Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller (9 page)

Matlock Rise consisted of three blocks of identical low-rise flats standing like sentries. Each block was six stories high. Between them stood parking spaces enclosing a grassed area and a few strategically placed benches. It was nothing like Bramble Lane.

Richie lifted his tripod stand and his digital camera from the back seat of his car, carried them through a door market Block A then made his way via a lift that smelled of pee to the third floor. Following the walkway he reached number twenty-six.

His client opened the door before he could ring the bell. “Come in. She’s not left for work yet.”

“Excellent. I’ll just get this set up.”

He didn’t need to be told which flat was the one in question. It stood like an oasis in the desert. Someone with an eye to design had concentrated on making the best of a bad job. It was situated in the middle of Block B and through his camera viewfinder he could see the number 19 in large brass letters on the door. He picked up his mobile, rang Norman’s number and left a message on his answer phone giving him the address.

“Coffee?” she asked from the kitchen doorway.

“Ta, strong and black please.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“Nah, too early.” He finished assembling his equipment and sat on the high kitchen stool she’d placed near the window for him.

“Will toast do? I’m not really a breakfast person.”

“Toast is fine”

When she returned with three rounds of toast and a mug of hot coffee, he thanked her and said, “I’m going to be here for the rest of the day but please don’t think that you have to stay in. I’m not going to run off with the family silver.”

She laughed, a dry humourless sound. “Any family silver I had would be in Bramble Lane, that’s assuming of course that I had a family.”

He wondered about that. “No one?”

“No one. When I was a teenager my parents died in a fire at our house.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie sympathised. “Were you injured?”

She fingered the scar on her forehead.  “No. I was in my first year at the L.S.E. I didn’t know anything about it until the hospital rang.”

“So there’s no one left?”

“Not now. My aunt Fiona was
my last relative. She’s the one who left me the house in Bramble Lane.” She walked to the window and looked out. “Apparently my parents and Fiona used to send Christmas cards but apart from that they’d lost touch. It was quite a shock to discover that I was her sole heir.”

“Must have been,” murmured Richie through a mouthful of toast.

She shrugged and walked back to the kitchen. “Right then, I’ll leave you to it.”

At half-past nine the door to the flat opposite opened and a woman emerged. She was, as his client had described, extremely well groomed and elegant but she’d failed to notice the one thing that
, to any man, was more than obvious. The woman was sexy. From the top of her shiny blonde head to her high-heeled shoes, she oozed sex. He took a series of long shots and close ups then switched on the vid.cam. She disappeared from view presumably taking the lift to the ground floor then re-emerged and clicked her key remote. Lights flashed on the sports car and he focused on the number plate as she glided out of the car park and into the road.

He’d always hated surveillance, stakeouts the American police force chose to call them, either way the end result was the same, sitting and staring into space until your bum got numb and your mind wandered. After the woman opposite drove away, his client told him she was going to the library in town.

When he was alone, Richie phoned his office. “Any news?”

“Nothing much, except that Chloe has decided she’s Jake Lawson’s new best friend. Hannah asked me to bring her over for her tea tomorrow afternoon. This time it’s at Bramble Lane. She also told me about her divorce. I think she’s beginning to trust me.”

“Excellent. I wonder why the kids are known as Lawson?”

“I expect it was easier taking their mother’s name; could be a little confusing at school otherwise.”

“I wonder what the father thinks of that?”

“Bit messy?”

“Could be.”

“Oh, I’m expecting a call from the Met; DCI Freeman. Ask him to leave a message. I’m going to be holed up here all day. I’ll see you in the morning. Oh and by the way – good work, Miss Smith.”

The day passed, as he’d anticipated it would. He got to know the movements of some of the residents, watched an old man in a shabby coat feeding the birds on the grass, saw the mothers bringing children home from school and nursery and later, as rush hour approached, he saw the cars returning like homing pigeons.

His client left him alone for most of the day but reappeared at five o’clock clutching a pasty and a ham roll for his tea. She didn’t talk much as they ate and afterwards went into the kitchen and put on the radio.

At a quarter-past six the black sports car slid into its parking space. Richie watched a pair of long legs slide out of the front seat closely followed by the rest of her, which hadn’t lost any of its appeal in the interim. Her companion was a man in his early sixties. He was wearing a dark grey pinstriped suit and had a paunch. His hair, what remained of it, was white. He could have been her father but Richie knew that wasn’t an option for the simple reason that, as they reached the front door of number nineteen, the man reached forward and stroked the woman’s rear end in anything but a fatherly manner.

He didn’t need a crystal ball to know what was going on in the flat opposite. As he was packing up his camera equipment the telephone
in the flat rang. It continued ringing unanswered until the answering machine cut in. No message was left.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said putting his head around the kitchen door.

She was sitting at the table staring into space. She looked scared. Then it dawned on him.  “How long have you been having anonymous calls?” he asked.

Hawkins and Wright Associates ran the Premier Escort Agency, amongst other enterprises, and owned the flat in Matlock Rise; it was one of many they used in which to place their high class working girls.

When Richie was at the Met, the prostitutes he came into contact with were in a different class altogether than the one he’d seen leaving the flat in Matlock Rise. He rang Norm to thank him for the information and once again assured him of his discretion. Then he opened the computer file where he’d stored the photograph of Owen Madoc and Andy Lawson. The enhanced photo of the latter instantly recognisable, he printed a copy and put it in his inside pocket alongside one of his client.

The necklace Rowena Shaw had been wearing bothered him. It must have been bought from Angie’s stall. It was too distinctive for it to have come from anywhere else. When he’d questioned her about it, she was vague about its origins saying that it was a present, which she’d lost but couldn’t remember who had given it to her or when she had found it. The gaps in her memory were disconcerting and he wondered whether they might not be a bit too convenient.

Sandy was late arriving at the office, which was unusual. She took the stairs two at a time and, out of breath, slumped in her chair without removing her mackintosh. It had been raining all night and hadn’t stopped since.

“Sorry, couldn’t make it before,” she gasped. “Chloe was playing up and wouldn’t let me go. I don’t know how much longer I can continue to take her to school, she wants her Mum.”

He put the kettle on. “How did you get on yesterday?”

“Let me take this off first and have a shot of caffeine then I’ll tell you.”

Rain pelted against the office window. Richie switched on the light. It was a quarter to eleven on a June day and outside it was as dark as a witch’s heart. Sandy wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug.

“The house is great. No wonder they wanted to live there.” She pushed a damp lock of hair out of her eyes. “I wouldn’t mind a pad like that. Andy Lawson’s a bit of a looker too. You didn’t say.”

“Not my sort.”

“Anyway, when I picked up Chloe, Hannah invited me in. She made me stay for a cup of tea and a chat and I did my best to discover anything that appeared to be odd.”

“And?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. If I didn’t know better I’d say they looked very much at home there. I just couldn’t see Rowena Shaw fitting in somehow.”

“So, they’ve got it all sewn up?”

“Looks like it. Where do we go from here?”

“Where indeed. First, I think you can put little Chloe out of her misery; tell your sister-in-law you’ve too much work on to continue with the school run. At the weekend I’m off up to London. There’s someone I want to see.”

Covent Garden on Saturday morning was busy with tourists and shoppers. Richie followed a waving red umbrella and a group of Japanese sightseers as they crossed the pebbles and entered the covered market. He spotted Angie immediately. She was serving a girl with pink hair and a small group had gathered around her stall, which meant there was little opportunity to talk to her.

“Excuse me,” he said
, weaving his way through the group. “Just want a quick word with my daughter, won’t be a minute, I promise.”

“Daughter?” Angie grinned.

“I need to speak to you. Could you meet me for lunch at one? Same place as last time?”

“Could be a bit late, if this keeps up. Can’t turn away business now, can I, Sport?”

“Fair enough. I’ll be waiting.”

It was twenty to two when Angie finally arrived. He had drunk enough bottled water to float the Titanic and eaten more bread sticks than he’d had in his entire life.

After they’d eaten and talked about Angie’s business prospects, Richie explained about the necklace he’d seen his client wearing.

“If I show you a couple of photographs, do you think there’s any possibility of you recognising a customer? I know it’s a long shot. To be honest I don’t expect you to remember but what the heck, I needed an excuse to see how you’re doing.”

“Thanks, Dad, good to see you too. Let’s take a dekko at these photos then. Who knows I might surprise you.”

She frowned, screwed up her eyes and looked at the images. She didn’t answer at once. Picking up the enhanced photograph she inspected it more closely.

“Mm, good looking guy.”

“Which one?”

“Do I need to tell you?”

Remembering Sandy’s response at seeing Lawson he pointed to him. “Got it in one. And I think your trip hasn’t been wasted, Pops.”

“You’ve seen him before?” Richie couldn’t quite believe his luck.

“I have. In fact I’ve seen both of them before.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure. Couldn’t forget a guy with a face like that for a start but it wasn’t just that. These two came to my stall just after I’d started working here, must be over a year and a half ago. I was desperate to build up my business and the shorter one told me that he thought he could find an outlet for me with a friend who sold jewellery in Cardiff. I think he ended up buying a necklace and taking my card, though he never did ring.”

Madoc, Richie thought, as she continued, “But when they were walking away, a fight broke out nearby and they both went to help the stallholder who was being harassed. I remember that they came out of the scuffle a bit the worse for wear and then walked in the direction of the wine bar.”

“I see.”

“You do? So your trip hasn’t been wasted?” She was smiling at him. A memory of the daughter he was missing sliced through his insides like a filleting knife.

His answer was sharper than he’d intended. “Thanks for your time.” He stood up. “Must be getting back or I’ll be stuck in traffic.”

He left her picking up her hippy-style handbag, her hair a mass of tousled curls.

The words, “Bye then, Dad,” drifted towards him like acid on the breeze.

It had been a shock to think that the woman was a prostitute. Was my supposed brother involved in prostitution as some kind of pimp or had it been a coincidence that Neil Stafford and he were friends? There were too many imponderables for me to consider either premise in detail. I’d leave that to Richard Stevens, I’d begun to believe in him. One day soon he’d find the truth, I was sure of it then I could begin to live my life again.

Nevertheless, I was lonely. I missed my friends, my lover. Why hadn’t I stayed with Owen? The question troubled me. There were things I’d rather forget about our break up I knew that much, which was perhaps why there were so
many gaps in my memory. There had to be a reason. Perhaps something traumatic had happened and I’d buried the memory of it completely. I was also beginning to have the oddest feeling that Sarah Lawson and I shared a past, the details of which refused to resurface. I rang Owen’s number again, the digits etched into my brain by now, but once again I was greeted by the same signal.

Telling Richard Stevens about the phone call had made me feel I wasn’t dealing with it on my own. How the woman could have known my phone number was another mystery, unless of course she was involved with Andy Lawson. At least the ‘Lawson family’ didn’t look quite the secure unit they’d like people to think they were. The children weren’t his. They had a father who wanted to see them regularly. How did Andy feel about that?

I looked out of the window; at last the sun was shining. I’d go for a walk later. I was fed up of watching for the prostitute and waiting for the phone to ring. If I took the bus to Bramble Lane I could call in on my
family.
It was Sunday and most people visited relatives on Sunday, after all.

The bus service was sporadic and I waited nearly an hour for it to arrive. The annoying old man living in the ground floor flat called to me as I crossed the grass. “Sarah, got any stale bread for the birds have you love?” I ignored him. I’d tried asking him about who he thought I was on several occasions but he’d just looked at me blankly and asked if I was pulling his leg. I’d refrained from replying that I most definitely wouldn’t be pulling any part of his grubby body, neither now
nor at any time in the future.

The bus stopped on the main road and I walked up Bramble Lane in the sunshine. The man at number thirty was cutting his hedge with a pair of garden shears.

“Morning,” he said as I passed.

“Good morning.”

“You’re a relative of the new people at number
thirty-four, aren’t you?” He kicked a pile of leaves out of my way.

“Did you see me moving in?” I was hoping that he was the kind of neighbour who didn’t miss a thing. But he looked confused. “I saw the removal van a while back and the next thing I saw was Mr and Mrs Lawson and the kids. I’ve seen you visiting though.”

I could have cried. Did no one in this road recognise me as being their new neighbour? Had I been that invisible?

Outside the gates of my home, I hesitated. Could I stand another hour pretending to be Sarah Lawson? The yellow car was in the driveway but the BMW was missing. The garage doors were open so either Andy had gone off by himself, or the family were out. I opened the gate and walked up the drive hoping it was the latter. Nevertheless, I pressed the bell and waited. When I was satisfied there was no one in, I took the key from my pocket and slipped it into the lock.

Dust motes shivered in a beam of light from the hall window. There was a faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. My house was beginning to feel unfamiliar. A Bratz doll dressed like Jordan rested against the newel post at the foot of the stairs and the dining room door stood open. I always closed it and was tempted to do so now.

In the living room the Sunday newspapers were scattered over the coffee table and a half completed jigsaw puzzle lay on the mat. Children’s fingerprints clouded the glass table on which I’d arranged my favourite pieces of pottery, which were no longer in sight. My legs felt like jelly as I sank into an armchair. I looked around the room taking in every little detail. They had established ownership of my house and my identity to the point at which it was as if I’d never existed.

Mentally shaking myself into action, I decided that I would make a systematic search of the place, starting on the ground floor before making my way upstairs. I lifted every cushion, probed into each crevice and searched through every drawer and cupboard.

In the kitchen I found the set of saucepans I’d bought in the shop in Lockford when I moved in. The salt and pepper grinders I’d brought with me. They were the ones I had bought with Owen at the craft fair, when we’d lived in the cottage in Wales. But there was nothing that I could establish ownership of
, which would make a scrap of difference to my situation.

The same fruitless search applied to the master bedroom. In the en-suite bathroom, I splashed water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirrored cupboard. Then I opened it. The usual clutter greeted me; an unopened packet containing soap, a bottle of shampoo and conditioner, cotton wool pads, four new toothbrushes in a plastic mug, a box of hair dye and on the top shelf an assortment of pills, ranging from painkillers to prescription drugs.

I picked up the packet of hair dye. It was for Ash Blondes but Hannah’s hair was brown. I put it back in disgust and began to inspect the bottles and packets with the chemist’s dispensing labels on the front. Two were for Andy Lawson; one prescription for his wife for the contraceptive pill and in a recess at the back of the cupboard, I found it.

Rowena Shaw, Vitamin B6; the words were like a lifebelt to a drowning man. Putting the bottle in my pocket I closed the cupboard door, went downstairs and let myself out. I’d been careful to put everything back as I’d found it. It was as if I’d never been.