Free Who is Sarah Lawson: A Captivating Psychological Thriller by K.J. Rabane Page B

he asked handing her a mug of coffee.
    Sliding the bag from her shoulders to the floor, Sandy sat behind her desk, caught her breath and opened up a new file on her computer. “I’ll type up my report as soon as I have a moment.”  The edges of the competent career woman’s image blurred with that of the busy aunt.
    “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