Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller Read online

  For a moment I was speechless.

  “I don’t understand. Why would you think I wasn’t well?” I stopped myself asking why I should be reading proofs of any kind, although the title was apt under the circumstances.

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a beat then the woman replied,” Your brother called Suzanne in Personnel. We all understand; it must have been frightful for you. Get well soon. Got to go, bye.”

  This was just too much. Anger fought with fear as I succumbed to a self-pitying bout of tears, which left me with puffy eyes and an aching throat. So Sarah Lawson had colleagues who were concerned about her welfare, and she was some kind of proof- reader, well that was a start. Next, there was the problem of finances. If I was to discover what was going on, I needed money - one hundred and fifty pounds would be gone in no time.

  Later, I made an appointment to see the bank manger for the following day, in the vain hope that I might be able to access my own account. Then sat down and began to make a list. Funds first and afterwards I’d hire a private detective. Next, I’d ask around to see if anyone recognised me because, although I hadn’t lived in Bramble Lane for more than a month or two, I’d spoken to the old lady who lived in the house with ivy creeping over the front porch and the man living further up the lane who regularly walked his dog.

  I began to feel more positive as I placed the notepad in my handbag and made a cup of tea. How was the bank manager going to react when he saw me and not Sarah Lawson I wondered? Feeling confident that this subterfuge was about to unravel before it had a chance to knit together, I opened a packet of biscuits I’d found in a cupboard and had eaten two before I realised they were my favourite kind.

  The sun shone, through a gap in the thin pink cotton curtains that I wouldn’t have bought in a fit and crept up the duvet cover to my face, making me blink. The previous day had passed without further incident; neither my brother nor sister-in-law had rung so I’d been left to my own devices. What was the reason behind total strangers invading my house and robbing me of my name? The answer to that was clear enough – ninety thousand pounds and a house in Bramble Lane.

  In the wardrobe, I found clothes which more or less fitted and were neatly hung and pressed. In the bathroom, I stepped into the trickle of lukewarm water spilling out of the showerhead and washed, longing for the cleansing force of my power shower. I imagined Andy and his family using my new bathroom, the children splashing in my outsized bathtub and their mother making up her face in the mirror. Turning off the apology for a shower, I dried my body with the rough towel that stood on a rack near the bath and began to outline a plan of attack. Selecting a pale grey trouser suit and crisp white cotton blouse from the clothes in the wardrobe, I tied my hair back into a wispy knot, applied make-up and walked purposefully out of the flat.

  I’d become used to travelling by public transport since moving into Bramble Lane, as the journey to town was short and it didn’t seem worth using my car and going to the trouble of finding a parking place. Now I had no choice. What had they done with it? Andy had been driving a navy BMW, so where were they hiding my silver grey Audi? I felt tears of anger pricking my eyelids.

  The bus was crowded. I sat alongside a young man with an IPhone earpiece glued to his ear and sighed as two women sitting in front of me coughed and sneezed their germs into the air. Eventually, the bus stopped at the bottom of the High Street and I followed the rest of the alighting passengers into the busy street.

  Inside the bank, a middle-aged woman wearing a name badge showed me into the manager’s office. “Miss Lawson, please sit down,” he said, and my heart sank as I removed the statement from my handbag.

  “I was surprised at the balance of this account,” I began, “perhaps you could take a look at it for me?”

  The manager’s nameplate stood on his desk. Mr Briggs smiled at me, glanced at the statement then typed in a command on his computer keyboard. “This appears to be correct,” he said.

  “Really? Then perhaps it might be possible for you to trace another account for me? Sometime ago I had an account of mine transferred from your Regent Street branch in the name of Rowena Shaw.”

  He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “I’m afraid, I don’t understand.”

  “It’s my business account. I use the name professionally. You’ll find it in your records. I’ll give you my signature as proof of identity - you must have it on file.” I could hear a note of panic creeping into my voice. He’d recognised me as Sarah Lawson, even clasped my hand like we were old friends. He was looking at me now as if I’d lost my mind.

  He turned to the computer screen and tapped the keyboard.

  “There should be a balance of over ninety thousand pounds in the account,” I explained.

  Turning to face me once more, he frowned. “First, let me say, Miss Lawson that this is a most irregular request. I’ve searched our account database for verification purposes only, to see if we carry an account in the name of Rowena Shaw. But I must stress that under no circumstances would I be able to divulge any details of the contents of that account to you – not without strict controls to establish your right to access the account. A signature alone would not qualify I’m afraid.” He looked uncomfortable. “However, as it turns out, no such account in that name exists in our branch at this present time.”

  Trying to regain an appearance of composure after such news was difficult but I think I managed to sound plausible. “You must think I’m a real scatterbrain, Mr Briggs. I’m afraid I’ve let things slide financially. Of course my business account must still be held in London. I’ll contact them later. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

  “No problem. Is there anything else I can do for you?” He sounded relieved.

  “Er, yes, as a matter of fact there is. Could you tell me how the rest of my accounts stand at present, it will save me having to queue at your enquiry desk on the way out.”

  I was praying there were other accounts and Sarah Lawson wasn’t quite as impoverished as she appeared to be.

  “Of course, now let’s see.” He turned back to his computer screen. “Ah, yes, your Deposit Account stands at two thousand five hundred and ninety pounds, and of course there is a Savings Account with a current balance of three thousand pounds.”

  I smiled. “Thank you so much for your help. I’d like to make arrangements to close both the Deposit and Savings Accounts and transfer the balances to my current account, please.”

  He looked as if he was about to make a suggestion, stared at me for a moment, changed his mind, and opening the top drawer of his desk, removed a transfer slip and asked me to ‘sign on the dotted line’.

  I held my breath – this must be the time he’d see that Sarah Lawson’s signature didn’t tally with his office records. But he hardly gave the signature a second glance – why would he – he knew me and I was signing the form in front of him – why would he bother to check?

  I thanked him despondently and shook his outstretched hand.

  “Anytime, Miss Lawson. Give my regards to Andy. Tell him I look forward to our game on Sunday and even more so to the nineteenth hole afterwards.” He laughed at his own joke and walked me to the door.

  Later, sitting in Starbucks, my hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate large enough to drown in, I pondered on the fact that the bank manager had no difficulty in accepting my identity as Sarah Lawson, the problem only arose when I’d tried to make him accept me as Rowena Shaw. Was it a coincidence that he just happened to be a golfing buddy of the man who was professing to be my brother?

  The scars under my hairline began to prickle uncomfortably; removing my hand from the mug, I absent-mindedly massaged them and stared into the street.

  Chapter 4

  Through the window of Starbucks, I saw a child wearing a shiny yellow raincoat jumping in a puddle before being swiftly yanked away by a frustrated mother pushing a pram. Rain slid down the steamed up windowpane as I drank the remains of my hot chocolate and
wondered if there was anyone in this world who knew me.

  Feeling foolish, I searched through the contacts in the mobile phone that belonged to Sarah Lawson. It was a hopeless task as none of the numbers were ones I recognised, until with a shock I saw the name Owen Madoc.

  I hesitated and let my fingers trace the number on the screen. One by one I punched in the digits until I heard the ring tone. I waited until a mechanical voice cut in asking if I wanted to leave a message then rang off. He might pick up his missed calls – he might ring – only fate would decide if I heard from him again, my courage had run out.

  Next, I thought about the money remaining in the amalgamated bank account in Sarah Lawson’s name and presumably the sick pay from my phantom job that would still be paid into the account. Not a fortune but enough to hire a private detective and to live on for a short time. Taking the bus back to my flat, I decided to search the yellow pages as soon as I could. I got off at the stop on the main road and walked down the path and across the square of grass.

  “What weather eh, Sarah, perfect for ducks?” An elderly man in a shabby raincoat and wide brimmed hat was feeding the birds soggy bread from a plastic carrier.

  I lowered my umbrella. “You know me?”

  “It’s Arthur, love. Didn’t you recognise me in my old hat?”

  The shower turned heavier and before I could reply the old man shuffled away and disappeared into a doorway at the end of the ground floor corridor. I followed but was confronted by a line of faceless doors and short of knocking on every one I had no hope of finding him.

  Inside Sarah Lawson’s flat, I shivered and wrapped my arms tightly around my body. The old man had called me Sarah and I had no idea who he was. Before I began my search, of the directory for someone who I hoped would make my world return to normal, I took two painkillers to stop the ceaseless pounding in my temple.

  Never having been in the position of having to hire a detective before, I didn’t know where to start. Two large advertisements in the yellow pages caught my eye. The first read - Drayton and Douglas Associates, divorce, missing persons and burglary cases undertaken in complete privacy, our motto is discretion in all things; the second announcing that no case was too large or too small made me hesitate, until I saw that their offices were on the outskirts of town. Not having any transport, I ruled them both out. Then at the bottom of the page I noticed a small advertisement - Richard Stevens, Private Investigator, Hastings Buildings, 23, High Street, Lockford. Perfect, I thought, an address that was on my bus route. I rang, spoke to a secretary who sounded about twelve, and made an appointment for the following morning at eleven fifteen.

  It rained all night. I tossed and turned in the uncomfortable bed until finally drifting into a disturbed sleep in the early hours of the morning. After breakfast, I dressed, and tried to cover the dark circles under my eyes with make-up.

  The rain had stopped, leaving behind a raw wind that had clouds racing across the sky like Olympian athletes. Shivering in my thin coat, I waited in the bus shelter with something akin to hope. The journey to town took fifteen minutes and the bus stopped a few metres away from Hastings Buildings. In the street, I glanced at my watch; it was five minutes past eleven. I never liked to be late for an appointment, if nothing else, I knew I was always punctual.

  Hastings Buildings was a three-storied block of blackened sandstone. Inside the front door, a small reception area stood to my left and facing me was a staircase and a row of nameplates screwed into the wall. I ran my finger down the list of names until I found Richard Stevens then followed the staircase to the next floor.

  An opaque glass door greeted me through which I could make out a shadowy distorted figure moving about like a ripple on a lake. A bell pinged as I entered. The receptionist was in her mid to late twenties but the impression of a young girl persisted. She was dressed in a short black skirt and white blouse and looked as if she was on her way to school.

  “Rowena Shaw, I’m here to see Mr Stevens,” I said.

  “Right, Miss Shaw.” She picked up the phone on her desk. “Your eleven fifteen is here, Mr Stevens.” She looked up at me. “He says to go on in.”

  Richard Stevens stood up as I entered, walked around his desk and held out his hand. “Miss Shaw, do sit down.” He pulled a chair away from the desk so that when he was seated I was facing him with the desk separating us.

  He was in his early forties with a lived-in face and lock of thick sandy coloured hair which flopped on to his forehead. Two deep lines were etched between his eyes giving him a permanent frown. From his expression I could see his thoughts flitting over his face like a transparency projected onto a canvas. He was trying to make an instant assessment. He waited for me to speak.

  “I need your help, Mr Stevens. Someone is trying to make me believe I’m not me.” Aware that the words sounded ridiculous, I smiled, but was certain it appeared more like a grimace.

  “O...K.” He picked up the phone. “Coffee for two, Miss. Smith, one with two sugars.”

  “Not coffee for me, tea if you have it?”

  “Make that one coffee and one tea then, Miss Smith.”

  He chatted about the weather and where I lived until the drinks arrived then handed me the teacup, which was liberally laced with sugar. I accepted it without commenting that I didn’t take sugar and drank the glutinous dark liquid. Surprisingly I began to feel better.

  “Now then, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what this is really about.”

  Gradually I told him of the events which had led me to his door and when I’d finished, he got up, walked over to the window and looked down into the street before turning to face me.

  I said, “I am able to employ you for two weeks but my funds are limited and after that…?”

  “Let’s not worry about my fee for the moment, after all if I can solved this case there is always your aunt’s inheritance to recover. We can reach an agreement as to my costs then.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “You’ll take the case?”

  “Certainly. In fact you’ve caught me at a slack period professionally speaking; I’ll get on to it right away.”

  Initial impressions are not always reliable but I had the strong feeling that whatever else he turned out to be, I could trust Richard Stevens. It was comforting to know that at least someone was prepared to believe I was not stark staring mad. I left Hastings Buildings with a lightness of spirit that had not been evident upon my arrival. Outside, the wind had strengthened and my hair blew into my eyes.

  “Hi, Sarah, fancy seeing you here.” A man in a business suit and carrying a laptop case bent forward and kissed my cheek. He was a total stranger.

  Chapter 5

  Richie Stevens watched her walking down the High Street, saw a man bend to kiss her cheek, and the look of bewilderment on her face. At first sight she was an enigma, but he had no doubt that the case, like many others, would turn out to be a matter of routine. However, watching the wind whipping her hair across her face, he had to admit there was something bothering him about her. It was something to do with her face - it didn’t suit her. Opening a new folder on his computer, he typed in the words – Who is Sarah Lawson? At the end of his investigations, he hoped to have the answer.

  It was on days like this, when the wind whistled around the building and sunbeams trapped dust like dancing divas, his past begged to be let in. He remembered the day his promotion came through, Lucy had said, “Inspector Richard Stevens of the Metropolitan Police will still have to empty the dishwasher so don’t let it go to your head, my love.”

  He’d been on the force for over twenty years and was looking forward to retiring in his fifties with a sizeable pension. The kids were growing up and life was good, that was until the night Lucy had gone into town to pick up the twins from a disco. She was on her way home when a drunk driver ploughed into her car. He got three years. It was a joke. Phillip Heaton’s name was forever etched into his brain, every slice of the scalpel more
painful than the last. He was the scum responsible for the loss of Richie’s family - a punk who drove without either insurance or a licence and who regularly ignored his driving ban.

  Somehow, Richie managed to work through the three years after it happened. But seeing Heaton, in the public bar of the Horse and Jockey that Wednesday evening, he’d lost it and given him a long overdue beating. Although his colleagues had sympathised and privately applauded his behaviour, he knew that his suspension from the force was inevitable. Public sympathy wasn’t with Phillip Heaton. Even the press had gone easy on Richie but it was no use, he couldn’t face living in London. As soon as the sale of the house had been completed, he moved to a flat in Lockford, where he wouldn’t be able to see Lucy’s face around every corner.

  Richie opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a plastic evidence bag then gingerly holding the teacup with the pink kiss mark around the rim, he dropped it into the bag. As he placed it in his drawer he frowned. It would soon join the rest in the small kitchen cupboard, once he’d decided that her fingerprints were of no further use to him. But it was his belief that you should never make snap judgements and he’d learned from experience that a little initial groundwork usually paid dividends in the end.

  His mobile phone began to vibrate on the desk, followed by the introductory bars of Brubeck’s ‘Take Five”. He glanced at the display. It was Mick.

  “How’s it hanging?” his voice crackled above the sound of traffic.

  “Nothing for you, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll pop in anyway as I’m just outside. See you in a mo.”

  Mick Parsons worked for the Lockford Heath Courier and was desperate to move to one of the mainstream tabloids. But Richie was pragmatic – divorces, theft and missing persons were an unlikely breeding ground for the scoop Mick so fervently desired.