’t look up. “Surveillance?”

“Got it in one.”

“Give me a moment for my nails to dry and I’ll ring Dad.”

Bernard Smith was in his early seventies and suffering with osteoarthritis, which made walking Bruce, a golden Labrador, difficult. Sandy helped at the weekends and with her brother Dan made sure that Bruce had plenty of exercise.

Bernard was waiting on the doorstep as he drew up.

“Good to see you again, lad. Still keeping that girl of mine in order?”

“Other way around.”

The older man chuckled. “Just as I thought. Come in, there’s a cup of tea in the pot.”

Later, with Bruce at his heels, he left his car in Bernard’s drive and headed for the lane leading into the field. It was dry underfoot and Bruce lost no time chasing rabbits back to their burrows, making the occasional sortie into the undergrowth and returning like a homing pigeon whenever Richie whistled.

The dog was a perfect cover. No one questioned a man’s right to roam, if he had a dog in tow. He became invisible, no longer a private investigator, but simply a dog walker exercising his pet Labrador. He knew that even if Hannah Lawson saw him from her bedroom window she would never link the man walking his dog, wearing an anorak and a baseball cap, with the dark-suited researcher from the council carrying a clipboard.

As they neared the woods, he called Bruce to heel and attached his lead. A trodden down pathway through the wood led to the houses on Bramble Lane so he followed it until the trees began to thin. Sunlight penetrated the foliage and dappled his shoulders as he walked towards the boundary of number thirty-four. Careful inspection of the property earlier
, via his computer, had given him all the information he required.

Bruce raised his head as Richie removed a small rubber ball from his pocket. The dog barked.

“Ssh, not now; we’ll play later, I promise,” he whispered, throwing the ball high into the air. It sailed over the fence bordering number thirty-four as the dog strained at the lead.

Skirting the rest of the houses until they reached the main road, he pulled the peak of his baseball cap lower and walked back towards number thirty-four. The yellow car was just
reversing out of the drive so he walked past the gate until the car disappeared down the lane in the direction of town.

It was Saturday morning. Sandy would be locking up the office about now he thought glancing at his watch. Hannah Lawson had been alone in the car. A black BMW stood in the drive. As he approached the house he noticed the absence of children’s vo
ices. It was a pleasant morning, why weren’t they out playing?

Ringing the bell, he waited, Bruce sitting obediently at his heels. After a while the door
was opened and a tall thin man with thick dark hair stood back in the shadows. “I’m sorry to bother you. We were walking through the woods and I’m afraid my dog’s ball landed in your back garden.”

It looked as if the man was going to shut the door wi
thout comment but then he said, “And you want me to search for it, I suppose?”

Assuming a sympathetic expression Richie said, “I know I’m a terrible nuisance bothering you like this but it’s his favourite.” It sounded lame even to him. “My kids would go mad if they thought I’d lost it. They love the dog to bits but as usual I’m the one left to exerci
se him.” He took a step back. “I could go around the side - search for it myself - I really don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

The man sighed. “If you take the side door, I’ll join you in the back garden.”

“Very kind, I appreciate it,” Richie said, urging Bruce forward.

The garden was larger than it had looked on his laptop. When his client had described the property she’d told him a gardener still called to keep it in order, as it was too large for her to manage. The lawn was unkempt and in need of a good trim. The border plants also showed some evidence of neglect, although it looked recent.

“Do your children have any pets?” Richie asked as he searched the undergrowth.

“Nah, kids are enough trouble without having animals as well,” Andy Lawson replied kicking at a shrub with the toe of his trainer.

“My sentiments exactly. I was duped into caring for Bruce. They conned me.”

“
It’s what kids do.”

The conversation about children flowed as they searched.

“Lovely houses these, spacious, my place is bursting at the seams. Been here long?” The question sounded innocent enough

“Here it is.” Lawson held up the ball. “It’s not one of ours, so must be yours.” Handing it to Richie, he replied, “We moved down from Birmingham, a few months ago, to be nearer my sister.”

They had reached the back gate.

“Lucky man. Thanks again for letting me disturb your Saturday morning. I expect your kids keep you busy at the weekends?”

The question remained unanswered as the man closed and bolted the gate leaving Richie and Bruce standing on the path. Walking towards the road, he looked back at the house and saw Lawson standing at the window watching him.

On Monday morning having had the rest of the weekend to think over the case, Richie took the stairs to his office two at a time.

‘Kak dela’

Sandy was obviously progressing.

“Spasiba, horošo. A u vas?” he replied.

She removed the IPod’s earpiece, and gasped, “You speak Russian?”

He could see her initial hope fading, as he walked to the water dispenser and commented, “That’s the lot I’m afraid.”

Watching the air bubbles in the bottle glugging into a polystyrene cup he held an empty one up to Sandy.

“No thanks. Was Bruce a good surveillance dog?”

“Excellent. But I think the time has come for you to do some field work of your own, Miss Smith.”

Sandy leaned forward. “About time, I thought you’d never ask.”

“First, tell me, do any of your brother’s children go to the school on Milton Road?”

“Yes, Chloe. She’s in the second year reception class and longing for the summer holidays to start.”

“And when will that be.”

“Next month around the 24
th
, I think. Dan’s taking the family to Crete.”

“Very nice.”

“What do I have to do?” Her eagerness made him smile.

“Nothing too strenuous I assure you. Just arrange with Dan that you’ll take and pick up Chloe from school, until further notice.”

“You’re serious?”

He nodded.

“Jane will be pleased; she’s got enough to do breast feeding baby Adam morning, noon and night. He’s going to be a whopper.”

“Your job will be to get to know Hannah Lawson. Her photo should be on file. She has two children, a boy Chloe’s age and his older sister; she drives a yellow car, you can’t miss it. Put your best socialising skills into operation - get her to invite you back for coffee - you know the kind of thing.”

“I’ll certainly do my best.”

“I’ve no doubt you will, Miss Smith.”

“When do I start?”

Richie handed her the phone. “No time like the present. Give your sister-in-law the good news.”

The photo of Hannah Lawson was not a good one. He’d taken it from a distance but he believed that it was clear enough for Sandy’s purposes. He wondered idly if there were any photos at number
thirty-four, which would hold a clue to this mess. He picked up the phone on his desk and rang his client’s mobile.  “If you have a spare moment perhaps you’d call in at the office later this morning, Miss Shaw,” he said.

It was nearly lunchtime and
Sandy had gone to pick up her niece from school. Richie’s belly was screaming for food when his client arrived.

“Is there any news?” she asked eagerly.

“Nothing concrete, I’m afraid.” He looked at his watch. “I wonder if you’d like to join me for lunch and we can discuss what I have in mind. I skipped breakfast and I’m suffering.”

“Fine,” she replied
, following him out into the street and towards the Sweet Pea café.

“The food here is good. Grab a table near the window and I’ll pick up a menu.” Richie walked to the counter and removed one from the top of the pile.

They each ordered the smoked salmon salad, Richie with a portion of chips on the side and whilst they waited for its arrival he made a suggestion, “How confident do you feel about searching number thirty-four?”

“Searching?”

The waitress arrived with their food. He waited until she’d moved away before continuing,  “Perhaps you had a photograph album somewhere in the house? It might hold a vital clue to your past. We all have photos of relatives and friends hanging about the place. What do you think?”

Uncomfortably aware that this was not always the case and that he’d left his family album in London with his sister, he waited for her reply.

“That’s possible,” she said slowly. “The only problem is they might have beaten me too it. They do seem to have been extraordinarily thorough. Besides, for a few years now, I’ve kept most of my photos on computer file. Although where my laptop has got to is anyone’s guess.”

“Do you still have a key to the house?”

“I do, although I haven’t used it since the day I arrived home and found they’d taken up residence.”

Richie put his cutlery down on his plate. “That seems strange. You could have gone in at any time, taken over the place, established residency.”

She sighed. “Easier said than done. They are a family, there are children involved, and besides the police already think I’m slightly demented. The thing is, I can’t prove the house is mine.”

“
Why not? That should be easy to establish via the deeds of ownership, plus there’s your aunt’s will.”

Richie waited. Finally she said, “Again, easier said than done. I rang my solicitor in London soon after it happened and he told me that the firm
who dealt with my aunt’s estate, Rawson and Hodge, are no longer in existence. There was a fraud case brought against one of the partners soon after my aunt died, the business folded and by then the papers concerning the will had been transferred back to Rawson and Hodge.”

“The
documents must still be on file somewhere.” He was sceptical. The excuse was too convenient and he distrusted coincidence.

“I rang the liquidators of the company and they told me that once the case had been heard they’d be able to release the papers. They apologised and said that it was impossible to isolate the
file relating to my aunt’s will at the moment but assured me that it would be available at a later date.”

“The land registry would have a record of ownership,” Richie said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Although I suspect that it would still be registered in your aunt’s name.” He sucked in his bottom lip, a sign that something was bothering him. “That’s it!”

“What is?”

“If the house is still registered to your aunt – it can’t belong to the Lawsons – we just might have cracked it.”

“You think so?”

She was smiling. He could see that she was beginning to hope.

“Mm, just in case this is another dead end, what do you think about my suggestion that you try to find your photograph album?”

She looked doubtful. “I’ll certainly try. Perhaps I could offer to babysit one evening and when the children were in bed I could start my search.”

“Right.” Richie stood up.

“And you’ll ring the land registry?”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch as soon as get an answer.”

Things were moving far too slowly for his liking. Every avenue seemed to lead to a dead end. Richie paced the floor. Sandy was doing the lunchtime run at the school. She’d be taking Chloe back about now. She’d managed to persuade the child that lunch with her aunt was a better option than the school canteen. A week had passed and she seemed to
still be no nearer to befriending Hannah Lawson.

He stood at the window and looked down
on the High Street then saw a flash of red hair and Sandy’s trim figure hurrying towards the office. He was never sure which image she would project when she arrived for work. Sometimes it was the dizzy schoolgirl or sometimes the competent career woman; today it was the busy aunt on the school run. Her hair was now auburn and swung to her shoulders, she was wearing a skirt of flowing material in muted tones, flat shoes, and carried a bulging leather shoulder bag.

He heard her footsteps on the stairs and put the kettle on. “Well, Miss Smith, any developments?” he asked handing her a mug of coffee.

Sliding the bag from her shoulders to the floor, Sandy sat behind her desk, caught her breath and opened up a new file on her computer. “I’ll type up my report as soon as I have a moment.”  The edges of the competent career woman’s image blurred with that of the busy aunt.

“All in good time. Just tell me the bones of it so that I can decide what to do next.”

“I’ve established contact, at last.”

He was beginning to feel like M interviewing James Bond. “And?”

“Apparently, Chloe and Jake have made friends. I did have to promise her a trip to Legoland as a bribe though.”

Richie smiled.

“Hannah Lawson asked if Chloe would like to come to play with Jack after school tomorrow.”

“That’s great. Perhaps you could have a look around number thirty-four whilst you’re there. You know the kind of thing, decide whether the family are behaving as if it’s their house or if something doesn’t feel right.”

“I don’t think that will be possible.”

“No?”

“The address she gave me is definitely not Bramble Lane - it’s somewhere entirely different.”

Later, looking at the file Sandy had compiled he saw that the address Hannah Lawson had given was Byron Terrace. Accessing Google Earth on his laptop he traced the satellite image of the house. It was situated in the middle of a terrace, in an area nowhere near as prestigious as Bramble Lane. As he zoomed out of the district he caught sight of the block of flats where his client lived and noticed the proximity to Byron Terrace - it was no more than a ten minute walk away.

The following day, as Sandy was about to leave the office to pick up Chloe and take her to Byron Terrace, he said, “Give me a ring when you get home, I’ll still be here. There are a few loose ends I need to tie up.”

The phone call came at five to seven. Richie had ordered a Take Away and the office smelt of Sweet and Sour Pork and soggy chips.

“I’m updating the file on my laptop right now,” Sandy said, “but I thought you’d like to know that the children aren’t Lawson’s. Their father lives in Byron Terrace. I’ll give you all the details tomorrow. Got to go now.”

That night he dreamed of Lucy. She’d called him to say she was going to pick the kids up from the disco and he’d tried to dissuade her. “Tell them to take a taxi, Luce.” He’d kept repeating the words, but it was no use, she couldn’t hear him.

He awoke drenched in sweat, his heart pounding; the illuminated figures on his bedside clock read five past four. The faint grey light of dawn was seeping in through his blinds, he couldn’t stay in bed, he was afraid. Lucy’s face hung before him like a fearful phantom and the thought of falling back into his dream shot him into wakefulness.

After clearing his head by showering in tepid water, Richie dressed, got into his car and drove towards Byron Terrace. The morning traffic was almost non-existent. He passed a workman on a bike, a street cleaner humming his way down the road on a miniature electric dustcart, and a couple of early morning commuters driving in the direction of Lockford Heath Halt.

The road stretched into the distance. On both sides stood featureless terraced houses that had been customised to a greater or lesser extent by their owners, depending on their taste or lack of it, gardens littered with debris, prams, broken bicycles and the detritus of modern-day living swirled around him. Sandy told him that she’d dropped Chloe off at number fifty-two, which was on the left hand side of the road. He drove to the end of the terrace, turned around and drove back then parked opposite number fifty-two. Taking a road map from the glove compartment, he spread it out over the steering wheel in an attempt to persuade casual onlookers that he was searching for his destination.

There was little or no movement in the road. Occasionally someone opened their door, got into their car and drove off. But it wasn’t until seven o’clock that traffic increased and the occupants began to surface like ants from an anthill.

At a quarter past eight the door of number fifty-two opened and a stocky man emerged, he had a shaved head and was dressed in a red tee shirt with the name of a DIY store written in large navy letters across his chest. Ten minutes later a woman wearing a pair of grey jogger trousers and a grey fleece top opened the door followed by two children whom she bundled into the back seat of battered Ford Fiesta that stood at the kerb.

In view of his client’s and Sandy’s experiences over the last few days, it didn’t take a genius to deduce that the children were Jake and Sally Lawson.