Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (22 page)

It was getting dark when Richie Stevens decided to call it a day. He picked up the computer printouts that Sandy had left on his desk, stuffed them into the zipped pocket of his laptop case and locking the front door left the office. His intention was to stop at the wine bar around the corner for a quick drink then go home and sift through his paperwork.

The wine bar was full of the usual crowd of office workers on their way home and a few early drinkers. Sandy was sitting on a bar stool; she appeared to be alone and raised her glass to him as he approached.  “So this is how you spend my money, is it?” he joked.

“Once in a while, boss.”

“Right then, same again is it?”

Sandy looked doubtful. “I don’t think so. I’ve got the car.”

“Fair enough. Bottle of lager and an orange juice,” he called to the barman.

“Did you get a chance to look at the stuff I left on your desk?” Sandy asked.

He shook his head. “Later though, I promise.”

“I think you’ll find some of it interesting. I certainly did.”

“You did? What bits?”

Sandy shook her head. “Not a chance. I’m done for the day. Anyway, I’d rather you came to your own conclusions without any spin from me.”

“Point taken, Miss Smith.” He raised his glass. “Just tell me this before we change the subject. What impression do
you
get of our client? Assuming you know nothing of her reasons for contacting us. Would you say she was a well-balanced individual?”

Sandy didn’t answer immediately. He could see her weighing up the question. It was what he’d expect of her and it was one of the reasons he valued her opinion. “Well-balanced is not the description that immediately springs to mind. But perhaps the whole situation she finds herself in would be enough to unbalance anyone. I would describe her as being plausible. She says she’s Rowena Shaw and it would be difficult not to believe her under the circumstances. Whether she’s deluded or not is a different matter.”

Richie narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever thought of studying psychology?”

She laughed. “It might have escaped your notice that I have a first in the subject.”

Abashed, he said, “I don’t remember seeing that on your CV – perhaps I should retire now.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not you. I didn’t include it in my list of qualifications.”

“Why ever not?”

“You might have considered me to be over qualified for the job. It’s happened. And I wanted this job; there’s nothing like fieldwork. I figured that the clients
who were likely to seek the professional help of a Private Detective would have more than one or two problems to face.”

“I can see I’ll have to give you promotion, Miss Smith.”

Sandy laughed out loud. “Chief secretary, eh?”

“Well not exactly; how does PA grab you?”

“Mm, the title’s fine but would it involve me doing any more on the investigative side of the business?”

Richie thought for a moment. “Money’s the problem. Ideally I’d like to say yes and employ an additional receptionist
, stroke, secretary, so you could do just that. But as you know, we’re not exactly making a profit at present.”

“OK then, how about this for a suggestion – my nephew has just finished his A levels and is looking for a job during the holidays until he starts college in the autumn. He could keep an eye on the desk and I’d pay him out of my wages.”

He felt a knife turn in his guts. She was a good kid.  “I appreciate your suggestion but I couldn’t; I pay you little enough as it is.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Oh and Harry is discretion itself. He wouldn’t let you down.”

“If he’s a patch on his aunt then he’ll do fine.” He patted her arm.

“It’s a deal then?” She looked eagerly at him and he hadn’t the heart to refuse. He nodded.

“So, once Harry knows the ropes, I can begin my new job?” She raised her orange juice and clinked it against his glass.

“It’s a deal,” he reluctantly agreed.

It was half past nine by the time he had a chance to look at the computer printouts. Sandy had been thorough, as usual. Owen Madoc’s name leapt out at him immediately. He was surprised given the newspaper coverage
that he hadn’t noticed the link before. He read on, mainly reports covering exhibitions of his work and interviews given with the man himself. He looked at the date – it was old news, over a year had passed.  There were reports covering his proposed marriage and he was about to skip over the finer details when the name of his fiancée caught his eye. It was Rowena Shaw. It seemed she was a Public Relations consultant who worked with companies in both the UK and the United States. The photograph was blurred but he supposed it could be his client; it was not really clear enough for him to be sure. He picked up the paper and inspected it more closely. The photograph showed Owen Madoc in the foreground facing the camera and his fiancée in profile. She was smiling, her hair falling to her shoulders. Apart from a superficial resemblance there was nothing more.  When did they get married, he wondered, frantically searching through the rest of the material Sandy had given him? His eyes began to close before he reached a conclusion and he awoke an hour and a half later with a stiff neck and a yearning to pee. Bedtime beckoned and Richie succumbed, which was a pity. If he’d finished reading, he would have discovered the answer to his question.

He’d had a disturbed night. His neck still hurt like hell. It was difficult to turn his head sideways. After a quick shower, stepping into the trousers he’d worn the previous day and pulling on a clean shirt, Richie picked up his laptop case and shoved Sandy’s printouts into the pocket without giving them a second glance.

Later, as he climbed the stairs to his office, he heard the sound of voices drifting down the stairwell and pushing the door open with his foot he saw Sandy standing over a youth with spiky red hair who was taking instruction from his aunt. He stood up as Richie entered the room.

“Harry, I presume,” he said, stretching to shake the lad’s outstretched hand. “Good to meet you. Your aunt told me to expect you but I hadn’t realised quite so soon.”

“Is it alright?” Harry looked from one to the other.

“I don’t see why not. Welcome aboard. Sandy will show you the ropes. And when you’re satisfied that Harry is not going to cause us to lose any of our computerised files perhaps you’d come into my office, Miss Smith. There’s something I want to discuss with my new PA.”

“I thought there might be,” Sandy replied. “Quite a shock, isn’t it?”

“It’s certainly a surprise, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say shock.”

“Really?” Sandy frowned.

Two phone calls and cup of coffee later Richie opened his laptop case and removed the printouts. Five minutes later he was out of his seat and standing in the doorway. “Now, please, Miss Smith.”

Sandy said, “So you hadn’t read them all last night? I thought so.”

He tried to shake his head and winced. “Fell asleep in the chair. So they never did get married?”

“Not as far as I can see,” she said, sitting down opposite him.

“An accident, the report says. Something to do with a fire.” Richie picked up the file. “At first
, the police suspected arson, as Madoc’s cottage in Wales was burnt to the ground in a fire the previous year.”

“That’s true but the fire department’s findings were inconclusive and pointed towards a cigarette left unattended.”

“A Miss Sarah Lawson was badly injured in the fire. Now that is interesting, surely?”

“Our Miss Shaw do you think?”

“That is the question.”

Harry turned out to be a carbon copy of his aunt, efficient, helpful, and entirely trustworthy and within the week he’d settled into office life in Hastings Buildings as if he’d been working there for years. Richie felt confident that Sandy and he could travel to London leaving him to take phone calls and book appointments. He did however stress the importance of keeping the office diary up to date and making sure that he had their mobile numbers locked into his own phone and if he had any problems, he should ring them immediately.

During the drive, Sandy made notes on a small hand held computer and by the time they’d reached the outskirts of the city she’d compiled a detailed itinerary for the duration of their visit. He knew she was wasted as an office worker and he also knew that her days working for him were numbered. She was killing time and when it suited her she’d fly away like a swallow at the end of summer but in the meantime he decided to lie back and enjoy being organised.

The Travel Lodge in Covent Garden was convenient and comfortable. Their rooms were situated on the second floor and were separated by a lift shaft.

“I wouldn’t want to spend more that a day or two in there. My room’s little more than a cupboard,” Sandy said as she joined him in the corridor. “Where do you propose we should eat?”

“I thought we’d take a walk in the direction of the Furnish Gallery and see if there’s a restaurant nearby; kill two birds with one stone.”

“After we’ve visited Fox and Knight. We’re expected there at ten thirty.”

“Efficiency is your middle name, Miss Smith.”

“Nearly right; it’s Eva actually.”

“Right then Eva actually, I hope you’re in the mood for a walk.”

At half-past ten on the dot Wilma Forrest led them into her office. She was Assistant Editor in the firm of Fox and Knight, publishers.  “Mr Stevens, Miss Smith, do take a seat. Now what can I do for you? You said on the telephone that it concerned one of our employees.”

Sandy removed a notebook from her handbag.

“It’s about Sarah Lawson,” Richie said. “My client wishes to contact her. She’s a relative and has been living abroad. It would appear that she’s tried to contact Miss Lawson for some time without success.”

Wilma Forrest pursed her lips. “So sad,” she muttered.

He feigned surprise. “Sad?”

“Yes. Sarah did work for us. She was a very good office worker; one or two of our authors developed quite a bond with her. If she’d had better qualifications she would have made a very good editorial assistant. She was very efficient and would drive for miles to make sure that proofs reached our authors safely. Megan Lloyd Jones thought she was a real treasure.”

“Do you mean, the crime writer, the one
who is responsible for the Detective Inspector Gifford series?” Sandy asked.

“The same.”

Steering the conversation back on track, Richie said, “You mentioned that it was ‘sad’ about Sarah?”

“Yes, there was a fire. She’d been visiting a friend, who was getting married and a fire broke out in the flat. Sarah was badly burned and I believe she left London to be near her brother somewhere on the south coast, although I’m afraid I don’t know where exactly.”

Richie stood up. “Thank you for seeing us, Miss Forrest. I’m sorry we’ve taken up so much of your valuable time.”

“Not at all. Oh, and if you do manage to find Sarah, please tell her that we all wish her well.”

Richie nodded and followed Sandy out into the sunshine.

“So Sarah Lawson was badly burned. Have you noticed your client touching a scar under her fringe, by any chance?” Sandy asked.

“Nothing escapes you, does it, Miss Smith?”

“So what d’you think?”

“It’s not conclusive but it’s something to consider. Now let’s have lunch and follow up the next appointment on our list.”

After lunch, they visited the Furnish Gallery. Sandy was posing as a potential buyer w
ith Mark Furnish hovering at her elbow. Richie watched the tableau unfolding from behind the pages of a catalogue, whilst seated in a bright blue armchair in an alcove.

“I was wondering if you had any paintings by Owen Madoc on show?” Sandy asked
, looking over the top of a pair of tortoise-shell framed spectacles.

He admired her transformation into a sophisticated art lover, head held high,
spectacles, altering her slightly bohemian appearance and giving her an intellectual air. Even her walk had changed, she moved with grace and poise.

“Not at present I’m afraid. Owen’s work has always been popular. In fact you’d be very lucky to get hold of an original now. He hasn’t painted anything new for some time.”

“Oh really?” Sandy remarked.

“Mm
, a tragedy in my opinion. I’ve tried pleading with him on several occasions but he’s just not keen. He says his inspiration has gone.” Mark Furnish bent his head closer to Sandy, and Richie smiled, noticing that in no time at all she’d managed to gain his confidence. “It started when his marriage plans fell apart.”

“Oh what a shame. You and he were friends?”

“We were; I gave him his first break. I always knew he’d make it big.”

“Do you know anyone who might be willing to sell one of his paintings?”

Mark Furnish started to shake his head. “Not to sell, no, but if you’re keen to see some of his work I suggest you contact Megan Lloyd Jones out at Gareg Wen. She has a few pieces. She’s such a dear and I’m sure she’d let you take a look at them. I could give her a ring if you like, to let her know you’re coming. I have her phone number here somewhere”

“You would? That’s extremely kind of you Mr Furnish. You don’t think she’d mind?”

“Not at all.”  He walked to the reception desk and came back with a card, which he handed to Sandy. “When you’re ready give her a ring to arrange a time.” He walked with them to the door and held it open.

“By the way,”
Richie said, shaking his hand. “Would you have a contact number for Owen Madoc?”

Mark Furnish raised an eyebrow. “Not in this country, I’m afraid. Owen is living in Spain. Pity really, he had everything going for him, flourishing career, beautiful fiancée but after the fire he lost interest in most things.”

 Outside, Richie steered Sandy towards a café.  “We have to talk to Owen Madoc. He’s the key to unlocking this mess.”

“After or before we’ve talked to Megan Lloyd Jones?”

“First things first, Miss Smith. Wales, then if you’re up for it, a nice trip to Spain.”

“All expenses paid?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Well on Harry for a start. We both can’t leave the office, unless he’s able to cope.”

“He will be.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certain.”

 Later, driving back to their hotel, Richie handed Sandy his phone. “Give Megan Lloyd Jones a ring. See when we can pop down to Gareg Wen, tomorrow if possible, after we’ve
visited Aston and Cooper.
I still can’t believe that you were able to get an introduction from Mark Furnish, it was more than we’d anticipated.”

When they arrived back in Richie’s room
, Sandy checked in with Harry.  “He’s fine. He said Rowena Shaw visited this morning but only to see if there’d been any developments. He told her that we were in London and at first she seemed a bit agitated then she calmed down, said ‘good’ and left.”

It was ten thirty the following day and the streets of London were busy. Richie and Sandy walked to the offices of Aston and Cooper, which were in the heart of the city. Their appointment was for eleven and Martin Forbes, a junior executive, showed them into his office.  “I’ll have to keep this short, I’m afraid – busy, busy, you know how it is. You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to discuss the whereabouts of one of our employees, a Miss Rowena Shaw?”

He smiled. “That’s right. “

“I’m new here but I’ve made some enquiries and Miss Shaw did work for us a while back.”

Sandy sat up. “ When exactly?”

“A couple of months, maybe as long as a year ago, sorry I can’t be more specific without going into our files and I just haven’t got the time at the moment – as I said, busy, busy. She
was
working in the States. I think she terminated her contract with us quite suddenly from what I understand. If that’s any help.”

“Would you know where I could contact her? A relative is keen to get in touch.”

“I don’t. We have no forwarding address on file and if we had, I’m not sure it would be strictly PC to pass it on without her permission.”

“I see. Well thank you for your time, Mr Forbes.” He stood up and reaching into his pocket removed his business card. “If Miss Shaw does get in contact with you perhaps you could ask her to give us a call on this number?”

“Certainly and good luck with your search.”

The next day Richie loaded up the Sat Nav with details of their destination in Wales and after a hearty breakfast, they left London. The roads were fairly free of traffic and they arrived on the outskirts of Gareg Wen at a quarter past two, booked a couple of rooms for the night at the Anchor and in the morning drove down the lane to the cliff top house, which belonged to the Joneses.

“That’s Owen Madoc’s cottage,” Sandy said as they passed a For Sale sign swinging in the breeze.

“Is it indeed? You really know your stuff, Miss Smith, I’m impressed.”

“It was burnt down under suspicious circumstances some time ago; the police never did find who was responsible.”

Richie looked at the cottage in his rear view mirror. “Now that is interesting. Perhaps we should have a chat to the locals, for the price of a pint or two they may be willing to remember some of the details.”

The house was certainly impressive. Sandy stretched
her arms above her head, stamped her feet then followed him towards the front door.

“What a great view,” she said, as the door opened.

“We like to think so,” Megan smiled and stood back to let them pass. “Please do come in.”

“This is very kind of you, Mrs Lloyd Jones,” Richie said, following Megan into a large conservatory at the back of the house. “Your garden is splendid.”

“I’m glad you like it. Now do sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Thank you and thanks for taking the trouble to answer a few of our questions. I’m afraid we weren’t exactly straight with Mr Furnish, as I told you on the phone. In our business, subterfuge is sometimes a necessity.”

“I must say I was intrigued. We haven’t heard from Owen for some time. We were good friends a while back but well – let me put the kettle on and we can talk properly.

When she returned, she set the tray on the table, poured the tea then sat down.

“So you knew Mr Madoc, when the fire started at his flat, I understand?” He began.

“We did. Duncan and I were very fond of him. In fact Owen was staying in his cottage at Fallow’s End the night it happened. He’d been on a fishing trip with my husband and some friends during the day and he
’d called in here for a nightcap. But I was concerned about him.”

“Oh, why was that?”

“He was still raw about Rowena cancelling the wedding.”

“He wanted it to go ahead then?”

“Most certainly. It was all such a mess. Sarah, the young lady who was badly burned in the fire, had a bit of a thing about Owen. So much so that she was responsible for causing nothing but trouble between him and his fiancée.” She sighed. “And to cut a long story short Owen was certain it was she who had started the fire at his cottage.” Megan stood up and walked to the window. “As if that wasn’t enough it seems she was also inadvertently responsible for what happened at the flat”

“How terrible. W
hat happened?” Sandy asked.

“Well apparently Sarah had given up smoking for some time but her brother mentioned to the police that since she met Owen she’d taken up the habit again. It was thought that she’d left a cigarette unattended and it had lodged in the soft furnishings. If the Fire Brigade hadn’t arrived so promptly who knows what might have happened.”

“Was she alone?” Sandy was listening intently.

“Not initially. Afterwards,
Rowena told Owen that Sarah had phoned to say he wanted them both to meet him at the flat in an attempt to sort out their problems.”

“So they were all there?”

“No. Owen was adamant that he’d never said anything of the sort and was unaware there was to be such a meeting. Rowena said she left the flat once she realised Sarah had lied and it appeared he wasn’t going to show after all.”

“It doesn’t make much sense. Why would Sarah Lawson lie? What did she hope to achieve?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Now it would seem she’s paying the price, poor girl.” Megan sighed. “Initially I was quite fond of her, until I found out about the trouble she’d caused. Owen couldn’t move for her, she hounded him; I suppose you could say she stalked him.”

“I see.” Richie stood up. “Thank you so much for the tea and for the information, Mrs Lloyd Jones, it’s much appreciated.”

“Megan, please. You told me on the phone that you’re making enquiries on behalf of your client?”

“That’s right.”

“Would you be able to tell me who that client would be?”

Richie stroked his chin.

“Well now, that is the question,” he replied. “Who
is
Sarah Lawson?”