Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (23 page)

There was no one in the office except a young man with red spiky hair who told me that his boss and his aunt were away working on an investigation. Part of me was pleased that they were doing something positive and part of me was fearful that their efforts would turn out to be futile.

Leaving Hastings Buildings and walking down the High Street, I felt impotent rage bubbling up inside like a volcano threatening to erupt. My memory was not reliable. The events leading to my break up with Owen were unclear. I remember accusing him of having an affair but with whom was still a mystery.

A warm wind blew my hair into my face and I pushed it away irritably. My fingers touched the scar and images floated around me begging to be let in. Why couldn’t I remember? The only reliable constant was that I knew who I was and I was definitely not Sarah Lawson.  It was then that I saw Neil Stafford
.
He was coming out of Starbucks carrying a giant polystyrene mug of coffee. I hurried across the road, eager not to lose sight of him.

“Mr Stafford?”

He looked surprised.

“Sarah?”

“Could you spare me a moment?”

Glancing at the hand holding his mug, he hesitated. “I, er, I’m on my way back to work actually – coffee break but I suppose I could just as well drink it here as in the office.” He pointed to a bench and we sat down. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

“When we last met you said you remembered me from my brother’s party.”

“Yes, that’s right – Andy had a bit of a do at the golf club.”

“The thing is – well, I’m afraid I’ve been having some memory problems.”

“Mm yes, Andy told me. Rotten luck, the accident and all that.”

“I wonder, could you tell me exactly what Andy said. I know it sounds odd, but it would help enormously.”

He raised his mug, took a sip, winced then replied, “ Let me see. He said that his sister had moved to Lockford from London after a fire in which she’d been badly burned. He mentioned something about a love affair that had ended badly. He said you’d had problems remembering much of what had happened before the fire and that a psychiatrist had diagnosed something called retrograde amnesia, which sometimes happens after a traumatic event.” He attempted to drink his coffee again and this time managed to drink more than half of it before continuing.

“Apparently, he said it was all very distressing as, at first, you believed you were someone else.”

“Who? Did he say who?”  I was hanging on to his sleeve. He broke away, frowned and said. “No, look, I think you should ask Andy about this, he’ll tell you far more than I can.”

I smiled, trying to appear normal and not some deranged female who’d accosted him in the street.  “You’re right of course. I was just anxious not to rake it all up for him. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a pain lately. But you’ve been really helpful. Thank you so much. I’m sorry to have interrupted your coffee break.” I smiled again.

He shrugged and stood up. “No problem. I hope your memory returns soon.”

“So do I, Mr Stafford. So do I.”

It was true that there were areas which were lost to me but it didn’t alter the fact that
, however difficult it was to remember certain events, I wasn’t suffering from a loss of identity even though the Lawson family were trying to make me believe otherwise. I knew I was Rowena Shaw and was determined to prove it.  If only Owen would answer my calls. At least he’d know me. I’d thought about going to see my old boss in London but I’d rung the office and been told that he’d moved on and was now working in San Francisco. Knowing that office staff frequently changed, I couldn’t risk finding no one there knew me either; I doubted whether my sanity was ready for that sort of revelation.

Whilst Richie Stevens was working in London, I decided
to take the train to Cardiff where I’d book into a hotel and then try to contact Glyn Morgan at the BBC Wales studios. He might recognise me, it was worth a try, it was no good telephoning; I’d tried that.

The train journey took nearly four and a half hours. Reading the rest of my novel had been replaced by watching the scenery pass
by, filling in a crossword puzzle and flicking through a trashy celebrity magazine, which someone had left behind.  Eventually the sunshine gave way to showers as the train pulled into Cardiff General Station. Taking a taxi to a city centre hotel, I realised that for the past couple of hours I’d not given Sarah Lawson a second thought. Getting away from Lockford had slackened the chains, which were tying me to her, if only for a short while.

Dinner that evening was taken in
a dining room overlooking the castle grounds and for the first time in ages I began to relax, to be me, and to enjoy being somewhere no one thought they knew me.

Before I showered and dressed for dinner, I switched on the six o’clock news and as I’d anticipated Glyn Morgan was definitely back from Tokyo. He was standing outside the St David’s Spa Hotel interviewing the winner of the X Factor heats
, which had been held in Cardiff that weekend.

After breakfast the following day, I strolled out of my hotel and into the grounds of Cardiff Castle. The previous day’s rain had given way to bright sunshine. Feeling the warm breeze stroking my skin, I took a deep breath and walked alongside the river whilst watching an eager line of ducklings following in their parents’ wake. At mid-day, I took a taxi to the television studios and at the reception desk asked if they could tell Glyn Morgan that Rowena Shaw was waiting for him in reception. Ten minutes later I heard his voice. I was standing with my back to him reading a flyer about a forthcoming series of Dr Who.

“Rowena?”

I turned around and saw him hesitate. But it was only for a second.

“My God girl, you’ve changed.”

“You recognise me?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

I could have wept. “It’s been such a long time,” I muttered.

“I’d recognise that arse, anywhere, my love.” He pulled me to him in a bear hug and kissed my cheek. “Now let’s get some lunch in the canteen then you can tell me what this is all about and what’s with the new face?”

In the BBC canteen, I recognised a couple of well-known actors and a news presenter, one of whom raised his hand to Glyn as we passed his table and made for the seclusion of an unoccupied table overlooking the car park. As we finished eating, I outlined the reason for my visit.

“And there’s no way you can prove you’re not this Sarah Lawson?”

“Not at the moment. But I’m working on it via a Private Detective. You have no idea how difficult it’s been.” My cheeks were wet. I pulled a tissue out of my bag. “I didn’t mean to do this. It’s just such a relief that you believe me.”

Glyn reached across and took my hand. “Why did you?” I asked.

“What?”

“Why did you recognise me? It couldn’t be just my bum.”

He smiled and patted my hand.  “I’d spent most of my years at Uni, worshipping every inch of Rowena Shaw, my dear. OK the face is different, but the rest of you isn’t and even the face is not that different.”

“You seem to be the only one who thinks so.”

“Well, put it this way. In my line of business, I’ve come across plenty of burn victims and some, like you, have been put back together again, almost intact.”

“Burn victims?” It was as if the room was dissolving. His voice sounded a long way off. I could feel my lungs burning and hear her voice.

“Row? Are you OK? You’ve gone as white as the proverbial sheet.”

My head was spinning.  The next thing I knew Glyn was sitting at my side.

“Here drink this.” He was holding a bottle of water to my lips. “I think we should go outside, lovely – get some fresh air – it’s stuffy as hell in here.”

“You’re sure you’re OK?” Glyn said holding open the taxi door.

“I’m better than OK, Glyn. Thanks for everything. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

“Nonsense. I only wish I wasn’t dashing off again and we could spend more time together. But remember what I said, you should take this to the police and let them deal with it. And remember now – stay in touch.”

I nodded, “ I promise. And I will think about the police, when the time is right.”

Later, in the foyer of my hotel, I picked up some travel brochures, went to sit in the lounge and ordered afternoon tea. As I flicked though the brochures I thought about my conversation with Glyn. So the accident Andy Lawson had been referr
ing to had actually taken place and I’d suffered facial burns. Glyn had explained that the scars, although carefully concealed by my hairline, were indicative of plastic surgery having taken place at some point. He said that by the slight reddening of the scar tissue, in his estimation, the operation would have taken place approximately a year ago.

Feeling positive for the first time since this nightmare began, I noticed that my fingers had stopped at a page showing a picturesque Welsh fishing village. There was something distinctly familiar about the photograph showing a pub and the harbour. The place was called Gareg Wen.

The more I looked at the photograph I was sure I’d been there before. Owen’s face swam before me and a wave of nausea had me reaching for my teacup. A few sips and a deep breath later I felt able to read the blub underneath the photo.

Situated in the peaceful countryside of West Wales is the fishing village of Gareg Wen. Step back in time by staying at the Anchor, whose stout walls
are still standing since the time of the French invasion of West Wales at the end of the eighteenth century, when local woman Jemima Nicholls tricked the French fleet into believing women dressed in national costume were a detachment of British forces.

Walk the coastal paths, with uninterrupted spectacular views of the coves and bays that have inspired many of our established British writers and
artists, including crime fiction and thriller writer Megan Lloyd Jones who, with her husband Duncan, has been a resident of Gareg Wen for the past ten years.

The words blurred, my pulse raced and for a moment a hole into the past opened. I struggled to reach through and grasp fragments in order to complete the jigsaw of my muddled memory but faces and events floated away from me like feathers on a breeze.

“Would you like more tea, Madam?” the waiter asked.

“No thanks. But could you tell me where I could hire a car?”

I’d made up my mind; Gareg Wen must hold the answers to some of the questions
, which plagued me. Although, like most people, I knew of Megan Lloyd Jones by her reputation, I had the niggling feeling that the name meant more to me than that. So after paying my hotel bill and sliding into the hire car that was waiting in the car park, I instructed the satellite navigation system to find Gareg Wen and followed its instructions faithfully out of the city and on to the M4 heading west.

Summer it seemed had come early, trees bursting with mayflowers lined my route as I left the main motorway and headed west along minor roads. The road signs, although few and far between, were bi-lingual and a sudden memory of Owen trying to pronounce the unpronounceable made me smile. I was right then, I’d travelled this way before and with my fiancé. The word lodged in my brain like a splinter, something about it was distasteful. Why should that be? Surely it was meant to evoke happy memories? There must have been some.

The narrow road leading to Gareg Wen wound steeply down to the coast. In the distance I glimpsed the sea sparkling like newly minted coins and, as I drove closer, smelled the tang of salt in the breeze. It was all so familiar and yet so out of reach.

The car park of the Anchor was fairly busy but nevertheless I managed to find a parking place and went inside to book a room.  As my eyes adjusted to the lack of sunlight, I saw that the holiday brochure had been spot on; it was just like stepping back in time. The décor had been sympathetically restored to an earlier period but without any lack of comfort. I walked up to the bar.  “Could I book a room for a few days?” I asked a large man with greying sideburns standing behind the bar and
looking as if he was part of the furniture.

“You could be in luck, Miss. A couple just booked out this morning. We’ve been full up this past week, what with the good weather and summer on the way.” He went to the corner of the bar, flipped open a laptop, typed in a few commands and then turned back to me. “Number three overlooking the view of the coast, do you, will it?”

“That sounds fine. I’ll just pop back to the car and get my case. Won’t be a sec.”

“No problem. Nice to see you again, Miss Lawson.”

The words followed me into the car park and I refused to let them in.

Lifting my small case out of my boot I noticed two men striding up the lane towards me. The taller of the two had his head bent in conversation with a man dressed in shorts and a blue shirt whose neck was circled by a clerical collar. They reached the front door as I approached with my case. The taller man looked up, hesitated then said, “Sarah?”

My heart sank. Not only because he’d called me Sarah but also because I was certain that I’d met him before.