Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller Read online

  “All in good time. Just tell me the bones of it so that I can decide what to do next.”

  “I’ve established contact, at last.”

  He was beginning to feel like M interviewing James Bond. “And?”

  “Apparently, Chloe and Jake have made friends. I did have to promise her a trip to Legoland as a bribe though.”

  Richie smiled.

  “Hannah Lawson asked if Chloe would like to come to play with Jack after school tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. Perhaps you could have a look around number thirty-four whilst you’re there. You know the kind of thing, decide whether the family are behaving as if it’s their house or if something doesn’t feel right.”

  “I don’t think that will be possible.”

  “No?”

  “The address she gave me is definitely not Bramble Lane - it’s somewhere entirely different.”

  Later, looking at the file Sandy had compiled he saw that the address Hannah Lawson had given was Byron Terrace. Accessing Google Earth on his laptop he traced the satellite image of the house. It was situated in the middle of a terrace, in an area nowhere near as prestigious as Bramble Lane. As he zoomed out of the district he caught sight of the block of flats where his client lived and noticed the proximity to Byron Terrace - it was no more than a ten minute walk away.

  The following day, as Sandy was about to leave the office to pick up Chloe and take her to Byron Terrace, he said, “Give me a ring when you get home, I’ll still be here. There are a few loose ends I need to tie up.”

  The phone call came at five to seven. Richie had ordered a Take Away and the office smelt of Sweet and Sour Pork and soggy chips.

  “I’m updating the file on my laptop right now,” Sandy said, “but I thought you’d like to know that the children aren’t Lawson’s. Their father lives in Byron Terrace. I’ll give you all the details tomorrow. Got to go now.”

  That night he dreamed of Lucy. She’d called him to say she was going to pick the kids up from the disco and he’d tried to dissuade her. “Tell them to take a taxi, Luce.” He’d kept repeating the words, but it was no use, she couldn’t hear him.

  He awoke drenched in sweat, his heart pounding; the illuminated figures on his bedside clock read five past four. The faint grey light of dawn was seeping in through his blinds, he couldn’t stay in bed, he was afraid. Lucy’s face hung before him like a fearful phantom and the thought of falling back into his dream shot him into wakefulness.

  After clearing his head by showering in tepid water, Richie dressed, got into his car and drove towards Byron Terrace. The morning traffic was almost non-existent. He passed a workman on a bike, a street cleaner humming his way down the road on a miniature electric dustcart, and a couple of early morning commuters driving in the direction of Lockford Heath Halt.

  The road stretched into the distance. On both sides stood featureless terraced houses that had been customised to a greater or lesser extent by their owners, depending on their taste or lack of it, gardens littered with debris, prams, broken bicycles and the detritus of modern-day living swirled around him. Sandy told him that she’d dropped Chloe off at number fifty-two, which was on the left hand side of the road. He drove to the end of the terrace, turned around and drove back then parked opposite number fifty-two. Taking a road map from the glove compartment, he spread it out over the steering wheel in an attempt to persuade casual onlookers that he was searching for his destination.

  There was little or no movement in the road. Occasionally someone opened their door, got into their car and drove off. But it wasn’t until seven o’clock that traffic increased and the occupants began to surface like ants from an anthill.

  At a quarter past eight the door of number fifty-two opened and a stocky man emerged, he had a shaved head and was dressed in a red tee shirt with the name of a DIY store written in large navy letters across his chest. Ten minutes later a woman wearing a pair of grey jogger trousers and a grey fleece top opened the door followed by two children whom she bundled into the back seat of battered Ford Fiesta that stood at the kerb.

  In view of his client’s and Sandy’s experiences over the last few days, it didn’t take a genius to deduce that the children were Jake and Sally Lawson.

  Chapter 19

  It was odd sleeping at home again, especially with strangers in the house. At least the couple were using the large master bedroom at the front. I’d never liked it preferring the room overlooking the back garden with its square bay window and upholstered window seat.

  Thankfully they’d left it untouched, it was the spare room they said. I was sure I wouldn’t sleep a wink but my body had different ideas. I sank into the bed and before I knew it I was dreaming. It was a dream like many others, confused, populated by people I seemed to know and situations that appeared perfectly normal however strange they actually were. I slept until I heard someone knocking on my door and awoke to a room that smelled familiar, was flooded with sunlight, and the sound of birdsong drifting in through the open window.

  Hannah Lawson stood in the doorway. “Breakfast’s ready. How did you sleep?”

  “Fine thanks. I’ll be down in a sec,.” I replied.

  Breakfast and the drive home passed in a flash and soon I was back in the dismal flat. Something made me try Owen’s number again; it was probably the dream, he was the only one of my night-time companions that I’d recognised on waking. But there was still no answer just the same depressing answerphone message.

  Richard Stevens’s suggestion that I try to find my photograph album had given me something to do. First I searched the flat, which took less than an hour. There was nothing hidden, I hadn’t really expected that there would be, the place was a shoebox, which had been hastily put together for my arrival, hiding anything was virtually impossible.

  I was beginning to think that spending the night with the Lawsons hadn’t been such a bad idea after all, by accepting their lies as truth they might relax and allow me to do some baby-sitting.

  I picked up the phone. “Hannah? It’s Sarah,” I said the name through gritted teeth.

  “Sarah?”

  “I just wanted to thank you both for last night. I know I’ve been a bit of a pain lately but I’ve come to my senses. Put it down to hormones, Andy usually does. Anyway I thought I’d like to make it up to you by offering to baby-sit one night. What do you think?”

  I could almost see her face, hear her weighing up my sudden change of heart and deciding what to do about it. In reality all I heard was a slight hesitation in her voice. “Er, yes, yes that would be great. Thanks, Sarah. I’ll have a word with Andy and get back to you.”

  I mentally patted myself on my back. I only hoped I could keep up the pretence when I came face to face with them both, last night had been quite an ordeal one way and another.

  Later that day, it must have been about half – five, I heard the roar of a sports car drawing up. If I hadn’t been bored with the book I was reading, I might not have moved across to the window. Voyeurism had become a bit of a habit since I lost my identity.

  The car belonged to the Grace Kelly look-alike who lived opposite. I watched as my neighbour slid her long legs out of the sports car. This time she was dressed in a black pencil skirt that rested on her knees and a crisp white blouse with a ruffle at the neck. She was carrying a laptop case.

  I was so engrossed in watching her that for a moment I didn’t see her companion as he opened the passenger-side door, closed it with a whisper and followed her into her flat. However, I had recognised him as soon as he’d taken the car keys from the woman and locked the car with a flourish, exaggerating the gesture to full effect. It was Neil Stafford.

  Surely this was one coincidence too far? He knew Andy Lawson, was he also playing a part in this deception? Would that explain why his girlfriend was living in such an unsuitable location? Was she watching my every move? Aware that paranoia was threatening my sanity, I took a deep breath and tried replacing it with logic. But my
thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing so I dragged myself away from the window to answer it.

  “Hannah says you’ve come to your senses at last.”

  “Andy!” I tried to put as much enthusiasm into my voice as possible. “I’m sorry to have caused you so much trouble.”

  The sigh was palpable. It echoed down the phone line and slid like a snake into my ear. “Am I glad to hear it. I gather you’re willing to baby-sit?”

  “Of course – anytime.”

  “What about this weekend then? Saturday night all right?”

  “No problem. What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “Stay the night?”

  After the phone call, I rang Richard Stevens and left a message on his answer phone telling him of my plans for the weekend. Perhaps his strategy would pay off. Only time would tell.

  Chapter 20

  My house no longer smelled familiar. There was no scent of lavender air-freshener in the hallway, no lingering traces of furniture polish and the fresh smell of clothes left to dry in the utility room. I inhaled the remains of the children’s meal and a faint aroma of sweaty socks coming from a linen basket at the side of the sink.

  “Jake’s in bed, Sarah. Sally’s had her bath and she’s watching a DVD. We’ve told her she must be in bed by eight.”

  “Is she allowed a story?” I asked placing my overnight bag at the bottom of the staircase.

  “The usual, you know what she likes, but no Harry Potter. She always has nightmares that she’s being chased by giant spiders or worse.” She was wearing a black shift dress and gold jewellery. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in soft curls. I thought she looked older. “This is good of you,” she said. “We do appreciate it. We won’t be late but don’t stay up if your tired. Just make yourself at home.”

  I bit my lip until I felt the blood flow. What else could I do? This was my home. Dabbing at my cut lip with a handkerchief, I followed her into the living room overlooking the garden where my ‘brother’ was giving Sally last minute instructions as to how she should behave.

  “You be good for Aunty Sarah now my girl and who knows I might buy you that new Hannah Montana DVD.” He was bending down in front of the child and seeing me he stood up. “Hi, Sarah, don’t take any nonsense from little Miss Busy remember.” He turned to his wife. “Right then, if you’re ready, darling, we’ll be off.”

  I watched the end of Sally’s DVD sitting next to her on the sofa I’d bought in Marks and Spencer’s end of season sale.

  “It’s time for bed,” I said turning off the TV.

  “Aw, it’s still early. It’s not dark.” I shook my head and held out my hand. Reluctantly she agreed but with a condition. “Can I have a story though?”

  “Of course. Now let’s get your teeth cleaned then I’ll tuck you up in bed. Be nice and quiet, there’s a good girl, Jake’s asleep.”

  We passed a door with JAKE’S ROOM in bright letters written on a balsawood sign. Sally pressed her fingers to her lips.

  After a superficial teeth cleaning session she ran to her bedroom, threw open the door and took a flying leap on to her bed. “Harry Potter, can I have a chapter of Harry Potter please, Aunty Sarah?”

  “Um, no, not exactly; Mummy said you mustn’t, not before you go to sleep. Let me see, what else do you like?”

  “The Worst Witch.”

  I smiled remembering my childhood enthusiasm for the same book. I didn’t think that there was anything too frightening within its cover. So taking the book from the shelf, I began to read the first chapter.

  As I read, the years slid back and I was in Scotland, my parents were alive and the sound of the Dalkeiths arguing next door competed with my father’s soft voice as he read to me. Sally’s eyelids began to droop and I kissed her goodnight without thinking; it wasn’t the child’s fault, after all.

  Leaving the door open, I went downstairs and began a methodical search of the living room in an attempt to find my photograph album. I faintly remembered bringing one with me from London. It was an A4 sized album with a butterfly motif on the cover. Inside I’d arranged a selection of photos from my childhood up until the time I started work at Ashton and Cooper. Being an only child there were no sibling photographs just my progression from infancy to school uniform, teenage dances, a succession of boyfriends, culminating in the ones of Owen and me. My holiday snaps I’d abandoned, there were too many and besides I had my memories so didn’t need them. At least I think they were my memories.

  After an hour of fruitless search, I moved into the dining room. The cabinet where I’d kept my crockery was full of plates I didn’t recognise, well-worn dishes and brightly coloured napkins. I lifted up a linen tablecloth and felt a flat square shape underneath. But after further inspection it turned out to be just a cardboard box containing steak knives and forks.

  Where had they put it? It wasn’t in the flat - it had to be here - somewhere. Night was falling as I stood in the kitchen and switched on the kettle. The grey twilight had deepened into darkness. At the bottom of the garden the summerhouse stood limed by moonlight. Now let’s see, I thought. I turned on the garden light and leaving the kitchen door open, followed its beams down the crazy-paved path to the summerhouse.

  The curtains were closed, as were the blinds on the glass doors. I twisted the door handles but they were locked. Remembering that in the third flowerpot to the left of the sundial was where I usually kept the spare key, I thrust my hand into the space between the fronds of the palm plant and the side of the pot and felt around in the compost. I breathed a sigh of relief as my fingers closed around the key. It turned in the lock.

  Inside, it smelled of wood. I loved that fresh pinewood smell. Aunt Fiona had installed electricity and for that I was grateful, as I clicked on the light. One by one I lifted up the seats to reveal the storage units beneath but it wasn’t until I came to the last one that I saw the album nestling under a rug. I could have cried as I sat on the floor cradling it in my arms. However, before I could open it I heard an ear-splitting scream followed by a howl of sheer terror. It was coming from Sally’s bedroom. I switched off the light, making a mental note to return later to lock up and then ran into the house and up the stairs to her room.

  Her face was streaked with tears, “I, I, there was a witch at the bottom of my bed,” she whimpered. Thankfully the disturbance didn’t appear to have awakened Jake.

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. It’s just a dream. I’m here, don’t worry.”

  “I want my Daddy,” she said quietly.

  “Mummy and Daddy will be back soon and don’t forget, Daddy said he’d buy you that DVD if you’re a good girl.”

  “He’s not my daddy,” she replied cuddling into me. “He’s just Andy.”

  Chapter 21

  According to Sandy the children spent every other weekend and sometimes part of the week at the house on Byron Terrace with their father and stepmother. Hannah Lawson had been less than forthcoming with information but Sandy had heard it from Rozanna, another mother at the school, who knew the family.

  Rozanna, a garrulous individual, was only too keen to divulge snippets of information at every opportunity. To date she’d managed to disclose that Hannah had been married to Andy Lawson for four years, maybe less. Apparently she’d met him at work when she’d lived in Birmingham. Afterwards, her former husband, an unemployed lay-about called Bill Young, had managed to find work in Lockford and had moved to Byron Terrace. However, Hannah had chosen to stay in Birmingham and she and Andy had set up home together with her children. Sandy said that Rozanna had been as surprised as anyone when she’d discovered that Hannah had bought a house in Bramble Lane, which was a far cry from the houses on Byron Terrace

  Richie decided the time had come to tell his client of the latest developments when coincidentally Sandy rang through on the internal line. “Your client wants to know if she can speak to yo
u.”

  “Which client?”

  “The only one you’ve got at present,” Sandy reminded him.

  “Tell her to call in whenever she likes.”

  Then he heard Sandy say, “Go right in, Miss Shaw.”

  She was flushed, excited and carrying a photo album, which she removed from a plastic carrier and thrust across the desk in front of him.

  “I found it.” She stood at his side as he reached across and picked up the album.

  He could feel her breath on the back of his neck as she bent forward unable to hide her eagerness. The first few pages showed a baby’s progression through infancy, schooldays and teenage years. After establishing the identity of her parents and her younger self, he continued turning the pages until he saw the emergence of what looked to be a boyfriend.

  “Who’s this?” he asked pointing to a photograph of a man with his arm around her waist and the fuzzy outline of someone standing to one side of them.

  “Owen. Owen Madoc.”

  He recognised the name instantly but showed no outward sign of it. Richie peered at the man standing behind Madoc whose face was in shadow and half turned away. He could have sworn it was Lawson. He hesitated but saw no hint of recognition on her face. When he closed the album, she walked around the desk and sat in the chair in front of him.

  “This proves it.”

  “What exactly?”

  “Can you see any evidence in these photos of my brother, sister-in-law or their family?”

  Richie was about to say yes but thought better of it, for the moment.

  “It proves that I’ve had a life entirely independent of any of them.”

  “Mmm, I understand where you’re coming from but we need more than a few photos to build up our case.”