Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller

by K. J. Rabane

  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?

  Chapter 9

  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.

  Chapter 10

  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 27th 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 o
f 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.

  Chapter 11

  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.