Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (26 page)

The thunderstorm took everyone by surprise. In the market square of Los Christophe Owen sheltered in the recessed doorway of a shop selling wooden toys. His hair was plastered to his head and his shirt was sticking to him. Stallholders hurried to protect their wares from the torrential rain, which was collecting in gigantic puddles in the overhead canvas awnings
, which threatened to collapse. Rain bounced off the cobbles and the drains refused to take more water, adding to the chaos. It was not unusual for floods in this part of Spain; Los Christophe’s proximity to the Pyrenees meant that the area often suffered from flooding. It was part of its charm and reminded him of the Welsh countryside where he’d grown up.

He shook his head to remove most of the water from his hair, looked up
, and could see the faint glow of the sun breaking through the thunderclouds. He knew from experience that soon the cobbles would be smoking as the sun burned off the rain and peace would be restored once more.  Walking across the square to the café he ordered an espresso then sat at a table outside to enjoy the fresh smell in the aftermath of the storm. Raindrops splattered at his feet from the overhead guttering. Closing his eyes he felt the warmth of the sun stroking his skin like a lover’s touch and when he opened them he knew he was dreaming. Rowena was standing in front of him.

“Hello, Owen,” she said
, and the years slipped away followed by confusion as his sun-blinded eyes adjusted. “It’s me, Rowena. Don’t you recognise me, darling?”

It was as if the horror from which he’d been desperately trying to escape was resurfacing. “What are you doing here?” he asked, playing for time.

“I’m here with my husband. We’ve been travelling around Europe. This is nearly the end of our holiday.”

“I heard
you got married,” the words escaped from his lips, conventional phrases but so difficult to say.

“And you? Are you married?”

“No. Still single.”

“I still love you,” she said
, resting a hand on his arm.

The distant roll of thunder rumbled across the plain and Owen felt the bottom dropping out of his world.

“Here you are, hon. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Owen saw her turn to face the large man who was placing an arm around her shoulders.

“Owen, I’d like you to meet my husband.” Her eyes bore into his. “Clint this is Owen Madoc the artist; we were engaged once upon a time.”

“Got to congratulate you on your good taste then, buddy.” He held out a chubby hand then pumped Owen’s vigorously. “Glad to meet you. What a coincidence. Why don’t you come over to our hotel and join us for dinner later?”  His grin was as wide as the Grand Canyon and Owen wondered if he had any idea what he’d got into.

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you but…”

“Yes, why not?” she said. “ We don’t see anyone from home and I’m missing all my old friends. We are still friends, aren’t we, Owen?”

In spite of himself he nodded but had the presence of mind to firmly decline their invitation. As they took their leave of him Clint Miller took a card from his inside pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Don’t forget now. If you’re ever if Florida, look us up.”

He could feel her eyes boring into his soul as he walked across the square in the opposite direction to his cottage praying that he’d wake up from this nightmare. He forgot about the business card resting in the pocket of his shorts.

Later that day, when he’d drunk enough wine to anaesthetise him, Owen made his way back home. His hands were shaking as he stood in the kitchen and poured water into a pint glass, which he downed in an effort to regain some sobriety. His encounter with the woman had unsettled him beyond measure. He wasn’t sure what he should do. His head was spinning; he couldn’t think clearly. He climbed the narrow staircase and sank into bed hoping that by the morning he’d have some idea. There was no way he could avoid this latest turn of events. Like it or not he had to face it. Dreams of Rowena and Sarah Lawson haunted him throughout the night. The fires
, which had destroyed his cottage at Gareg Wen and later his London flat burned brightly in his nightmare, consuming his passion for Rowena so that he neither knew whether it had existed in anything other than his imagination.

When he awoke, he was bathed in sweat and his bed sheet was coiled like a snake around his ankles. He stepped into the shower turning the controls to cold and stood shaking off the horrors of the night so that they slid into the sewerage system along with the soap. A mug of strong black coffee, buttered toast and a telephone call to Connie, to tell her not to bother coming over and to leave the cleaning until tomorrow, left him with the rest of the day to decide what to do. He didn’t dare risk going outside in case she was there waiting for him. Paranoia haunted him until he could bear it no longer. He made up his mind. This time he wouldn’t run away.

Upstairs in the spare bedroom he searched through the pocket of the shirt he’d worn when he’d met Richard Stevens and removed the card. Thankfully Connie hadn’t got around to washing the small pile of clothes collecting in the wicker-washing basket. Then remembering the card resting in the pocket of his shorts he held them both in his hand as he dialled Richard Stevens’s number.

I was almost afraid to admit it but since my visit to the Hermitage I’d had the feeling that the fog clouding my memory was beginning to lift. The problem was that none of it made any sense.  My phone conversation with Owen, such as it was, had unnerved me. He was so angry. What had I done to make him hate me so much? However, Sarah Lawson, once a shadowy figure, was beginning to take shape.  Now I could remember the phone call; she’d said Owen was going to be in the flat and that he wanted to explain. I remember the taxi driver dropping me outside the
place. The night warden said to go on up, I was expected. And that was all – nothing else – however hard I tried I couldn’t remember what happened next but it was a start and I was certain that soon, I’d remember it all. What I failed to understand was why Owen had been so sure I was Sarah. Surely he would have recognised my voice if nothing else.

There was the sound of someone walking along the passageway followed by the ringing of my doorbell. My ‘brother’ was waiting on the doorstep. “Sarah, I understand you’ve been to see Doctor Kilpatrick,” he said following me inside the flat. He sat in the ugly armchair and frowned at me. “You should have said, I’d have driven you over. Have you been having more problems?”

I smiled. “No, on the contrary, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve started to remember the fire. It helped talking to Doctor Kilpatrick.” I was waiting for him to react by concentrating on his facial expressions, certain that I’d be able to tell if he was lying. But to my amazement he stood up, grabbed me in a bear hug and said, “Thank goodness; perhaps now we’ll hear the last of Rowena Shaw.” He kissed the top of my head and I could feel tears pricking my eyelids. I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want to feel anything for this man who was determined to make me Sarah Lawson.

“I’ll ring Hannah, tell her the good news; this calls for a celebration; get your overnight things, we’ll go out for a family meal and you can sleep at ours.”

Packing my night things into a bag in the bedroom, I heard him talking to his wife, the excitement in his voice made me think that it sounded like a genuine reaction. Could he fake
it? I followed him to his car in a daze and as we crossed the car park we met Neil Stafford. He was holding the arm of the Grace Kelly lookalike living in the flat opposite.  “Hello you two. Did you enjoy Spain, Sarah?” he asked.

Both Andy and I looked at each other in surprise. “Spain?” Andy asked.

“Oh sorry, have I let the cat out of the bag?” He dug me in the ribs. “ I must say the guy you were with was all over you like a rash. I would have spoken to you but I was on a sightseeing tour and we were late getting back to the bus; too many beers in the bars of Los Christophe.”

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” I said. “ I haven’t been to Spain lately.”

Neil Stafford took a step forward and looked at me more closely. “Must have been your double then.”

My heart began to race; suddenly everything made sense. I took a deep breath to stop my voice from shaking. “They do say if we look hard enough that somewhere in the world we’ll find one. Looks like you’ve just found mine.” I slipped my arm through my ‘brother’s
’.”

“Your suntan’s faded pretty quickly too,” Andy laughed and I forced my laughter to join his.

“I should be so lucky. Out of work and travelling to Spain. I don’t think so.” In the side view mirror, I watched Neil Stafford turn around and shake his head in disbelief.

Number 34 Bramble Lane was beginning to look as if it had never belonged to me. The front garden looked untidy, weeds grew in the flowerbeds and the lawn was suffering from numerous games of football being played on its, once smooth, surface. Jake and Sally ran to me as soon as I entered the house. “Aunty Sarah, we’re going to the Speakeasy Diner for our dinner.”

“Oh good, I think,” I replied raising my eyebrows at Hannah Lawson who grinned.

“It’s a new one and all their friends have been
, apparently. Anyway Andy’s told me the good news.” She kissed my cheek and I smelled Mischief.

“Is that a new perfume?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Still some gaps eh? Remember I said I liked the smell of your new perfume and you bought me some for my birthday.”

I must be careful, I thought. “
No sorry, can’t remember. But never mind, it’ll come back soon, I’m sure of it.”

My optimism set the tone for the evening. The Speakeasy Diner had been designed to replicate the style of a nineteen fifties stateside diner. It was bright with red leather banquettes and Formica-topped
tables. The menu consisted of chips with everything and the kids loved it. I chose a cheeseburger with salad.

“The fries come with it,” the waitress, desperately trying to maintain an American accent, lingered to take our order her pencil raised above her pad.

“No fries for me,” I said.

“But you love chips, Aunty Sarah,” Sally said.

“I do, you’re right, so just this time I’ll have the fries,” I said. “And you can share them with me.”

There was a lot I had yet to learn about Sarah Lawson if I was to maintain this façade, if only for a while longer. But I knew that the answer rested with Owen and this time I’d make him talk to me, even if I had to travel to Spain myself.

The phone call left him in a quandary. How could he prove that Madoc’s suspicions were correct? He glanced at the Millers’ address and telephone number; there was only one way to make certain. Hoping that the ninety thousand pounds his client would eventually collect would reimburse his trip, he rang the number and arranged with Miller to meet him and his wife the following Monday. He’d explained that he was a friend of Owen Madoc’s and that the artist had asked him to look them up.

“I’ll be away for a day or two, Miss Smith. Unfortunately I can’t afford to take you with me – this time it’s Florida.”

Sandy’s face fell a metre or two. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles I suppose, back to being the receptionist. At least I was a PA for a while.”

Richie grinned at her hangdog expression. “You’ll always be my personal assistant
, Sandy and one day I hope I’ll have the money to pay you what you deserve.”

Realising he’d dropped the Miss Smith act, he waited for her smart remark and wasn’t disappointed. “If I’m to be your PA, Mr Stevens, perhaps you’d better remember to address me accordingly.”

“Certainly, Miss Smith.”

He heard her chuckling as he lef
t the office and walked to the travel agents further down the High Street.

He hated flying long distance, which always left him disorientated. The words of the novel that had previously held his attention now slid off the page and into his dreams as he slept intermittently throughout the flight. Arriving at St Petersburg-Clearwater International Airport, he collected his luggage and made his way to the car park to pick up his hire car.

Thank God for air-con, he thought entering the line of traffic building up on the freeway. A swarm of persistent bees hovered over the bonnet of the car, siting on the wipers and committing suicide on his windscreen, before deciding to look for a home elsewhere. The temperature gauge on the dash
board read thirty-five degrees centigrade and he wished he’d worn cotton trousers instead of the man-made fibre pair, which clung to him like velcro. He pictured Sandy’s ‘I told you so face’ and smiled.

The Miller’s house was just as he’d expected it would be. It stood alongside others of its kind speaking of wealth and bad taste in the same breath, the architect having been unable to decide which era he was trying to re-create. The windows adhered to the modern day, whilst the porticos, balconies and large white-painted veranda could have been lifted straight from the pages of
Gone With The Wind
. A lawn trimmed with precision led down to the waterway, which he guessed wound around the properties before discharging its high-priced cargo of cruisers and yachts into the ocean.  Clint Miller waved in his direction; he was hosing down the steps leading to the jetty.

“Richard Stevens, Private Investigator from England, I phoned last week? Your gardener said to come around the back.”

“Yeah. Good to see you, Mr Stevens.”

“Richie, please.”

“Richie then. Come on up to the house and let’s hear what brings you to my door.”

They sat on the veranda beneath large ceiling fans drinking iced tea whilst he outlined his reasons for his visit.

“And you say your client knows Owen Madoc; the chap my Rowena was engaged to?”

He hesitated. “Miss Shaw was definitely his fiancée, that’s true.”

“And you want to ask my wife about some fire or other? I don’t know whether she can be of much help, as I told you on the phone, she’s been away for a few days. Only just come back as a matter of fact. I haven’t even had a chance to tell her you were coming over. She’ll be glad to see someone from England though, I’m sure of that – misses the old place, you see.”

Richie heard footsteps crossing a wooden floor followed by Clint’s wife making an appearance. He’d been warned what to expect but nevertheless it came as a shock. It was uncanny.

“Rowena hun. This is Richie from England, he’s a PI and he’d like to ask you a few questions.” Clint Miller stood up and kissed his wife’s cheek.

She recovered well but not before he’d seen a slight tightening around her mouth and even under the tan he could see her face drain of colour. “Welcome to Florida,” she said stretching out her hand.

Her voice was similar; that low breathy whisper – so easy to cultivate. Her hand was cold, in spite of the heat of the afternoon.

“I’ll get us a few cool beers and a martini for
Row, while you two get acquainted.” Clint disappeared through the opened French doors leaving them alone.

“What can I do for you?” she asked tucking her long legs under her on the padded seat.

“I’ve been hired to help my client recover her memory of events that took place in London a while ago. Apparently there was a fire at a flat owned by Mr Owen Madoc.”

She sighed, took a cigarette from a packet she removed from a flowered canvas bag at her feet and lit up.  “My guilty secret, I’m afraid.” She attempted a smile, which Richie noticed didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It was all terribly sad. Sarah had the hots for my fiancé: she enticed me to visit his flat with what I’m sure was her intention to humiliate me further, but I soon realised that she was unhinged so I left her to it. I could go into detail about some of the sad tricks she pulled whilst trying to damage my relationship with Owen but I don’t think it will help to open up old wounds, do you?” The words tripped off her tongue as if rehearsed.

“What happened when you saw Mr Madoc afterward the fire?”

“I beg your pardon?” The cigarette hovered mid way to her lips.

“Did you manage to explain – patch things up – that sort of thing?”

“Er, no. Actually, I didn’t see Owen again. I rang him and explained that too much water had flowed under the bridge. He’d lied to me about his relationship with the Lawson woman and I couldn’t forget it.”

“Did you see Sarah again?”

“No. I spoke to the police, explained
the events which had occurred prior to the fire and then decided to take up the offer of a job in New York. The further from London, the better it suited me. I managed to sell my house in Lockford, to Sarah Lawson’s brother actually, which was a bit ironic.”

“Luckily for me,” Clint said, placing the drinks on the table between them. Clint was a talker, Richie listened as he finished his drink and his wife finished her cigarette and lit another.

“Well, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,” he said. “Thank you for your help, Mrs Miller.

“No problem,” she replied and as he shook her hand he noticed that the roots of her hair beneath the bleached blonde were brown.

As he drove back to his hotel he remembered Madoc’s insistence that Rowena Shaw would never smoke a cigarette, no matter what stress she was under. It was another piece of the jigsaw.