Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller

by K. J. Rabane

  Warm air wrapped around them as they stepped off the plane. Sandy removed her cotton cardigan and stuffed it in her travel bag.

  “Hotter than I expected,” she commented, following Richie across the tarmac to the arrivals lounge.

  “I’ve organised a hire car to be picked up in the car park; it’s approximately a half hour drive to our hotel so it shouldn’t take long.

  Later, sitting in the air-conditioned interior of the car as he drove away from the airport terminal building, Sandy said, “How did you find him so quickly?”

  “I rang Megan in Gareg Wen and asked her if she had an address for him in Spain.”

  “And she did?”

  Richie nodded whilst negotiating a slip road. “She said it was fortunate that I’d rung because, a friend of theirs had recently returned from a holiday in Los Christophe, a small Spanish village, and had met Owen Madoc in an open-air market. She said the friend recognised him immediately having met him at Megan’s birthday party a while back.”

  “And?”

  “Well, the friend struck up a conversation with Madoc who wanted to know how the Joneses were getting along and he promised to drop them a line.”

  “A long shot, I should think, men are always promising to write and never doing it, in my experience.”

  “Which is no doubt extensive,” he observed with a grin. “But that’s quite incorrect in this case, Miss Smith. He sent them a ‘wish you were here postcard, with his address and asking them to call if they were ever holidaying in the area.”

  The car drew to a halt.

  “Is this it?” Sandy asked, looking up at the small hotel Richie had booked on the Internet.

  “It is. Not exactly the Ritz, I know, but cheap and cheerful and not too far away from Madoc’s place.”

  “Ideal, I’m sure,” Sandy said doubtfully.

  The following morning after breakfast, Richie and Sandy stood in the foyer of the hotel; it was early but the temperature was already rising.

  “What’s the plan?” Dressed in a pale yellow sundress Sandy looked up at him through the largest sunglasses he’d ever seen.

  “I suggest we walk into the village. It’s not far and as it’s early it shouldn’t be too uncomfortable. You might want to wear that sun hat you’re dangling from your fingers, though.”

  With a sudden gesture she plonked the hat firmly on her head. “This do?” She grinned.

  “Excellent, Miss Smith. Now if you’re ready, we’ll be off.”

  The road leading to the village was not much more than a lane bordered on one side by a dried up hedge and on the other by a ditch. A man, woman and a child of about ten wobbled past on hire bicycles, the man nodding his thanks as they stood aside to let them pass.

  “He lives on the outskirts of the village,” Richie said, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Hot enough for you?” Sandy asked handing him a bottle of water she’d removed from the depths of an oversized bag she’d slung over her shoulder.

  “Thanks. I’ve just realised that I’m not as young as I think I am.”

  “Nonsense, it’s sitting behind a desk all winter, that’s all.”

  Richie, encouraged, took a deep breath and picked up his pace. “We’re almost there,” he said, pointing to a group of cottages in front of a small field. “Yes, there’s the sign for Los Christophe. I wonder if Owen Madoc will be tempted to visit the village this morning. That would save us having to concoct a story to explain why we were visiting him.”

  “That wouldn’t be too difficult surely. We’d only have to tell him about our case.”

  “Yes, but I can’t help thinking it might be better to keep quiet about our motives, at least for a while.”

  “Why?” Sandy looked up at him as she stopped to polish her sunglasses on the hem of her dress.

  “Because I’m not sure about him and the part he’s played in this case.”

  “I see. Let’s hope you’re right then. It’s always possible. There doesn’t appear to be much going on around here. Look, there, in the square. I think there’s a market. We could be in luck.”

  In the shade of an awning outside a café Richie and Sandy sat drinking coffee whilst they waited. Some of the stallholders were still setting out their goods and a few early shoppers were ambling through the market place.

  “Will we recognise him?” Sandy asked.

  “Take another look.” He handed her a copy of the photograph, which had been in Rowena Shaw’s album. “This face is imprinted on my brain, I’ve looked at it that often.”

  “He could look different now. This was taken a few years back.” Sandy held the photo up and shaded her eyes.

  “Mm, that’s true but we can only hope he’s not unrecognisable. His stature is average, his hair colour unremarkable, all of which could apply to almost anyone. We’ll hang around here for a while and if all else fails we’ll have to call on him, which I’d like to avoid if possible.”

  An hour later the sun had moved so that even the awning was no shelter from its searing rays. “Let’s take a walk across the square. There’s a bar, which looks inviting and if I’m not mistaken from that table in the corner of the terrace we should have a good view of the other entrance to the market place,” Richie said.

  “A cool beer would help too, don’t you think?

  “Excellent idea.”

  The market was in full swing by mid-day; villagers crowded the more popular stalls or haggled over prices on the periphery. Richie was feeling the effects of the heat and dehydration thanks to having drunk more than he’d intended. As a result his observation wasn’t as acute as it might have been. However, no such lack of concentration affected his PA. Sandy nudged his arm.

  “That’s him. I’m certain of it. Look over there. He’s standing next to a tall woman with black hair wearing a red dress, you can’t miss him.”

  He peered into the sunshine. “I’m not sure.”

  Sandy dragged him to his feet. “Let’s take a closer look.”

  They walked towards a stall selling cotton skirts and blouses next to one selling fruit, in front of which the couple stood.

  “Well?” hissed Sandy, picking up a blue and white cotton skirt. “What d’you think?”

  He nodded.

  “What now?” She replaced the skirt and inspected a white blouse on the rack nearer the fruit stall.

  Ignoring her question, he approached the couple.

  “Excuse me, I wonder if you could help my niece and me, as we appear to be unable to make ourselves understood.”

  Owen Madoc turned away from the woman. “What’s the problem?” he asked.

  “Sandy would like to buy this blouse but she thinks it costs too much. Could you ask the stallholder if he’d accept ten euros less for it?”

  The woman in the red dress smiled. “You could try, darling but I don’t think Alejo will accept a deal. I know him and he’s never been known to cut his prices.”

  Sandy gave a rueful shrug. “Thanks. I’m no good at haggling anyway. C’mon Uncle Richie, let’s see if we can find a bargain elsewhere.”

  “What it is to be young,” Richie sighed. “Sorry to have bothered you. It’s just, when I heard your accent, it reminded me of holidays spent in Wales.”

  “Really? I’ve not lived there for a while; I’m surprised I still have an accent. Where did you stay, when you visited Wales?” Madoc removed his sunglasses and polished them with a handkerchief.

  He could now see what he’d missed from a distance. This was definitely the man who’d been engaged to Rowena Shaw. The man, Richie was certain, who would lead them to the truth.

  “Doubt if you’d know the place. It’s a small fishing village on the south coast called Gareg Wen.”

  Chapter 66

  The euphoric feeling I’d experienced after leaving Gwyn lasted until I turned the key in the lock of the featureless flat my ‘family’ insisted was mine. I rang Richard Stevens at his office only to be told by an unfamiliar vo
ice that Mr Stevens and his PA were out of the country on business and would contact me on their return. It seemed that the young boy with red hair had been left in charge. I stressed that it was vitally important that I speak with Mr Stevens but was told that my message would be relayed to him. Biting my fingernails in frustration I wondered where I should go next in my quest to discover the truth. I massaged my forehead in an attempt to forestall a headache and ran my fingertips over the scar. Andy Lawson’s words flooded back in a wave of indignation. “If you continue with this, Sarah, I’ll have to call Dr Kilpatrick at the Hermitage.”

  Perhaps it was time to take matters into my own hands. I rang directory enquiries, then rang the Hermitage and made an appointment to see Dr Kilpatrick giving my name as Sarah Lawson.

  The taxi dropped me outside the front gates. I wanted to see if there was anything about the place I recognised. To my dismay, I soon realised that there was. The curving pebbled drive leading to the front door was distinctly familiar as were the neat flower beds and close cropped lawn where patients sat on benches in the sunshine or wandered the grounds closely followed by carers or medical staff. I took a deep breath and, steeling myself for what I might find, pressed the bell. A young woman wearing a business suit opened the door.

  “Sarah Lawson. I have an appointment with Dr Kilpatrick for two-fifteen,” I said, following the young woman into a reception area.

  “Please take a seat I’ll call you when Doctor is ready to see you.”

  I instantly recognised a Stubbs painting of a stallion with a gleaming coat knowing I’d sat looking at that painting before. My pulse began to race. After a short while the receptionist indicated a door on my right but she had no need, I’d known it would be there all along.

  “Miss Lawson, Doctor Kilpatrick will see you now.”

  He was a man in his mid-fifties with longish grey hair thinning at the crown. He was wearing a tweed three-piece suit, even though it was twenty degrees outside. As I passed him I detected a faint smell of sweat, which had impregnated the tweed and which had been ineffectively smothered by cologne. A vision of Owen drifted into my consciousness initiated by the smell of the cologne. I felt nauseous.

  “You look pale, Miss Lawson. Are you feeling ill?”

  An odd question for a doctor to ask; I felt hysteria bubbling up inside. I nodded. “It’s the heat, I expect. Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  “Of course.” He moved to the corner of the room where an upturned plastic water bottle dispenser sat, slid a polystyrene cup under the nozzle then handed it to me. “Relax and take small sips,” he advised.

  When I felt better, he asked, “ How have you been, Sarah?”

  “Physically I’m fine, my anaemia is well controlled, Doctor, but I need to clear up a few points as my memory is playing tricks and has done for some time.”

  “Understandably.”

  “Is it? You see Andy referred to the fact that I’d had an accident but he seems reluctant to explain its nature.”

  “Ah, I see. Well that would be because I’d advised him not to discuss the details with you.”

  “Why not?”

  The Doctor frowned, leaned forward and bit his bottom lip. “ In cases of retrograde amnesia such as yours, it’s my feeling that the patient should be left to remember the traumatic incident, which was responsible for the loss of memory, independently rather than confuse the issue by extraneous input.”

  “What if the patient never remembers?”

  “In my experience, that is rarely the case.”

  “But what if the patient wished to have the circumstances explained fully?” I persisted.

  “What is it, Sarah?”

  It was my turn to lean forward in my seat, my turn to be forceful for once. “I want you to tell me what happened. I’m not interested in case histories. This is my life Dr Kilpatrick and I’m asking you once and for all to explain, where and how I got these scars.” I pulled my fringe away from my forehead and waited for his reply.

  The heat of the afternoon was beginning to fade as I waited outside the gates for my taxi to arrive. I’d stopped shaking but my anger at the collusion between Dr Kilpatrick and my ‘family’ was not so easily dispersed. It was an outrageous and archaic concept, I reasoned. How could they agree to keep me in the dark? It was barbaric.

  Eventually he’d told me about the fire in Owen’s flat. Sarah Lawson was alone when it started. She’d been smoking. It appeared that a cigarette had slipped into the upholstery and she’d been taken to St Thomas’s hospital suffering from facial burns and smoke inhalation. My scars were the result of facial surgery; everything pointed to me being Sarah Lawson, apart from the fact that I knew nothing would ever have induced me to smoke a cigarette. So it seemed that my visit to see Dr Kilpatrick had left me with more questions than answers.

  Chapter 67

  In the library, I Googled Owen Madoc with no luck other than to discover he was artist who spent his time between living in London and his cottage in West Wales. I knew that the details were out-dated so searched again. This time I discovered a small entry in a newspaper article that read – The artist Owen Madoc, famous for his collection entitled ‘Seasons’ has left the UK in search of inspiration in Spain. Mr Madoc stopped producing work for the esteemed Furnish Art Gallery some time ago. Mr Furnish told me that he hoped to show more of Mr Madoc’s work in the not too distant future.

  At the bus stop I waited in the gathering gloom. Rain clouds hung threateningly in the sky. I turned up my collar and hoped I’d escape the shower before I reached the flat. Throughout the short journey, I could think of nothing but my relationship with Owen. I remembered the plans for our wedding. But the love we once shared was something I could no longer feel. The emptiness had something to do with Sarah Lawson but I could not tie the threads together in my mind, however hard I tried.

  Arthur, the old man, was standing near a bench feeding the birds from a carrier bag containing scraps. He raised his hand to me as I approached. “Just made it home in time, love. Them clouds are getting lower by the minute. I’m just going to finish feeding these little beauties before I go home for a brew.”

  His grey hair was badly cut and deep furrows creased his brow but I could see that his clothes were clean and not too shabby. He didn’t sound as if he was confused or senile, so why would a perfect stranger be involved in this charade?

  “Excuse me, I wonder if you could remind me how long we’ve known each other.” He screwed up his eyes as if thinking.

  “Nigh on a year or two back, I should say. I remember you moved in after Doris died. Nice lady, kind to me, used to bake me fruit cake every Friday.” He was off on a tangent.

  “And I look the same, as when I moved in, do I?”

  He didn’t appear to think the question was unusual. “No love, especially not you young ‘uns; you seem to change by the minute, change your clothes, hair, shape, you never look the same from one day to the next.”

  “Do you remember what colour my hair was when I moved in?”

  “What’s this then, eh? Twenty questions, is it?”

  I smiled a tight smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Something like that.”

  “Well now, let me see. I do as a matter of fact ‘cos it was the same colour as my granddaughter, the colour of mud. I used to tease her – muddylocks, I used to call her – my granddaughter, I mean, not you of course.”

  “Thank you, Arthur. Thank you very much.”

  “No problem, Sarah love, and how is that brother of yours keeping?”

  With the smile slipping from my face like a melting icicle, I answered, “He’s fine, thank you.”

  The name Mark Furnish bothered me; day-by-day I had the feeling that my previous life was resurfacing bit by tortuous bit. I rang directory enquiries and was put through to the gallery.

  “Furnish Gallery. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mark Furnish please. You could tell him it’s Rowena Shaw.”
<
br />   “Hold on please, Miss Shaw.” The Entrance of the Queen of Sheba floated into my ear as I waited to see whether he’d take my call. I crossed my fingers

  “Rowena?” I recognised the slightly effeminate voice immediately.

  “Hello, Mr Furnish. I wonder if you could spare me a moment or two of your precious time?”

  “Of course. I’m just surprised to hear you after all this time. What can I do for you, my dear?

  I decided to get to the point straight away.

  “Would you have an address or phone number where I could contact Owen, please?”

  Silence.

  “Mr Furnish?”

  “Er, well yes. I do as a matter of fact. I heard from him a day or two ago, only a postcard but this time one with an address. But you are sure you want to contact him?”

  “Certain.”

  “ I see, right then. Hang on a sec, won’t be a mo,.”

  I could hear the click and metallic ping of a mobile phone. He was searching his directory.

  “Ah, here it is. Have you a pen?”

  I wrote down the address and telephone number with hands that refused to stop shaking. “Thank you,” I said.

  “How are you, sweetie? I must say Peter and I were gutted when you two split.”

  “I’m getting there, Mr Furnish.”

  “And what’s with this Mr Furnish, all of a sudden. Don’t forget to pop in and see us when you’re over. I suppose you do come over from time to time.”

  Over from where I wondered. “From where, exactly?” The words were out before I’d had time to think about it.

  He hesitated then with an embarrassed laugh said, “From the big apple, of course.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll do that.” I tried to sound light hearted and to match my tone to his but in the pit of my stomach I felt fear, as acute as any childhood nightmare.

  Before I rang Owen’s number, I opened the kitchen cupboard and poured a stiff measure of brandy into a beaker. I’d bought the spirit at the local off licence some days ago, before my visit to the Hermitage, knowing that I’d be in need of some Dutch courage.