Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller

by K. J. Rabane

  Chapter 12

  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 make-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 face 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.

  Chapter 13

  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.

  Chapter 14

  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 ridiculous. 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.

  Chapter 15

  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.