Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (3 page)

Through the window of Starbucks
, I saw a child wearing a shiny yellow raincoat jumping in a puddle before being swiftly yanked away by a frustrated mother pushing a pram. Rain slid down the steamed up windowpane as I drank the remains of my hot chocolate and wondered if there was anyone in this world who knew me.

Feeling foolish, I searched through the contacts in the mobile phone that belonged to Sarah Lawson. It was a hopeless task as none of the numbers were ones I recognised, until with a shock I saw the name Owen Madoc.

I hesitated and let my fingers trace the number on the screen. One by one I punched in the digits until I heard the ring tone. I waited until a mechanical voice cut in asking if I wanted to leave a message then rang off. He might pick up his missed calls – he might ring – only fate would decide if I heard from him again, my courage had run out.

Next, I thought about the money remaining in the amalgamated bank account in Sarah Lawson’s name and presumably the sick pay from my phantom job that would still be paid into the account. Not a fortune but enough to hire a private detective and to live on for a short time. Taking the bus back to my flat, I decided to search the yellow pages as soon as I could.  I got off at the stop on the main road and walked down the path and across the square of grass.

“What weather eh, Sarah, perfect for ducks?” An elderly man in a shabby raincoat and wide brimmed hat was feeding the birds soggy bread from a plastic carrier.

I lowered my umbrella. “You know me?”

“It’s Arthur, love. Didn’t you recognise me in my old hat?”

The shower turned heavier and before I could reply the old man shuffled away and disappeared into a doorway at the end of the ground floor corridor. I followed but was confronted by a line of faceless doors and short of knocking on every one I had no hope of finding him.

Inside Sarah Lawson’s flat, I shivered and wrapped my arms tightly around my body. The old man had called me Sarah and I had no idea who he was. Before I began my search, of the directory for someone who I hoped would make my world return to normal, I took two painkillers to stop the ceaseless pounding in my temple.

Never having been in the position of having to hire a detective before, I didn’t know where to start. Two large advertisements in the yellow pages caught my eye. The first read
- Drayton and Douglas Associates, divorce, missing persons and burglary cases undertaken in complete privacy, our motto is discretion in all things; the second announcing that no case was too large or too small made me hesitate, until I saw that their offices were on the outskirts of town. Not having any transport, I ruled them both out. Then at the bottom of the page I noticed a small advertisement - Richard Stevens, Private Investigator, Hastings Buildings, 23, High Street, Lockford. Perfect, I thought, an address that was on my bus route. I rang, spoke to a secretary who sounded about twelve, and made an appointment for the following morning at eleven fifteen.

It rained all night.
I tossed and turned in the uncomfortable bed until finally drifting into a disturbed sleep in the early hours of the morning. After breakfast, I dressed, and tried to cover the dark circles under my eyes with make-up.

The rain had stopped, leaving behind a raw wind that had clouds racing across the sky like Olympian athletes. Shivering in my thin coat, I waited in the bus shelter with something akin to hope. The journey to town took fifteen minutes
and the bus stopped a few metres away from Hastings Buildings. In the street, I glanced at my watch; it was five minutes past eleven. I never liked to be late for an appointment, if nothing else, I knew I was always punctual.

Hastings Buildings was a three-
storied block of blackened sandstone. Inside the front door, a small reception area stood to my left and facing me was a staircase and a row of nameplates screwed into the wall. I ran my finger down the list of names until I found Richard Stevens then followed the staircase to the next floor.

An opaque glass door greeted me through which I could make out a shadowy distorted figure moving about like a ripple on a lake. A bell pinged as I entered. The receptionist was in her mid to late twenties but the impression of a young girl persisted. She was dressed in a short black skirt and white blouse and looked as if she was on her way to school.

“Rowena Shaw, I’m here to see Mr Stevens,” I said.

“Right, Miss Shaw.” She picked up the phone on her desk. “Your eleven fifteen is here, Mr Stevens.” She looked up at me. “He says to go on in.”

Richard Stevens stood up as I entered, walked around his desk and held out his hand. “Miss Shaw, do sit down.” He pulled a chair away from the desk so that when he was seated I was facing him with the desk separating us.

He was in his early forties with a lived-in face and lock of thick sandy coloured hair
which flopped on to his forehead. Two deep lines were etched between his eyes giving him a permanent frown. From his expression I could see his thoughts flitting over his face like a transparency projected onto a canvas. He was trying to make an instant assessment. He waited for me to speak.

“I need your help, Mr Stevens. Someone is trying to make me believe I’m not me.” Aware that the words sounded ridiculous, I smiled, but was certain it appeared more like a grimace.

“O...K.” He picked up the phone. “Coffee for two, Miss. Smith, one with two sugars.”

“Not coffee for me, tea if you have it?”

“Make that one coffee and one tea then, Miss Smith.”

He chatted about the weather and where I lived until the drinks arrived
then handed me the teacup, which was liberally laced with sugar. I accepted it without commenting that I didn’t take sugar and drank the glutinous dark liquid. Surprisingly I began to feel better.

“Now then, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what this is really about.”

Gradually I told him of the events which had led me to his door and when I’d finished, he got up, walked over to the window and looked down into the street before turning to face me.

I said, “I am able to employ you for two weeks but my funds are limited and after that…?”

“Let’s not worry about my fee for the moment, after all if I can solved this case there is always your aunt’s inheritance to recover. We can reach an agreement as to my costs then.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “You’ll take the case?”

“Certainly. In fact you’ve caught me at a slack period professionally speaking; I’ll get on to it right away.”

Initial impressions are not always reliable but I had the strong feeling that whatever else he turned out to be, I could trust Richard Stevens. It was comforting to know that at least someone was prepared to believe I was not stark staring mad.  I left Hastings Buildings with a lightness of spirit that had not been evident upon my arrival. Outside, the wind had strengthened and my hair blew into my eyes.

“Hi, Sarah, fancy seeing you here.” A man in a business suit and carrying a laptop case bent forward and kissed my cheek. He was a total stranger.

Richie Stevens watched her walking down the High Street, saw a man bend to kiss her cheek, and the look of bewilderment on her face. At first sight she was an enigma, but he had no doubt that the case, like many others, would turn out to be a matter of routine. However, watching the wind whipping her hair across her face, he had to admit there was something bothering him about her. It was something to do with her face - it didn’t suit her. Opening a new folder on his computer, he typed in the words – Who is Sarah Lawson? At the end of his investigations, he hoped to have the answer.

It was on days like this, when the wind whistled around the building and sunbeams trapped dust like dancing divas, his past begged to be let in. He remembered the day his promotion came through, Lucy had said, “Inspector Richard Stevens of the Metropolitan Police will still have to empty the dishwasher so don’t let it go to your head, my love.”

He’d been on the force for over twenty years and was looking forward to retiring in his fifties with a sizeable pension. The kids were growing up and life was good, that was until the night Lucy had gone into town to pick up the twins from a disco. She was on her way home when a drunk driver ploughed into her car. He got three years. It was a joke. Phillip Heaton’s name was forever etched into his brain, every slice of the scalpel more painful than the last. He was the scum responsible
for the loss of Richie’s family - a punk who drove without either insurance or a licence and who regularly ignored his driving ban.

Somehow, Richie managed to work through the three years after it happened. But seeing Heaton
, in the public bar of the Horse and Jockey that Wednesday evening, he’d lost it and given him a long overdue beating. Although his colleagues had sympathised and privately applauded his behaviour, he knew that his suspension from the force was inevitable. Public sympathy wasn’t with Phillip Heaton. Even the press had gone easy on Richie but it was no use, he couldn’t face living in London. As soon as the sale of the house had been completed, he moved to a flat in Lockford, where he wouldn’t be able to see Lucy’s face around every corner.

Richie opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a plastic evidence bag then
gingerly holding the teacup with the pink kiss mark around the rim, he dropped it into the bag. As he placed it in his drawer he frowned. It would soon join the rest in the small kitchen cupboard, once he’d decided that her fingerprints were of no further use to him. But it was his belief that you should never make snap judgements and he’d learned from experience that a little initial groundwork usually paid dividends in the end.

His mobile phone began to vibrate on the desk
, followed by the introductory bars of Brubeck’s ‘Take Five”. He glanced at the display. It was Mick.

“How’s it hanging?” his voice crackled above the sound of traffic.

“Nothing for you, I’m afraid.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll pop in anyway as I’m just outside. See you in a mo.”

Mick Parsons worked for the Lockford Heath Courier and was desperate to move to one of the mainstream tabloids. But Richie was pragmatic – divorces, theft and missing persons were an unlikely breeding ground for the scoop Mick so fervently desired.

Having managed to persuade him that there really was nothing doing, Richie walked into the outer office where Sandy was busy filing her nails. “Anything new?” he asked.

“Nah. But I’ve made up a new file for Rowena Shaw. Printed off the computer documents and filed it away under S.”

Richie nodded. Contrary to appearances, Sandy was efficiency personified. It was a mystery why she wasn’t working for the managing director of a Multi-National company for a grossly inflated sum, instead of sitting behind a desk in his office working for a pittance. He’d asked her once but she’d fobbed him off with some excuse - ‘Why kill myself – this suits me - only so many clothes you can wear and I’ve got plenty, as for the rest -
I’ve bagged me a rich boyfriend - besides, I like working here.’

“Thank-you, Miss Smith,” he said. “Please continue filing your nails. I’ve work to do, so you can catch me on my mobile if anything urgent turns up. Oh and by the way, take a long lunch hour; I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

He heard her chuckling as he closed the door. When she first started working for him he called her Miss Smith and she’d laughed saying that he made her sound like a maiden aunt. So from then it was an accepted ‘in joke’ between them.

Hastings Buildings had a small underground car park for its occupants
, which was situated at the rear of the property. At the bottom of the stairs was a side door to the basement. Richie inserted a Yale key into the lock and the heavy door swung open to reveal a stone staircase leading to the car park.

He’d bought a new car when he’d set up the business – a Toyota saloon. He remembered the smell of the interior and the thrill of driving it after the battered old Ford he’d driven after the accident. The car was now four years old but it still felt new, even though it could do with a clean and the offside back wing was dented. He clicked his remote and the car’s internal locking system flew open with a flash and a beep that echoed around the car park. After choosing a compilation of Jazz classics on his sound system, he drove into the street in the direction of Number 34, Bramble Lane.

It took Richie nearly half an hour to reach the house; there’d been a delay on the outskirts of town. He left the main road, drove down a wide side road lined with bungalows, and took a right turn into a pleasant tree-lined avenue of large detached and semi-detached houses. Number thirty-four was half way down on the left hand side. It was detache
d and stood behind a high stonewall; it looked quite impressive from his restricted viewpoint. Mature trees lined the driveway and he caught a brief glimpse of a neat lawn bordered by flowers.

Removing a clipboard from the boot of his car and attaching a badge of officialdom to his lapel – they never looked too closely he’d always found – he walked up the driveway to the front door.

It was two-fifteen. He guessed that the children would be in school and Lawson would be at work, which just left Mrs Lawson. He rang the bell, which was followed, soon after, by the sound of footsteps. The door was opened by a woman in her mid thirties with brown hair that hung to her shoulders. She was wearing denim jeans and a white tee shirt. She eyed him suspiciously through the half-opened door.

“Good day. Mrs Lawson?”

She nodded.

“Mrs Hannah Lawson?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m sorry. I’m new to this game.” He gave her one of his little-boy-lost looks.

“Eric Bradley.” He held up his clipboard. “I’m from the council. We’re doing a survey into refuse collection in the area and I wondered if you could spare some time to answer a few questions in order to help us improve the service.” She was about to say no. He could see it in her eyes. “I realise this is an intrusion. To be perfectly honest I’d rather be sitting behind my desk right now. I’m hopeless dealing with the general public, but what with the cut backs and all, well - here I am.” He started to turn away from the door, but as he’d anticipated she called him back.

“OK but please keep it short, I’m busy.”

He thanked her profusely and began by asking when her bins were collected, was the service efficient etc,. After running down a list of questions, he finished by thanking her for her time and apologising for any inconvenience. She’d shut the door before he started to walk back down the drive.

Later, Richie parked on the Common and glanced at his clipboard. Refuse collection in Bramble Lane took place on Monday mornings, around eight-fifteen. Hannah Lawson said she found the timing a nuisance as she was usually backing out of her drive in order to take her children to school. Her annoyance stemmed from the fact that she had to negotiate the pile of bin bags the refuse collectors had accumulated outside her house, whilst waiting for the slow progress of the lorry down the lane.

His brief assessment of her had been of a capable, possibly strong-minded woman. She’d looked at home in the house and gave no sign of recent occupancy of the property. In fact she gave the appearance of having dealt with the Monday morning collection on a regular basis. He thought her annoyance seemed to be genuine.

Richie sighed; at least he knew when to pick up the refuse sack full of a week’s worth of rubbish. You never knew what was lurking in rubbish bags. The contents might reveal a clue as to why Rowena Shaw believed the Lawsons were trying to steal not only her house but also her identity.

He intended to beat the bin men next Monday. Lawson’s wife had told him that her husband usually put the bags out on Sunday evenings, but as he couldn’t be sure of the timing of this event, he decided that half-past five on the following Monday morning would be the best time to execute his plan.

Entering Hastings Buildings at a quarter to four, Richie heard the sound of voices coming from his office. He raced up the stairs to find Mick Parsons sitting on Sandy’s desk, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“I thought I told you….,” Richie began.

“I know old fruit but I had the urge to see the delectable Miss Smith before I went home to write up copy on a boring visit to the W.I. by a member of the Gardener’s Question Time panel.” He stubbed his cigarette out in Sandy’s paper-clip tray. “By the way what are you working on at the moment? Sandy said you were out on a case.”

Richie glared at her.

“I didn’t say a word.”

“Ah, so there
is
something.” Mick aimed a self-satisfied grin in Richie’s direction.

“I’ll give you the nod once there’s
anything positive to report, I promise. Now clear off and take your fag ends with you. Open the window, Miss Smith. There’s a bad smell in here.”

Mick Parsons grinned. “I’ll be in touch.”

As the reporter’s footsteps clattered down the stairs, Sandy said, “Well?”

“Let’s just say, I think we are about to experience the most fascinating case this agency has ever had on its books, Miss Smith.”

“Wow!”

“Wow indeed and if you’d like to bring in your notebook
, we’ll make a start right away
.