Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller Read online

  WHO

  IS

  SARAH LAWSON?

  By

  K.J.RABANE

  Copyright © 201 2 K.J.Rabane

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10 -1480160768

  ISBN-13 -978-1480160767

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Frank

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks go to retired Police Sergeant Alan Lloyd, MBE for putting me on the right track, to Mrs Nona Evans for her tireless proof-reading, to Rebecca of Rebecca Sian Photography for the cover images, and to my husband and family for their enthusiastic support during the long, and it seems, sometimes, continuous process of editing this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 Chapter 35

  Chapter 2 Chapter 36

  Chapter 3 Chapter 37

  Chapter 4 Chapter 38

  Chapter 5 Chapter 39

  Chapter 6 Chapter 40

  Chapter 7 Chapter 41

  Chapter 8 Chapter 42

  Chapter 9 Chapter 43

  Chapter 10 Chapter 44

  Chapter 11 Chapter 45

  Chapter 12 Chapter 46

  Chapter 13 Chapter 47

  Chapter 14 Chapter 48

  Chapter 15 Chapter 49

  Chapter 16 Chapter 50

  Chapter 17 Chapter 51

  Chapter 18 Chapter 52

  Chapter 19 Chapter 53

  Chapter 20 Chapter 54

  Chapter 21 Chapter 55

  Chapter 22 Chapter 56

  Chapter 23 Chapter 57

  Chapter 24 Chapter 58

  Chapter 25 Chapter 59

  Chapter 26 Chapter 60

  Chapter 27 Chapter 61

  Chapter 28 Chapter 62

  Chapter 29 Chapter 63

  Chapter 30 Chapter 64

  Chapter 31 Chapter 65

  Chapter 32 Chapter 66

  Chapter 33 Chapter 67

  Chapter 34 Chapter 68

  Chapter 69 Chapter 70

  Chapter 71 Chapter 72

  Chapter 73 Chapter 74

  Chapter 75 Chapter 76

  K.J. Rabane has written for local newspapers, had short stories published in magazines and an anthology of crime fiction, in addition to which she's written television scripts for an on-going drama series, which is ready for submission. She is also a commissioned contributor to the Food & Drink Guide and works as a freelance supporting artist for film and television productions.

  Her main interest is in writing crime fiction and psychological thrillers but her novel According to Olwen falls into neither category. All her books are full of idiosyncratic characters and her crime fiction novels are plot driven.

  Her poem Luminous socks was a finalist in the 2012 All Wales Poetry Competition and her novel, Who is Sarah Lawson? reached the quarter finals of The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award 2013 Competition. To check out a comprehensive list of all of K.J.Rabane's books visit www.kjrabane.com.

  Follow K.J.Rabane’s page on Facebook and K.J.Rabane on Twitterand Pintrest

  Chapter 1

  It was Thursday. I remember catching the bus to work, having lunch sitting in the park, and at five catching the bus back home in the rush hour traffic. I’ve gone over it again and again, not only to the police but also to myself, and my version of the day’s events doesn’t change.

  I walked down the lane from the bus stop; next door’s cat wrapped itself around my ankles and an ambulance siren wailed in the distance. When I put my key in the lock, I had no premonition of what I was to find. The hallway smelled, as it always did, of furniture polish and lavender air freshener. I heard the sound of a strange voice coming from the kitchen before I saw the plastic scooter lying on its side at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Sally, Jake, tea is ready – wash your hands first remember.” I took a step backwards in the direction of the front door. Maybe I’d entered the wrong house? But my key was still in my hand and it had turned in the lock. Then I heard children’s footsteps running down the stairs followed by a girl of about eight and a boy who looked a year or two younger. They glanced briefly in my direction then called out, “Mum, Aunty Sarah’s here.”

  At this point I was certain I was dreaming. I pinched my arm and felt a sharp pain shooting up to my shoulder as the kitchen door opened and a woman, with brown hair tied in a ponytail and wearing a floral apron, looked at me and said, “About time, where on earth have you been?”

  I was dumbstruck. Who was she and why was she using my house as if it was her home?

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  “Don’t start all that again, Sarah. If you want tea with the children you better say so, otherwise you’re going to make me late, I’m in the middle of cooking dinner.”

  The woman turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen from which came the aroma of coffee and baking. It crossed my mind to think that neither smell would be present in my kitchen as I didn’t drink coffee and hadn’t baked anything since I’d moved in.

  When my heart rate slowed to something approaching normal, I found the words tumbling out of my mouth in a torrent as I rushed after her. “Look, whoever you are, what on earth are you doing in my house? I don’t know you or your children and if I don’t get a satisfactory explanation, I’m going to phone the police immediately. I’d also like to point out that my name is not Sarah, it’s Rowena.”

  The woman was at the sink. She didn’t turn around but in a bored tone said, “I suppose you think that’s funny?”

  The children looked on open mouthed.

  “You’re the giddy limit, Sarah. You do realise you could frighten the children with all this nonsense.”

  The feeling of being lost in the middle of a nightmare swirled around me like thick fog. I sat on one of the kitchen chairs, unhooked the telephone from the wall, and dialled 999.

  “Emergency services? Police please. My name is Rowena Shaw and I live at 34, Bramble Lane, Lockford Heath.”

  The woman spun around.

  “Sarah, this has gone far enough. How dare you? You know the penalty for wasting police time. I don’t understand what’s got into you. Is it about Andy? Is that the reason?” She wiped her hands on a towel. “You’ll have some explaining to do, my girl, not only to the police but to Andy when he comes home.”

  I sat and stared at the unfamiliar scene – children eating their tea at the table I’d spent hours searching for, the woman preparing a meal for her husband. It seemed an age before the front doorbell rang. I stood up and went to answer it but before I could reach the hallway the woman hurried ahead of me and I smelled Mischief - my favourite perfume.

  Through the opened door I could see a tall man getting out of his car in the driveway and two police officers waiting on the step. The woman stood back as a WPC stepped inside, followed by a stocky policeman and the man whose car was parked in the driveway.

  “Miss Shaw?” The WPC looked at the woman first then turned to me.

  I sighed with relief. “Yes, that’s me”

  “Sarah?” The tall man took my arm. “What’s this all about?”

  I would say he was about six foot two maybe three with thick dark hair curling over his collar. He was wearing a business suit and carrying a laptop case. In the kitchen he spoke to the police officers.

  “Look, I’m sorry you’ve been troubled. Sarah is my sister and I’m afraid she’s been having some memory problems resulting from an accident.”

  I was even more baffled. I was his sister? This must be Andy. He looked noth
ing like me. For a start, my hair was the shade of pale blonde that people always found remarkable when they knew it hadn’t come out of a bottle, in addition to which he had dark brown eyes whereas mine were blue. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help looking for comparisons even though logic told me it was ridiculous to do so. I wanted to scream and shout but knew I would be playing into their hands. How easy it would be to write me off as suffering from delusions. Gradually my ‘brother’s’ words began to sink in as I watched the WPC taking notes - what was all this rubbish about an accident?

  After she’d closed her notebook, she sat down beside me. “Miss Shaw?”

  I could see what it must look like – the children, the husband and wife, all obviously at home in their kitchen and me, the mad aunt. How could I possibly explain that this was my house and I’d never seen any of them before? The man called Andy was talking to the policeman, his voice was lowered and I saw a look of sympathy etched on the police officer’s face. He nodded then spoke to his colleague, “I’m satisfied with the situation here. I think we should leave Mr and Mrs Lawson to finish their tea in peace.”

  He didn’t look at me. I opened and closed my mouth, aware that my sanity was hanging by a thread, unable to find the right words and frightened at the prospect of being left alone in my house with these strangers. As she stood in the doorway, the WPC put her hand on my arm. “If you need any assistance in future, Miss Shaw, please give me a ring.” She removed a card from her pocket and slipped it into my hand.

  I recognised that under the circumstances there was nothing more she could do so I nodded in bewilderment, as the door closed behind them leaving me staring at the tall man who ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Sarah. But if this goes on you do realise we’ll have to take you back to Dr Kilpatrick at the Hermitage.” He shot me a look of exasperation. “In view of this latest piece of nonsense, I think I should take you home right now.”

  He held my arm and marched me towards the front door. “I won’t be long, darling. Just taking Sarah home, put my dinner in the oven, I’ll eat it when I get back”

  I followed in a daze, part of me intrigued as to where he was taking me and where my ‘home’ might be, the rest of me wandering in a maze of confusion. The power to shape my own destiny disappeared as I slid into the front seat of his car with an uncomfortable feeling that this was just the start of it all.

  Chapter 2

  I felt physically sick as we drove away from my home. I had no choice but to wait and see where this man was taking me. He drove down the lane and on to the dual carriageway, switched on the car radio and didn’t speak throughout the journey. After a while, he took a slip road leading to a built up area then turned sharp left until we reached a block of flats.

  “I hope you understand that this finishes now, Sarah.” He opened the car door and waited until I was standing on the pavement. “No doubt you’ve lost your key again.” He dug his hand into his trouser pocket. “You can have mine, after I’ve seen you safely inside. Then I’ll have to get back. I haven’t time to spend listening to it all again this evening.”

  I looked up at the block of flats. They were unremarkable in appearance, probably built in the middle of the last century and with concrete balconies overlooking a square grassed area where children were playing. I wondered which featureless chicken coop was supposed to be mine. I’d tried getting the police involved and knew that my attempt had failed miserably. There was nothing for it but to see how far they intended to go with this deception and why.

  My flat, it appeared, was on the third floor. There were three further floors above, each as uninspiring as its predecessor. A lift smelling of disinfectant deposited us on a landing from which a door led to a covered walkway running outside the building. A row of drab coloured front doors, each with a brass number plate, stood in front of us, reminding me of a motel I’d stayed at in the States some years ago. Andy Lawson stopped outside number twenty-six, inserted a key then handed it to me.

  “Right then,” he sighed. “I suggest you make a cup of tea and have an early night. I’ll ring you tomorrow.” He bent to kiss my cheek but I turned away. “OK have it your own way.” He shut the door behind him and I heard his footsteps retreating and the gate at the end of the corridor closing with a clang.

  Leaning back against the wall, I closed my eyes. There was a faint smell of paint and something else. Tears slid down my cheeks as I realised it was lavender air freshener. Wiping my face with a tissue, I felt my shoe catch on something and looking down saw three letters on the mat. I picked them up, walked down the short passageway and in through the door facing me.

  The living room walls were newly painted a pale shade of primrose yellow, my favourite colour. The furniture was nondescript and signs of occupation littered the place, exactly as if I’d left in a hurry that morning to go to work. A newspaper lay on a side-table alongside an empty cup and a plate spattered with crumbs; the television remote rested on the arm of a chair where cushions showed evidence of an earlier occupation. I turned around and saw a digital radio and IPod on top of a waist-high wooden cabinet alongside which a book lay open with a National Trust bookmarker lodged in its pages.

  My pulse started to race as I walked into the bedroom. The duvet was rumpled but pulled up. I never straightened mine in the mornings, as I was always in a rush to get to work. An alarm clock blinked at me from a bedside table whilst I opened each drawer of the chest to reveal underclothes, make up bags, toiletries and a jewellery box. Inside the wardrobe the clothes were hung neatly on hangers, the scent of Mischief drifting out from within their folds. They were thorough, I had to give them that – but what purpose lay behind it all was a mystery and one, which I was determined to unravel. I decided that since my persecutors had gone to so much trouble I’d accept my new address whilst I planned what to do next.

  In the kitchen, I put the kettle on and looked out of the window towards a block of identical flats, and over the top of a row of terraced houses with small square front gardens, to a road crammed with parked cars. The tiny kitchen with its chipboard units painted cream was a far cry from those I’d installed at Bramble Lane. I’d chosen the new fitted kitchen so that it would be ready when I moved in, picked clean bright lines for the cabinets and bought a scrubbed pine table and chairs. Wiping away tears of frustration and confusion, I made a cup of tea and went to open the letters addressed to Sarah Lawson.

  The first wasn’t really a letter, it was a card encased in a plastic envelope announcing that there was a new range of Clarique make-up, which would be previewed at a reception in a local department store on the 28th of the month. I put it to one side and opened the next one, which was from Marks and Spencer sending me a new credit card. It came as no surprise to see that the name on the card was Sarah Lawson. The third envelope looked official, the logo of my bank stamped on the reverse of the envelope. I put it to one side as I finished drinking my tea.

  My aunt Fiona had died whilst I’d been living and working in London. The morning the letter arrived from her solicitors, I was shocked to discover that a relative, of whom I had little knowledge, had named me as her sole heir. She’d left me the house in Bramble Lane together with ninety thousand pounds.

  It was at a time when things were unravelling between Owen and me, our wedding plans were scrapped and, although the details were blurred, I do remember feeling that a move to the south coast was just what I needed. As I struggled with the memory I began to feel uneasy. Something was trying to resurface, a sense that today wasn’t the first time I’d heard the name Sarah Lawson. Aston and Cooper, the consultancy firm I worked for, had numerous clients, one of whom, I reasoned, could have been her.

  I’d intended to transfer to Lockford from London and still keep my position within the company but something had gone wrong. An uncomfortable feeling, that the day had not started out as I’d imagined, crept over me. Where had I been all day? I couldn’t remember having be
en to work, only coming home on the bus.

  The cheque from my aunt’s estate was sitting in my current account as I’d been planning to buy a new car and have a long break in the sunshine for which I needed to have easily accessible funds. I knew that Aston and Cooper owed me a protracted break from work in view of the Santa Monica deal, so maybe I was taking that break. At least I had money available to help me sort out this mess I thought, putting my empty teacup in the sink.

  The bank statement was on the kitchen table where I’d left it. My bank at least, but not my name, Sarah Lawson, yet again. I clenched my fists and bit my lip until I tasted blood then slid the statement out of the envelope and looked at the balance of the account, which stood at a miserable £153.46. So it was not only my name that my persecutors had stolen - predictably of the ninety thousand pounds there was no trace.

  Chapter 3

  At the bottom of a badly constructed Ikea cabinet, I found a half-empty bottle of brandy and poured a stiff measure into my teacup. The events of the day spun around in my head - none of it making any sense. After another brandy then another, anaesthetised, I slumped fully clothed on top of the rumpled duvet in the unfamiliar bedroom.

  Awaking some time later with a pounding headache and somewhat disorientated, I made for the bathroom and took two painkillers which were conveniently waiting on a shelf in the cabinet. My reflection stared back at me, dark circles under my eyes and a worried frown creasing my forehead. My image looked unfamiliar. Splashing my face with cold water, I went to answer the mobile phone, which was ringing from the depths of my handbag in the living room.

  “Hi, Sarah, it’s Lyn.” The voice was unknown to me. “I’m sorry to hear you still aren’t well. I just wanted you to know I’ve finished reading the proofs of Away with the Fairies so don’t worry about rushing back. Concentrate on getting better and we’ll see you when you feel up to it.”