by K. J. Rabane
Having managed to persuade him that there really was nothing doing, Richie walked into the outer office where Sandy was busy filing her nails. “Anything new?” he asked.
“Nah. But I’ve made up a new file for Rowena Shaw. Printed off the computer documents and filed it away under S.”
Richie nodded. Contrary to appearances, Sandy was efficiency personified. It was a mystery why she wasn’t working for the managing director of a Multi-National company for a grossly inflated sum, instead of sitting behind a desk in his office working for a pittance. He’d asked her once but she’d fobbed him off with some excuse - ‘Why kill myself – this suits me - only so many clothes you can wear and I’ve got plenty, as for the rest - I’ve bagged me a rich boyfriend - besides, I like working here.’
“Thank-you, Miss Smith,” he said. “Please continue filing your nails. I’ve work to do, so you can catch me on my mobile if anything urgent turns up. Oh and by the way, take a long lunch hour; I’ll be back later this afternoon.”
He heard her chuckling as he closed the door. When she first started working for him he called her Miss Smith and she’d laughed saying that he made her sound like a maiden aunt. So from then it was an accepted ‘in joke’ between them.
Hastings Buildings had a small underground car park for its occupants, which was situated at the rear of the property. At the bottom of the stairs was a side door to the basement. Richie inserted a Yale key into the lock and the heavy door swung open to reveal a stone staircase leading to the car park.
He’d bought a new car when he’d set up the business – a Toyota saloon. He remembered the smell of the interior and the thrill of driving it after the battered old Ford he’d driven after the accident. The car was now four years old but it still felt new, even though it could do with a clean and the offside back wing was dented. He clicked his remote and the car’s internal locking system flew open with a flash and a beep that echoed around the car park. After choosing a compilation of Jazz classics on his sound system, he drove into the street in the direction of Number 34, Bramble Lane.
Chapter 6
It took Richie nearly half an hour to reach the house; there’d been a delay on the outskirts of town. He left the main road, drove down a wide side road lined with bungalows, and took a right turn into a pleasant tree-lined avenue of large detached and semi-detached houses. Number thirty-four was half way down on the left hand side. It was detached and stood behind a high stonewall; it looked quite impressive from his restricted viewpoint. Mature trees lined the driveway and he caught a brief glimpse of a neat lawn bordered by flowers.
Removing a clipboard from the boot of his car and attaching a badge of officialdom to his lapel – they never looked too closely he’d always found – he walked up the driveway to the front door.
It was two-fifteen. He guessed that the children would be in school and Lawson would be at work, which just left Mrs Lawson. He rang the bell, which was followed, soon after, by the sound of footsteps. The door was opened by a woman in her mid thirties with brown hair that hung to her shoulders. She was wearing denim jeans and a white tee shirt. She eyed him suspiciously through the half-opened door.
“Good day. Mrs Lawson?”
She nodded.
“Mrs Hannah Lawson?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m sorry. I’m new to this game.” He gave her one of his little-boy-lost looks.
“Eric Bradley.” He held up his clipboard. “I’m from the council. We’re doing a survey into refuse collection in the area and I wondered if you could spare some time to answer a few questions in order to help us improve the service.” She was about to say no. He could see it in her eyes. “I realise this is an intrusion. To be perfectly honest I’d rather be sitting behind my desk right now. I’m hopeless dealing with the general public, but what with the cut backs and all, well - here I am.” He started to turn away from the door, but as he’d anticipated she called him back.
“OK but please keep it short, I’m busy.”
He thanked her profusely and began by asking when her bins were collected, was the service efficient etc,. After running down a list of questions, he finished by thanking her for her time and apologising for any inconvenience. She’d shut the door before he started to walk back down the drive.
Later, Richie parked on the Common and glanced at his clipboard. Refuse collection in Bramble Lane took place on Monday mornings, around eight-fifteen. Hannah Lawson said she found the timing a nuisance as she was usually backing out of her drive in order to take her children to school. Her annoyance stemmed from the fact that she had to negotiate the pile of bin bags the refuse collectors had accumulated outside her house, whilst waiting for the slow progress of the lorry down the lane.
His brief assessment of her had been of a capable, possibly strong-minded woman. She’d looked at home in the house and gave no sign of recent occupancy of the property. In fact she gave the appearance of having dealt with the Monday morning collection on a regular basis. He thought her annoyance seemed to be genuine.
Richie sighed; at least he knew when to pick up the refuse sack full of a week’s worth of rubbish. You never knew what was lurking in rubbish bags. The contents might reveal a clue as to why Rowena Shaw believed the Lawsons were trying to steal not only her house but also her identity.
He intended to beat the bin men next Monday. Lawson’s wife had told him that her husband usually put the bags out on Sunday evenings, but as he couldn’t be sure of the timing of this event, he decided that half-past five on the following Monday morning would be the best time to execute his plan.
Entering Hastings Buildings at a quarter to four, Richie heard the sound of voices coming from his office. He raced up the stairs to find Mick Parsons sitting on Sandy’s desk, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“I thought I told you….,” Richie began.
“I know old fruit but I had the urge to see the delectable Miss Smith before I went home to write up copy on a boring visit to the W.I. by a member of the Gardener’s Question Time panel.” He stubbed his cigarette out in Sandy’s paper-clip tray. “By the way what are you working on at the moment? Sandy said you were out on a case.”
Richie glared at her.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Ah, so there is something.” Mick aimed a self-satisfied grin in Richie’s direction.
“I’ll give you the nod once there’s anything positive to report, I promise. Now clear off and take your fag ends with you. Open the window, Miss Smith. There’s a bad smell in here.”
Mick Parsons grinned. “I’ll be in touch.”
As the reporter’s footsteps clattered down the stairs, Sandy said, “Well?”
“Let’s just say, I think we are about to experience the most fascinating case this agency has ever had on its books, Miss Smith.”
“Wow!”
“Wow indeed and if you’d like to bring in your notebook, we’ll make a start right away.
Chapter 7
Dawn broke leaching a pale pewter light through his bedroom curtains. Richie silenced his alarm with an annoyed slap and groaning, showered, and dressed, in his sleep-deprived state. The sky had grown dark; rain-bearing clouds hung over the town threatening a downpour.
He lived in a block of flats overlooking the river and was on nodding acquaintance with his neighbours, who seemed to change by the hour, the flats being generally bought for quick sale investment purposes. But Richie wasn’t going anywhere. The isolation suited him; he’d had enough of kindly neighbours to last him a lifetime. After the accident, they couldn’t do enough for him. Mrs Merchant and Miss Tillett living in the houses next-door made it their business to call on him with casseroles, cakes, and kind words, until he’d felt suffocated under a mountain of solicitude.
The janitor, who was cleaning the foyer, grunted a good morning when Richie appeared dressed for jogging in a black lightweight tracksuit then carried on swabbing the floor with a mop.
&nbs
p; The morning air was crisp and, as he headed for his car, he could feel the first spots of rain on his cheek. Inserting his key in the ignition, Richie noticed that the light shower was turning heavier by the minute. Good, he thought, there was nothing like heavy rain to keep the early risers indoors. Traffic was sporadic and the drive took him twenty minutes. He parked on the corner of Bramble Lane outside a bungalow that looked as if it had seen better days. He assessed that by the condition of the place an elderly person lived there, as the curtains hung limply at the windows and grubby grey nets grew in abundance.
Tugging his hood over his head, Richie jogged in the direction of number thirty-four. The bin bag stood outside on the pavement. Skirting it, he ran the length of the road to where it petered out into a track, which wound through the woods and then retraced his steps whilst watching to see if anyone was up and about at number thirty-four. He was wet through, so shaking the worst of it from his hood, he jogged back along the pavement picking up the black bag with a fluidity of movement that surprised him. Increasing his pace, he reached his car, slid the plastic bag into the boot and drove back to Hastings Buildings. The office filing room was the place to search through rubbish, not in his flat; you just never knew what you’d find or in what condition, he thought dragging the bag up the stairs.
After making a cup of strong black coffee and taking a biscuit from Sandy’s secret store, he changed out of his wet clothes and hung them in the filing room. Then pulling on the dry tracksuit he’d brought with him, he sat on the floor to inspect the rubbish from the house in Bramble Lane. After lining the floor with plastic sheeting, he opened the small window. The room was not much larger than a store cupboard, with shelving units, containing stationary and office equipment, on either side almost meeting in the centre. Richie pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, opened the neck of the bin bag then tipped its contents on to the floor. The first thing he noticed was the lack of smell and rotting food scraps. Gingerly, he lifted up plastic containers, cardboard packing, empty beer and coke cans but the story was the same. Either the Lawson family permanently ate out or had an efficient food recycling system. He supposed there was always the faint possibility that they used the house infrequently and ate in another property altogether. He didn’t consider the latter premise in depth as it could be easily verified upon further investigation.
Picking over the remnants scattered at his feet, he noticed a receipt from Marks and Spencer for food, an online delivery bill from Tesco and an empty champagne bottle. What had the Lawson’s been celebrating? He was beginning to think he was wasting his time when an envelope caught his eye. It was from Lloyds Bank; he recognised the logo on the reverse of the envelope. His clients’ bank account was held by Lloyds and it did cross his mind to consider the possibility that, if what Rowena Shaw had told him was true, then the Lawsons could easily have intercepted letters from her bank along with other relevant correspondence.
Removing the champagne bottle with care, he placed it to one side then re-filled the bin bag and tied it securely. There was no reason why it shouldn’t go out with the office rubbish the following day. At his desk, he slid the bottle into the bottom drawer alongside the coffee cup bearing Rowena Shaw’s fingerprints then opened his laptop and updated his file.
When Sandy arrived, the office bore no signs of its earlier use. Richie was still updating his computer, the kettle had just boiled and apart from the faint smell of wet clothing and his casual attire, there was nothing unusual.
It was ten o’clock and Sandy was drinking her second cup of coffee when Richie rang through from the inner office. “Miss Smith, would you be kind enough to ring DCI Norman Freeman at the Met? You’ll find the number on file.”
With her usual efficiency Sandy did as requested and Richie was soon talking to his old mate.
“Good Lord, Richie, what a surprise. How are things? Still taking the bread from out of our mouths?”
Richie smiled, Norm never changed. It felt good to hear his voice after so long. “Business isn’t exactly booming but I’m sticking with it. In fact that’s why I’m ringing. It’s about a case I’m working on.”
“I see.”
“I don’t like bothering you but I’ve no way of moving forward with this. It’s fingerprints; I’ve got two items requiring identification and elimination. I’m coming up to London in the morning and I wondered if you’d be able to meet me?”
Richie heard the rustle of paper and guessed that his friend was looking through his desk diary. “ Yes, drop into my office about ten, your old mates would be glad to see you.”
He hesitated,” I know this is a big ask, Norm, and I don’t want to make things difficult for you but could I meet you in the Bunch of Grapes at about twelve instead?”
The thought of going to London made him break out in a cold sweat. He could feel it prickling his armpits and hastily wiped his damp forehead with his handkerchief. There were times when you just had to bite the bullet. If Andy Lawson and his wife were petty crims., their details would be held on the nationwide database, similarly if his client had a past, hers would resurface in the same manner
Back in the storeroom, Richie picked up his damp tracksuit and pushed it into a plastic carrier, which he removed from a shelf in the filing room then entered the outer office. Sandy had a single earpiece from an IPod lodged in her left ear.
“Who’s flavour of the month?” he asked.
“It’s a language lab transmission actually, I’m learning Russian.” Sandy looked up at him waiting for the smart reply but he just nodded.
“I’m off to London for a bit. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” he said, carrying two bags, one containing his wet tracksuit and the other containing the reason for his visit. He’d isolate the fingerprints in his flat later. He stopped in the doorway. “Oh and don’t forget to put out the bins,” he said.
Chapter 8
The man was a stranger. I’d smelled a faint aroma of cologne as he’d kissed my cheek and noticed that he kept looking at his watch as if in a hurry.
“Do I know you?” The question seemed to be permanently glued to my lips.
He frowned and I could see he was making up his mind whether I was serious. “Neil Stafford. We met at Andy’s fortieth. How are you by the way? Your brother told me about the accident.”
The world tilted once more as I wrapped my arms tightly around my body. Who was this man? How could we have met at Andy’s birthday party? In addition to which Andy Lawson was not, and had never been, my brother. Luckily an answer to his question was not required as he glanced again at his watch and said, “Goodbye, sorry to dash,” before leaving me standing in a daze on the pavement.
Behind me lay the offices of Richard Stevens; he was my only hope. Waiting at the bus stop I tried Owen’s number once more only to be met with the inevitable recorded voice asking me to leave a message. This time I declined the invitation.
It was two days later before I saw Neil Stafford again. I’d decided to search the local newspaper archives for any reports of the mysterious accident, the details of which I knew nothing. The offices of the Courier were situated in a side street off Manor Road. A young woman called Catherine led me into a room overlooking the street where back copies of the paper were kept on Microfiche. She spent a few moments showing me how the machine worked then left me alone.
It was a frustrating and monotonous task and I found my gaze returning to the street. Then I saw him. Neil Stafford was leaving a building opposite and was in deep conversation with the man who said he was my brother. They were sharing a joke. Both men were laughing uproariously until Andy slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a thick brown envelope, which he gave to Stafford.
There was an air of conspiracy between them. Neil Stafford tapped the side of his nose with his finger and my ‘brother’ laid a hand on his shoulder. I was certain that money had exchanged hands and even more certain that it had something to do with me.
I suddenly los
t interest in my search. Realising that I was paying someone to do the donkeywork, I decided that for the present I’d assume the identity of Sarah Lawson and live her life to the full. But there was no way I was going to give up on Rowena; I would simply put her to rest for a while, until I could find out the truth.
Leaving the Courier, I walked down Manor Road and turned into Victoria Park where I lay down on the grass in the sunshine and soon fell fast asleep. When I awoke, the sun had moved so that I was lying in the shade. The sound of children’s voices drifted towards me from the direction of the play area as I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and focused on my surroundings.
I looked at my watch, a habit that was hard to break. What was there to rush home for now? Empty days stretched before me until I could start work again. I’d already more or less decided that I’d leave my identity crisis in the hands of Richard Stevens so what was the point of getting more stressed about the situation. I knew who I was and where I lived - I just had to prove it.
Standing up, I stretched and walked past the duck pond to the artificial lake where rowing boats and pedalos bobbed on its surface. Two optimists were rowing across the lake to a heavily wooded area with a picnic basket and some teenagers were pedalo racing amidst shouts and screams. I wondered how long it would take before I could be as carefree and knew that until I was back in Bramble Lane and using my own name that could never happen.
There was a large area of green-belt land encompassed within the park, which led to a high point overlooking the town. It was known as The Heath, although it was technically parkland. After I climbed the grassy knoll to the spot where the council had erected benches, I watched the shifting scene below me. The High Street was busy with traffic and shoppers, the side roads fanned out towards the suburbs and in the distance there was the motorway with its constant hum of traffic. Directly below me at the edge of the park was a primary school. It was almost half-past three and a line of cars, containing mothers waiting to pick up their children, snaked around the perimeter of the park.
