Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | The Madam

The Madam
Jaime Raven


Murder, loyalty, and vengeance collide in a gritty read perfect for fans of Martina Cole and Kimberley Chambers.‘Orange is the New Black meets a twisted Southampton’ Molly, Amazon reviewer‘If you like a crime novel with a strong female lead then you’ll love this’ Katie, Amazon reviewerThree years and eleven months. That's how long Lizzie Wells has been banged up inside Holloway prison, serving time for a crime she didn’t commit.Six months. That's how long it’s taken Lizzie to fall in love with her fellow inmate, Scar.Now they are both finally free and, together, they are about to embark on a vengeful search to find those who framed Lizzie. It’s time to make them pay…THE BUSINESS MAN. THE COPPER. THE MADAM.




















Copyright (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)


Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Copyright © Jaime Raven 2016

Cover design © Debbie Clement

Jaime Raven asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008171469

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780008171476

Version 2016-04-20




Dedication (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)


This one is for Catherine, with love.


Table of Contents

Cover (#u001ea982-74b9-598d-bce4-90cd94f0c487)

Title Page (#u9c81c537-17b0-5d0b-9e8e-b184aad784ed)

Copyright (#u79df656b-84bb-57c1-9691-6fab93863c6a)

Dedication (#u6a4c0f91-dfe7-59c5-a637-4cfb2962f569)

Prologue (#u48aa960a-91a7-505a-bb6d-f6210efcda5f)

Chapter 1 (#ub20c28b7-0d30-5121-be03-e168a7c93699)

Chapter 2 (#u399be6e5-00b0-5dd9-8eb1-021f6d1e83c1)

Chapter 3 (#uad8e1ce8-8dd8-5826-9359-dba72f6a279b)

Chapter 4 (#uaff9e390-56f3-5a0b-aed0-0f45334c4ef1)

Chapter 5 (#u6aca38e5-05f7-5b48-a3ee-5eb8bf198739)



Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)



Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)



Keep Reading ... (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)





PROLOGUE (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)

Southampton: 2011


I was naked and covered in someone else’s blood. It was smeared across my flesh and dripping from the tips of my fingers onto the carpet.

Around me the room seemed to be spinning slowly, like a fairground carousel. My vision was blurred, but I could make out various objects. A door. A sofa. A flat-screen television. A wall painting. A bed.

A man’s body.

The body was lying on the bed, naked like me and face up. And there was more blood. It soaked the sheets and the rug of thick, grey hair on the man’s chest. There were even splash marks on the wall above the wooden headboard.

I knew instinctively that he was dead. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets and he wasn’t breathing. He was motionless.

The realisation that I wasn’t dreaming hit me like a bag of ice. I made an effort to scream, but nothing came out. The shock of what I was experiencing had rendered me mute.

I tried to bring my thoughts to bear on what was happening. Where was I? Who was the man? Why was there so much blood?

As I stood there, dazed and bewildered, the back of my head throbbing, it gradually came back to me.

A few moments ago I’d been lying on the bed beside the corpse. I must have been unconscious because suddenly I was awake and aware that something was wrong. So I’d rolled off the bed and onto my feet.

And that’s when I looked down and saw the shocking state I was in.

Oh God.

The room stopped moving suddenly and my eyes focused on something on the floor. It glinted in the wash of colour from the bedside lamp.

A large knife. And there was more blood on the blade.

I backed away from it until I came up against the cold, smooth surface of the wall. From here I could see the whole room. The full, horrific scene of carnage.

I felt my legs wobble. A wave of nausea washed through me. I reached out and grabbed the back of a chair for support. The chair stood in front of a dressing table, and there was a big square mirror in which I caught sight of my reflection.

There was so much blood. On my face, my breasts, my shoulders. It even trailed down across my stomach into my pubic hairs.

As I stared at myself the rest of it came back to me. I realised who the man was. I recalled what had happened in the room before I lost consciousness. The raised voices. The violent struggle. The drunken haze that smothered everything.

And it was these mental images that finally dislodged the scream from deep inside my throat.




Holloway Prison: 2014


‘I’ve got some bad news for you, Lizzie.’

They were the first words out of the governor’s mouth when I was escorted into her office. Maureen Riley had only been in the job for a few months so I’d never had a one-to-one meeting with her before today. I’d assumed she was going to read me the riot act, tell me that under her stewardship I would have to change my ways and become a model prisoner. But I could tell from the solemn expression on her face that I’d been summoned for a different reason.

‘I think perhaps you should sit down,’ she said, waving to an empty chair across the desk from her.

But I just stood there, rigid as a tent peg, my blood racing in anticipation of what was to come.

She had her back to the window, through which I could see a fierce afternoon sun beating down on the streets of North London. The stark light accentuated the lines around her eyes and mouth, and I found myself momentarily distracted as I wondered how old she was. Mid-to-late forties? Early fifties? It was hard to tell. Her brown hair was liberally streaked with grey and she had a fleshy, nondescript face.

‘I really think you should take a seat, Lizzie. What I’m about to tell you will be extremely upsetting.’

Everything inside me turned cold. My heart started thumping, thrashing against my ribs.

‘Has something happened to Leo?’ I said, my voice thin and stretched. It was the first fearful thought that sprang into my mind.

She clamped her top lip between her teeth and leaned forward across her desk. Her eyes were steady and intense, and I could see the muscles in her neck tighten.

‘I’m afraid your son had to be rushed to hospital this morning,’ she said. ‘He was taken ill suddenly at his grandmother’s.’

An awful stillness took hold of me. I tried to speak but the words snagged in my throat.

The governor rearranged her weight in the chair, took a long, deep breath and then uttered the words that every parent dreads to hear.

‘Leo passed away, Lizzie. It happened several hours ago. I just received the call.’

It took a couple of seconds for it to sink in. It can’t be true, I told myself. How can my little boy be dead? He’s only three years old, for Christ’s sake.

But then it hit me and a sob exploded in my throat.

‘No, no, no,’ I cried out.

I clenched my eyes shut and the world tilted on its axis. I felt myself falling, but the screw who had brought me to the office grabbed me before I fell to the floor. She managed to lower me onto the chair as the tears poured out of me.

The governor waited a few minutes before she spoke again.

‘I’ve been told that your mother was with him at the end, Lizzie. He was very ill, apparently. Viral meningitis.’

I felt a darkness rise up inside me. Not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this. My darling son was everything to me. He gave meaning to my life, a life that had been twisted out of shape by bad luck and mistakes.

And now he was gone.

‘I’m so very sorry, Lizzie,’ the governor said. ‘I know this is a terrible shock and I wish there was something I could say that would soften the blow. But of course there isn’t.’

Images of Leo cartwheeled through my mind. I saw him in my arms just after I’d given birth, and when he took his first steps across the living room carpet at nine months old. And then there was the very last time I saw him, not long after his first birthday. His bright blue eyes and curly fair hair. The smile that never failed to melt my heart.

Oh God how could he be dead?

I continued to sob hysterically. The governor got up and came around her desk. She placed a hand on my shoulder and spoke in a soft voice. But I didn’t take anything in because the shock and grief were all-consuming.

When finally I recovered my composure she gave me a tissue to wipe my eyes and said she would arrange for a bereavement counsellor to come and see me.

‘And of course I’ll keep you informed about funeral arrangements,’ she said. She then told the screw to take me back to my cell.

As I was led out of the room I broke down again, and through the deluge of tears I heard my mother’s voice in my head from long ago.

‘You’ve ruined your son’s life as well as your own, Lizzie,’she told me after I was charged with killing a man.‘I hope God can find it in his heart to forgive you, because I know I can’t.’

Those words had tormented my soul for three long years. The weight of guilt was a burden I’d been forced to endure ever since they locked me up.

And now it was going to be much, much heavier.

I stopped crying on the way back to the cell block, but I could feel the scream building inside me.

It seemed odd that all around it was business as usual. The daily grind of the prison continued uninterrupted. Raised voices. Stilted laughter. Doors slamming shut. Small groups of women engaged in furtive conversation.

None of them knew about my loss yet. But they soon would. Holloway houses more than five hundred female prisoners, from murderers to petty thieves. When something like this happens the news spreads like wildfire.

I knew I could expect a lot of kind words and sympathy from most of the inmates. But a good few wouldn’t give a toss. They were the druggies and bullies and psychopaths who cared only about themselves.

And as sod’s law would have it a bunch of them were gathered in the corridor close to my cell. When they saw us approaching they fell silent. Then they stood aside to let us pass.

I lowered my gaze so that I didn’t have to look at them, but not before catching the eye of Sofi Crane, the undisputed leader of the pack. She was a large woman with a hard face and a fierce reputation. I was one of the few inmates who weren’t intimidated by her and that had always got under her skin. It was why she hated my guts and took every opportunity to wind me up.

She’d never seen me upset before, though, and I just knew that my obvious distress would delight her. But wisely she chose not to make any snide remarks as I was steered towards my cell.

The door stood open, and as I stepped inside the screw let go of my arm, told me again how sorry she was, and then retreated. I had no doubt that she’d tell Sofi and her mates what had happened. But that didn’t matter. Nothing did any more.

As soon as Scar saw me she leapt up from the bed and dropped the book she’d been reading on the floor.

‘Jesus, babe,’ she said. ‘What the bloody hell has happened?’

I looked at my cellmate, my lover of two years, and I realised that even she wouldn’t be able to ease the pain of my loss.

‘It’s Leo,’ I said, my voice cracking. ‘He’s … dead.’

Scar rushed over and wrapped her arms around me. She held me tight as the grief pulsed through me in waves.

‘I don’t see how I can go on,’ I said. ‘Not now that I’ve lost everything.’

‘You’ve still got me, Lizzie,’ she replied, and I felt her sweet, warm breath on my neck. ‘I’m here for you and always will be.’

The tears returned with a vengeance and I cried into her shoulder, great wrenching sobs that shook me to the core. I wanted to die too at that moment. I wanted the ground to open up and suck me under. But I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky.

Scar’s body stiffened suddenly and someone else’s voice came from behind.

‘Just heard about your son, Lizzie. What a bummer. Still, it’s not as if you’ve had anything to do with the poor little bugger these past few years.’

I pushed Scar away and spun round. Sofi Crane was standing in the doorway, her lips curled back in a malicious grin. I choked back a sob and a smouldering rage ripped through me.

‘What did you say you bitch?’ I shrieked at her.

‘Oh sorry,’ she said. ‘Did I strike a nerve?’

Scar grabbed my arm but I jerked it free. I felt something primal take hold of me. The grief turned to anger and I launched myself at Sofi Crane with a ferocious bellow.

Before she had time to react I drove a fist into her face. The blow caused ribbons of blood to spurt from her nostrils. She let out a horrific grunt and stumbled backwards into the corridor.

I lunged forward, grabbed the front of her sweatshirt, shoved her hard against the wall. She lost her balance and collapsed in an untidy heap on the floor.

But I didn’t let up. Instead I aimed a kick at her stomach with everything I had. She gave an anguished cry and rolled on her side. I then kicked her in the small of her back and she curled up like a hedgehog to protect herself.

I was still kicking and screaming when two screws pulled me away and dragged me back into my cell. And that was where I remained until the commotion died down and my anger subsided. But it took a while because I was in such a state. My lungs burned with every intake of breath and my thoughts swam in feverish circles.

But I didn’t regret what I’d done. Sofi Crane had deserved it, and I was glad I’d hurt her. But her suffering was nothing compared to the pain I was going to inflict on the bastards who had wrecked my life and taken away my only son.

I was now more determined than ever to track them down and make them pay. It would just have to wait until I was finally released from this rat-infested hell hole.




1 (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)

Present Day


Three years and eleven months. That’s how long I spent behind bars for a crime I didn’t commit. Almost the entire sentence imposed by the judge. Some people said I should have got life and been banged up for a minimum of fifteen years. But they didn’t get their way, so in that respect I was lucky.

Inside I met four lifers who claimed they were innocent, and two of them convinced me that they were telling the truth. They were dead inside. You could see it in their eyes. No hope. No future.

Three years and eleven months had been just bearable. If I’d been a model prisoner I would have got out sooner on licence. But sheer anger and frustration caused me to make too many mistakes and too many enemies. That burning sense of injustice gave me a reason to live, though. Served as a constant reminder that one day in the not too distant future I’d get out and be free to find the bastard or bastards who had destroyed my life.

Well that day had finally arrived.

It was a warm, grey Thursday in late July. A light drizzle greeted me as I walked out of Holloway Women’s Prison just after midday. I was wearing faded jeans, a white Gap T-shirt and a denim jacket that was a size too big. I was carrying a canvas holdall containing all my worldly possessions.

This first taste of freedom felt strangely hollow, like sucking on a joint that’s slow to take effect. Maybe that’s how it is for everyone. A bit of an anti-climax until it truly sinks in.

The sky over North London was the colour of the walls in the cell I’d just vacated. It had been the same on the day I arrived. As grim and lifeless as a cancer ward.

The farewells had been short and sweet. I’d embraced a few of the inmates I’d come to regard as friends. They all got a pack of Marlboro Lights as a parting gift. The governor gave me a little pep talk and said I had to get on with my life and forget about the past. She then wished me well and told me she didn’t want to see me back inside again.

I raised two fingers to the large, red-brick building just for the hell of it. I felt I had to make some sort of gesture. As feeble as it was I felt better for it. Then I walked along the access road to where Scar was waiting.

She’d parked the car with two wheels on the kerb and was standing with her back against the nearside wing. The sight of her sent my heart racing and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes.

She’d had her hair dyed and cut short, and it made her look younger than her twenty-six years. It was black now, instead of auburn. She’d also splashed out on a new leather jacket that she wore over a red cotton blouse and tight beige trousers.

As I closed the distance between us she gradually came into focus. Five foot five. Narrow face, high cheekbones. Body tight and toned. She was slender, but with not a hint of fragility. Her eyes were cerulean blue, same as the water colour that’s cool and opaque, and a tiny silver stud glinted in the left side of her nose.

Her most striking feature was a two-inch-long scar that ran from just beneath the lobe of her left ear to the middle of her cheek.

‘Hi, beautiful,’ I said when I reached her and it was all I could do not to let the emotion of the moment overwhelm me.

We embraced, and it felt good to feel her warm breath against my neck again. It had been a long time. Too long. I’d missed her so much and the thought of snuggling up in bed with her tonight filled me with a sense of well-being. We clung to each other for a full minute and the lump in my throat got so big I couldn’t swallow.

Scar and I had formed a relationship after we started sharing a cell towards the end of my first year inside. For me it provided a much needed distraction, a way to make the banality of prison life bearable.

‘I’m taking you to a pub first,’ she said, when we finally moved apart. ‘We’ll celebrate with a bottle of champagne. Everything else can wait. So get in the car, sit back and relax.’

I sat back in the front seat of the ageing Fiesta, but I couldn’t relax. Too much to see and too many thoughts to process.

For one thing I had to remind myself that I’d got my identity back. I was Lizzie Wells again. Twenty-seven. Light brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Almost perfect teeth.

In prison the screws had labelled me a troublemaker because I found it hard to control my temper and would always answer back. That was why I didn’t get released any earlier. But then they were constantly trying to rob me of my self-respect. They were still at it even up to a few days ago.

‘You were a looker when you came in here, Lizzie,’ one of them had said. ‘But you look like shit now. I doubt that blokes will still want to pay you for sex. Good job you’re now a dyke.’

She was right about the way I looked, but the jury was still out on the other thing. In prison Scar and I had become soulmates and sexual partners. The bond between us was strong and intimate. But freedom gave me the option to return to being straight, so my sexuality was among the issues that I would need to address. I would, of course, but in my own time.

And time was something I’d become far more conscious of. In prison it passed slowly. I counted the hours and days and often my head was filled with nothing but the loud ticking of an invisible clock.

Now time was going to burn like a fuse. I was sure of it. There were things to do, people to see. The monotony of prison routine was behind me. The pace of my new life was set to blast me into orbit.

For the first time in years I felt glad to be alive. But my newfound freedom was already filling me with trepidation. A lot had changed since I’d been banged up and I was fearful of not being able to cope. I realised suddenly that I hadn’t really prepared myself mentally for the chaos of life on the outside. I’d been too wrapped up in what I planned to do.

Scar turned into Parkhurst Road. It was heavy with traffic and noisy as hell. The wail of a police siren made me jump and set my teeth on edge. We stopped at some lights. A party of primary school children in bright red uniforms started crossing the road. Their animated chatter made me smile. We then continued along Parkhurst Road and swung left into the much busier Holloway Road. Here the pavements were lined with shops and packed with pedestrians.

As we drove on I took it all in. Cars crawling by in a welter of exhaust fumes. A young mum pushing a pram. A couple of teenagers holding hands and laughing. An elderly woman struggling with two heavy Tesco bags.

Normality. The everyday things that you take for granted until they’re taken away from you. I’d missed so much of everything, and I felt bitter about that.

‘There’s a pub on the corner,’ Scar said. ‘The champagne is on me.’

I reached out and touched her knee.

‘Thanks for being so thoughtful,’ I said.

‘It’s no more than you deserve, babe. Life’s been a bitch to you, and it makes me want to cry just to think about it.’

The boozer was called The Red Lion. It was just off the high street and more than a little drab on the outside.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been inside a pub, or who I’d been with. It was a long time ago, though.

Before that fateful night my favourite tipple had been vodka, lime and lemonade. But I was also partial to bottles of potent German lager. For a time back in those days binge drinking had been a problem, along with class B drugs. It was no wonder that I got into such an awful mess with my life and ended up in Holloway.

The champagne tasted strangely medicinal, and the bubbles tickled my nose and made me sneeze. Scar laughed and poured herself a glass.

‘Just a small one for now because I’m driving,’ she said. ‘We can let rip tonight when I don’t have the car.’

The pub was small with a clean floor and dimpled copper tables. A few people were propping up the bar, office types mostly, on early lunch breaks.

We sat in a corner and attracted a bit of attention, but only because the cork made a loud pop when Scar extracted it from the bottle.

I’d half expected people to stare at me because I was an ex con. But that was stupid. It wasn’t as if I had it written across my forehead in large black letters.

‘Here’s to your new life,’ Scar said, raising her glass to mine. ‘May it be long and happy.’

‘Right on,’ I said.

We clinked our glasses, and I felt a wave of affection for my former cellmate. She was the most considerate person I’d ever known. Her real name was Donna Patterson, but inside she was nicknamed Scar for obvious reasons. She told me that she didn’t mind because it gave her an air of mystery. But I knew it was a lie. In truth the scar bothered her, just like it would any woman. It disfigured an otherwise beautiful face, and unfortunately no amount of make-up could conceal it.

I drank some more champagne and savoured the chill that swept through my insides. For a brief moment I felt like crying. It welled up suddenly, and I had to fight it back. Now wasn’t the time to react to the emotional impact of what was happening.

So I cleared my throat and said, ‘So tell me what you’ve got.’

Scar, bless her, had come prepared. She had known that I’d want to get straight down to business, that any celebration would be muted and short-lived.

She took a notepad out of her handbag and flipped it open. But before reading from it she cocked her head on one side and looked at me. The scar was more pronounced as the light through the window set off the ridge of red, gnarled skin.

‘Are you sure you want to go down this road?’ she said.

‘We’ve had this discussion,’ I pointed out.

‘I was hoping you might have changed your mind.’

‘Well I haven’t.’

Scar took a deep breath, and said, ‘Fair enough. Just don’t tell me later that I didn’t try to stop this madness.’

The thing was I had to start somewhere. There was no game plan as such. No obvious clues to follow up. I only had a bunch of names and a list of unanswered questions. But it would have to be enough. If I could just stir things up then maybe I’d get a result.

I’d spent four years going over it in my mind. Bracing myself for the day when Lizzie Wells would embark on a new career as an amateur sleuth.

Scar was right, of course. It was madness. I really had no idea what I was doing, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me doing it. I’d waited too long for this.

‘Let’s start with the flat you asked me to rent,’ Scar said. ‘As you know I’ve taken a one-bedroom place on a six-month lease, all paid up front. It’s in a part of Southampton called Bevois Valley. Nothing fancy, but it’s tidy and decently furnished.’

‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘I know the Valley. It’s where I used to live.’

‘I’ve also made a reservation for tonight at The Court Hotel. Room eighty-three. The one you wanted. Check in any time after two o’clock today. I didn’t tell them we’ll only be popping in and out.’

She reached into her handbag and took out a mobile phone.

‘As requested. It’s a pay-as-you-go smartphone. High-end model.’

I took the phone from her. It was slim and metallic grey.

‘Your number will show up in the display window when you switch it on,’ she explained. ‘I’ve put my own number in the contacts list.’

She then flipped over the first page of her notebook. ‘I checked up on the four names you gave me. They’re all still living in Southampton, which is what you suspected.’

‘Right, so let’s start with Ruby Gillespie.’

Scar took a sip of champagne and leaned forward across the table. Her breath smelled yeasty and sweet.

‘Ruby is still doing the same old shit,’ she said. ‘But I gather business is not as brisk as it used to be. There’s more competition from other escort agencies in the city and she’s found it hard to recruit new girls. That’s partly because the drink problem you told me about has got much worse. Word is she’s now an alcoholic and taken her eye off the ball.’

‘It was on the cards,’ I said.

‘The address you gave me near the Common checks out,’ Scar said. ‘She’s still living there by herself, and the house doubles as a brothel at times.’

I’d first met Ruby Gillespie at that very house after responding to one of her newspaper ads. A curvy brunette with dark Mediterranean features, Ruby was actually more attractive than most of the girls who worked for her. She exuded a charm that was natural and an air of sophistication that was not. I liked her at first and I was taken in by all the talk of being part of ‘a big happy family’ and having her full support if ever I got into trouble.

But when I did get into trouble she threw me to the wolves like a piece of stale meat. She refused to answer my calls while I was being held, and then in court she appeared as a witness for the prosecution. She claimed I’d once told her that I always carried a knife in my bag for protection. It was a lie, but the judge believed her.

She was on my list as I wanted to know why she said that.

‘Who’s next?’ I said.

Scar flipped over another page.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Martin Ash. He’s still with Southampton police.’

‘And he’s been promoted since he put me away,’ I said. ‘In those days he was a lowly DI.’

‘Well he’s an ambitious bastard,’ Scar said. ‘It didn’t take me long to find that out. People don’t mess with him. Or like him much.’

Ash and DCI Neil Ferris had been the arresting officers in my case. I remembered Ash as being a snappy dresser in his early forties, with a pot-belly and a florid complexion. He was also an arrogant bully.

DCI Ferris was a sinewy figure who was less arrogant and more sympathetic. I wondered if that was because he was the father of two teenage daughters. He mentioned them a couple of times during those gruelling interview sessions. Said he prayed they wouldn’t turn out like me.

‘I don’t believe your story about what went on in that room,’ he’d said just before they charged me. ‘But I also don’t believe that you’re a cold-blooded killer. Therefore I’m willing to accept that you got involved in a brawl with Benedict. So if you cop a manslaughter plea we won’t pursue a murder conviction.’

Ferris had made it sound like they were doing me a favour. My lawyer had urged me to go along with it. Told me I faced a stark choice. Plead not guilty to murder and face an almost certain conviction based on the evidence. Or plead guilty to manslaughter and claim that I stabbed Benedict in self-defence when he got violent, even though I couldn’t recollect how it had happened.

‘Look at it this way,’ Ferris had said. ‘If a jury finds you guilty of murder it’ll be life. If you go down for manslaughter you could be out in four or five years. That’s not the end of the world. And having got to know you a little I’m sure you can handle it.’

He’d been right. I had managed to cope. But ironically the period after my trial had proved more of a struggle for Ferris.

Something happened to make him kill himself. My lawyer sent me a copy of Southampton’s local evening newspaper, The Post. On the front page was a story about how detective Neil Ferris had jumped off a railway bridge into the path of a train. His wife, Pamela, was quoted as saying that she had no idea why he did it, and he didn’t leave a note.

That night I lay on my bunk feeling sorry for his wife and daughters. But I wasn’t able to dredge up any sympathy for the man himself.

‘Do you plan on seeing Ash?’ Scar said.

‘Of course.’

‘What makes you think he’ll talk to you?’

I shrugged. ‘No reason why he shouldn’t.’

‘So what do you think he can tell you that you don’t already know?’

‘Maybe nothing, but he might be able to shed light on a few things that have bugged me.’

I drank some champagne and glanced out of the window. The rain had stopped, and the sun was trying to force itself through the cloud cover. A lump rose in my throat again. I still couldn’t believe I wouldn’t be sleeping in that dingy cell tonight.

‘Anne Benedict has moved house,’ Scar was saying. ‘I gather it happened soon after the trial. She’s now living in Eastleigh on the outskirts of Southampton. Both her sons have moved out so she’s by herself.’

Anne Benedict. The distraught wife of the victim. As she’d stared at me across the courtroom the thing that had struck me most had been her blank expression. What I’d expected to see were eyes filled with hate, but instead they were just devoid of life. That, I thought at the time, seemed strange. The Post – for whom her husband had worked – had described them as a close and happy family. But of course that was crap. Happily married men don’t pay for sex with prostitutes. I was keen to talk to the widow to find out what, if anything, she knew about what had happened.

‘Finally we come to Joe Strickland,’ Scar said. ‘He is a prominent Hampshire businessman with a few million quid to his name.’

Strickland’s name had come up during the investigation because a few weeks earlier he had made threats against Rufus Benedict. The reporter had made an official complaint to the police, and Strickland was given a verbal warning.

There was no question that Strickland would have been the prime suspect if the evidence against me hadn’t been so overwhelming. Benedict, The Post’s long-serving investigative reporter, had been probing Strickland’s business activities and was apparently close to publishing a story about him involving large-scale criminal activities, including corruption of local government officials. But the article was never written because Benedict was stabbed to death.

‘I’ve got Strickland’s address,’ Scar said. ‘He lives in a big detached house in an upmarket part of the city.’

‘Is he married?’

‘He’s got a wife and daughter. The wife’s name is Lydia and she runs one of his companies. The daughter lives with her boyfriend in London. He made his money as a property developer and now has his hand in lots of local pies, some of them illicit by all accounts.’

‘I’m looking forward to talking to him,’ I said.

Scar furrowed her brow. ‘Do you really think he’ll be up for it? He’ll probably tell you to fuck off.’

‘But I won’t,’ I said.

‘Then he’ll have you arrested.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Then maybe he’ll have you killed.’

‘Now that would be an admission of guilt.’

Scar rolled her eyes and filled my glass. I swigged back the last of the champagne and said, ‘Thanks for helping me out on this. You’ve been a gem.’

‘To be honest it’s been fun,’ she said. ‘It beat looking for a full-time job as soon as I got out. And it’s put me back in contact with some old friends on the coast.’

Scar had been released from prison two months earlier after serving four and a half years inside for cutting off the testicles of the man who raped her and disfigured her face. It was yet another example of cock-eyed justice, and it made my blood boil. The judge took a dim view of the fact that she went to the man’s house, broke in and attacked him while his wife was out shopping. But he accepted there were extenuating circumstances and was lenient when it came to sentencing.

Scar was no stranger to Southampton, having lived most of her life in neighbouring Portsmouth, where she long ago established a reputation as a bit of a tearaway. So when I’d told her what I planned to do she’d offered to help – after first trying to talk me out of it.

She got a part-time job serving behind the bar in a club and agreed to do some legwork for me when she wasn’t working. I gave her access to one of my accounts in which I had some money stashed. That in itself was a mark of how much I trusted her.

‘So are you ready to head south?’ she said.

I put my glass down and stood up unsteadily.

‘You’ve got me drunk,’ I said. ‘But it feels good.’

Scar smiled up at me and reached for my hand. Hers was soft and warm.

‘Do you want to go straight to the hotel?’ she said.

I shook my head. ‘First I want you to take me to the cemetery.’

The champagne had gone straight to my head, but I was determined to stay awake during the ninety-minute drive to Southampton. The sun finally penetrated the cloud cover, turning it into a glorious day.

Fields rolled away into the distance on either side of the M3. Traffic whooshed and hummed and the sound of it was strangely soporific. Lorries the size of small houses. White vans weaving from lane to lane. Brake lights flashing on and off. Overhead gantries issuing threats and warnings.

It all became a blur to me as I sat back and listened to Westlife oozing out of the car’s speakers. As we drove past Basingstoke, Scar asked me about some of the inmates we’d left behind, especially Monica Sash who, like me, was serving time for a crime she didn’t commit.

‘She wants me to clear her name after I clear my own,’ I said.

‘Eh?’

I shrugged. ‘Told me her family will pay me a pot of money to get her out.’

‘Jesus. Was she joking?’

‘’Fraid not. I told her she was being daft, that there wasn’t anything I could do.’

I recalled the conversation and couldn’t help but smile.

‘I’m not a private detective, Monica,’ I’d said. ‘I’m a convicted killer and former prostitute.’

‘But you’re going after the people who framed you, Lizzie. And I think you’ll find them. You’ve got what it takes. And when that’s sorted you can do the same for me.’

She’d been serious too. Had managed to convince herself that I was her last chance. I shook my head at the memory of those pleading eyes and turned to Scar.

‘So what’s it like to be free?’ I asked.

She said she’d felt lost on her own at first. After the years inside it took time for her to feel comfortable and safe again in the big, wide world. We talked about the bar work she’d been doing in Southampton. The money was poor but at least it meant she didn’t have to sit around by herself in the evenings.

‘I’m not working tonight or the rest of the week,’ she said. ‘So we can party.’

We didn’t talk about our relationship and where it would go from here because we weren’t ready for that. I needed time to adjust to being on the outside and Scar needed to be patient. She knew I was confused so she wouldn’t push me into making a decision. She’d want me to be sure about my feelings and about what I wanted. Scar meant the world to me and it was going to be tough when and if the time came to break her heart.

As we neared the south coast I began to experience a flutter of nerves in my stomach. It felt strange to be heading back to my home town when I no longer had a home there. Before I lost my freedom I’d rented a two-bedroom flat close to my mother’s house in Northam. That was gone along with the furniture I’d managed to accumulate.

I didn’t bother asking my mother if I could move in with her and my brother, Mark. She would only have said no. Ours had always been a tumultuous relationship, and what happened while I was in prison had made things worse. It was a shame as I missed my little brother, and I knew he missed me. He didn’t visit me inside, but he did write me letters. They were short and sweet and barely discernible, but they meant a lot, and I’d kept every one of them.

We reached Southampton in the middle of the afternoon. The city lies between Portsmouth and Bournemouth and is just a few miles from the New Forest. It has several claims to fame, including the fact that the Titanic sailed from its huge port on its first and last voyage. Strangely, the good people of Southampton find that something to be proud of.

The cemetery was on a hill overlooking the Solent, that stretch of wind-lashed sea so loved by yachtsmen that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight.

We parked at the entrance and Scar said, ‘I’ll wait in the car if you want to be by yourself.’

‘I’d like you to come with me,’ I said.

We strolled up the path with the Solent on our right and the city sprawled out on our left beneath the warm afternoon sun. Much of the cemetery was overgrown. It looked abandoned. A jungle of rampant weeds had grown up between the headstones. There were dead flowers on top of dead people.

Leo’s grave lay in the shadow of a willow tree. The headstone was small and simple. The inscription read: Here lies Leo Wells – a much loved son and grandson who left our world before his time.

My baby died just over a year ago, and they let me out for the funeral. It was a devastating experience. I remembered standing at the graveside between my mother and brother as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

‘This is your fault,’ my mother spat at me. ‘If you hadn’t chosen a path of debauchery my little Leo would still be alive.’

Her words had burned into my heart and added to the weight of my loss. And I couldn’t really disagree with her. It might have been cruel of her to point it out to me at the funeral, but she’d been right nonetheless. Leo died after contracting meningitis. Two months before his fourth birthday. I was sure that if I hadn’t been locked up it wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have let the doctor send him home after deciding he had nothing more than a simple headache and prescribing Calpol. The inquest was told that if he had been admitted to hospital and put on antibiotics he would have survived.

The guilt was an agonising pain I had to live with, and I bore a heavy sense of shame and self-loathing.

But Leo’s death wasn’t entirely my fault. Whoever framed me was, as far as I was concerned, even more culpable. He, she or they had killed my little boy. And I wasn’t prepared to let them get away with it.

‘Are you all right?’ Scar said.

‘I’m fine,’ I lied.

There was a bunch of pink roses on the grave. They were slightly wilted, but still vibrant, and had no doubt been put there by my mother. I knelt down and told my son that I was back and that I was sorry I’d been away for so long. Hot tears welled up then, and this time I didn’t try to stem their progress.

I sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes while clinging to the headstone. I wanted to dig down into the earth to be closer to my son. I wanted him to feel my warmth. Instead I just let the grief work its way through me.

Eventually I got to my feet and dried my eyes. I felt Scar’s hand on my shoulder.

‘This was always going to be tough, babe,’ she said. ‘But you have to be strong if you want to find the bastards who were responsible for what happened. And I want you to know that I’ll be with you all the way.’

The Court was a four-star hotel that catered mostly for business types. It was less than ten years old and had been built overlooking a park in the city centre. The reception area hadn’t changed much. It was still cold and colourless.

We checked in and made our way up to room eighty-three on the third floor. Scar held my hand going up in the lift. She could tell I was anxious. My breathing suddenly became laboured and my stomach began to curl inside itself.

The corridor had a new carpet. The walls were lined with sepia prints of Southampton before German bombs ripped into it during World War Two. They too were new additions.

Scar inserted the key card in the lock, stood back to let me go in first. The moment I stepped through the door it all came flooding back with alarming clarity.

The room had been refurbished since that night, but everything was familiar. Bed, TV, sofa. All in the same places. The colours and shapes were different, but not the feel of the place.

Scar closed the door behind me and I had a sudden vision of Rufus Benedict lying on the bed. Blood everywhere. The knife on the floor.

I rushed into the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. The regurgitated champagne made my eyes water. I stayed there for a few minutes retching into the pan, sweat prickling my face. When I went back into the main room Scar poured me a glass of bottled water from the mini bar.

‘Drink this,’ she said.

It was cold and refreshing, but it failed to wash away the taste of vomit.

‘It must be weird coming back here,’ she said.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. Saw myself in the mirror above the dressing table. Not a pretty sight.

I’d had to come back. Reliving that night was part of the process I knew I had to go through. It was necessary to remember as much as possible.

‘Talk me through it,’ Scar said.

She was sitting opposite me on the sofa, a can of Diet Coke in her hand. She’d removed her jacket, and I noticed she had a new tattoo. The name Lizzie was scrawled across her right forearm, and there was a red heart beneath it.

‘I got a call from Ruby that evening,’ I said, casting my mind back and feeling at once the sharp stab of bitter memories. ‘One of her regulars wanted someone new. I had to turn up at the hotel at eight and come straight up to the room. That was pretty much how it worked most times. All very straightforward.’

‘And businesslike,’ Scar said with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And businesslike.’

I’d actually been an escort for five months by then and I told punters to call me The Madam because I thought it had a saucy ring to it. The money was good and having sex with strange men wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it would be. It was usually over very quickly, and the guys were mostly decent and polite. There was the shame and guilt, of course, but it was something I was prepared to live with.

After all, I’d started selling my body out of desperation, not because it was a chosen vocation. I was a single mum with a pile of debt and an addiction to soft drugs. It was an easy way to resolve my problems, or so I thought. The plan was to save enough money to pull myself out of the mire and secure a better life for myself and my son. But that’s not how it worked out.

‘Rufus Benedict opened the door in a hotel robe,’ I said. ‘He was a middle-aged guy with bad breath and a big belly. But he seemed harmless enough. We talked for a bit and just as we were about to get started there was a knock on the door. Benedict put on his robe and answered it. Outside the door there was a bottle of chilled champagne with a note saying it was with the compliments of the hotel.’

Benedict was all smiles as he popped the cork and filled two glasses. He told me to undress and sat there sipping at his drink as he watched me remove my clothes to soft background music. I’d developed a well-practised routine that was designed to tease and titillate. My clothes came off with slow precision as I licked my lips and ran my fingers gently over every inch of uncovered flesh.

‘It all gets a little hazy after that,’ I said. ‘He took off the robe and asked me to get him aroused, which I did.’

Scar was trying not to show her revulsion. I’d told her the story before, but never in so much detail. She looked away briefly and bit into her bottom lip.

‘We eventually moved to the bed,’ I said. ‘But nothing more happened because Benedict was suddenly struggling to stay awake and couldn’t even keep it up. I felt tired too and a little giddy. Then I heard someone’s voice and realised we weren’t alone in the room. I turned round and saw that two men had let themselves in.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, everything was distorted so I couldn’t make out their faces. Then I saw one of them attack Benedict and when I started to scream the other one put a hand over my mouth and pulled me down onto the floor. I could barely breathe. It was terrifying.’

Scar put down her Coke and came and sat beside me. She placed an arm around my shoulders. I was trembling.

‘Take it easy, babe,’ she said.

I downed some more water and said, ‘I took a blow to the forehead then and everything went blank. When I came to I was covered in blood and Benedict was lying here on the bed. He’d been stabbed once in the chest and he was dead. The murder weapon was a knife I’d never seen before and my prints were on it.’

I closed my eyes and recalled the awful sense of panic that had consumed me.

‘What did you do?’ Scar said.

‘I couldn’t stop screaming. Before long there were people knocking on the door. When I finally managed to open it I was so worked up that I fainted. The cops arrived and I was arrested. As far as they were concerned it was an open and shut case.’

‘Jesus.’

‘There was no evidence to suggest that anyone else had been in the room. The security cameras hadn’t picked anything up, and the only prints on the knife belonged to me. I couldn’t convince them that someone had come into the room while we were having sex.’

‘What about the champagne?’ she said. ‘Did they check to see if it was drugged?’

‘There was no champagne. Whoever killed Benedict took the bottle and glasses away. The hotel’s room service claimed they hadn’t delivered anything to the room.’

‘But what about the post-mortem? They do toxicology tests, don’t they? That should have shown up any knock-out drugs in your system.’

‘Well, it didn’t. My lawyer said not all drugs can be detected during an autopsy.’

I got up and walked around, touching things, while letting the memories crowd my mind. Benedict’s blood had been spattered across the sheets, the walls, the carpet. It was smeared across my own breasts and face and even now it was the dominant theme of recurring nightmares.

‘The police were certain that I murdered Benedict, but my lawyer put up a convincing argument that I was defending myself,’ I said. ‘There was the head wound and some other bruises. There’d obviously been a struggle, so the CPS agreed to drop the murder charge to manslaughter to make sure they got a conviction, provided I pleaded guilty.’

‘You were lucky you didn’t get life, Lizzie.’

That was true. But I was unlucky to spend time behind bars for something I didn’t do.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out of here. I need some fresh air.’

A few minutes later we walked out into the car park. As we approached the Fiesta I noticed something white under one of the windscreen wipers. I thought it was a leaflet or a flyer. But when I pulled it out I saw it was a piece of lined paper from a notebook. There were two short sentences scrawled on it in black felt tip ink.

Let it rest, Lizzie. Open up old wounds and you’ll regret it.




2 (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)


Southampton central police station. An eight-storey building near the city’s enormous port complex.

Scar waited in the car while I went into reception and asked for DCI Martin Ash. I gave my name and explained that I didn’t have an appointment. The duty officer ran his eyes over me like I was something nasty that had been blown in from the street. He probably knew instinctively that I was just out of prison. Maybe it’s something that cops can tell simply by looking at you.

Eventually he picked up the phone and called the Major Investigations Department. After a brief conversation he cradled the receiver. ‘The DCI’s out. But DS McGrath got back a few minutes ago and is coming down to see you.’

And with that he returned to whatever he was doing before I arrived. I sat on a bench and thought about the note. Back in town for less than an hour and already I’d been warned off. But that was cool because it meant that someone was worried. They knew – or suspected – that I was going to stir things up and they weren’t happy about it.

DS McGrath stepped out of a side door into the reception area after about five minutes. He was mid-to-late thirties and looked vaguely familiar. In fact I was surprised that I couldn’t immediately place him because he had the kind of looks that a girl doesn’t easily forget. Dark wavy hair, sharp distinctive features. Handsome in a rugged, natural way. A Holloway pin-up for sure.

‘Hello, Miss Wells. I’m Detective Sergeant Paul McGrath.’

He thrust out his hand for me to shake, but I ignored it as a matter of principle. Despite his good looks and obvious sex appeal he was still part of the establishment that had put me away.

‘I just talked to DCI Ash on the phone,’ he said, withdrawing his hand a little self-consciously. ‘He’s on his way back to the office and he’s happy to see you. He wants me to take you upstairs and give you a cup of coffee.’

‘I’d prefer tea,’ I said.

He flashed a thin smile, showing a gap in his front teeth. ‘That’s no problem. Just come and make yourself comfortable while you wait.’

The corridors were familiar. I was led through them after I was arrested. Very little had changed. The posters that adorned the walls issued the same old warnings about drugs, knives and casual sex.

We walked through an empty open-plan office to a small room at one end. There was a desk and several chairs. View of a bus stop.

‘Take a seat and I’ll fetch you that tea,’ McGrath said.

I sat and stared at the wall behind the desk. More posters were pinned to it, along with memos and newspaper cuttings. On the desk was a photo of Martin Ash with his family – a plump wife and two young sons. There was another framed photo on the grey filing cabinet to the right of the desk. It showed two men together – Ash and Neil Ferris. They were wearing suits and smiling for the camera. I thought back to the hours they spent interviewing me in a tiny windowless room. Playing good cop, bad cop. Trying desperately to get a confession. Pumping me with tepid tea and false reassurances.

God knows how many times they made me recount what had happened in that hotel room. They wanted to know exactly what Benedict and I had got up to before he was killed. Did we have intercourse? Did he pay me in cash before we got started?

They asked me time and again why my fingerprints were on the knife if I’d never seen it before. And why the hotel staff knew nothing about the bottle of champagne I said had been delivered to the room.

It was a tough time for me. I was confused and disoriented. And angry because they refused to accept that I’d been the victim of a well-planned stitch-up.

McGrath returned with tea in a plastic cup. I couldn’t help but notice how tight his trousers were. They showed off a narrow waist and well-toned ass. It was the kind of thing that used to turn me on, and if I was honest with myself it still did. It was a stark reminder of how hard it was going to be to decide which path to follow in respect of my sexuality.

‘Careful,’ he said, as he handed the cup to me. ‘It’s hot.’

I thanked him and drank some. He was right. It was scalding, but it tasted pretty good.

McGrath sat on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. I could smell his sweat and aftershave. After four years without a man it was difficult to ignore.

‘Do you know how long Ash will be?’ I asked.

‘Any minute now,’ he said. ‘He’s probably pulling into the car park as we speak.’

I sipped some more tea and met his gaze. His eyes were pale blue and alert. He seemed to be searching my expression for something.

After a beat, he said, ‘You probably don’t remember me. But I was one of the officers who brought you in. I was a DC then.’

‘That so?’

‘You were in a bit of a state. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood.’

I was suddenly conscious of my appearance. I knew I looked pale and drawn. My clothes were ill-fitting and my hair was a mess. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d already given me marks out of ten.

‘I can barely believe it was so long ago,’ he said. ‘It’s flown by.’

A bolt of anger shot through me. ‘I’m glad you think so. But then you weren’t locked up in some poxy cell for most of the time.’

He looked mortified.

‘Shit, I’m sorry I said that, Miss Wells. It came out wrong. It was insensitive.’

‘Too fucking right it was,’ I said.

‘I wasn’t thinking. Please accept my apology.’

‘That’s the trouble with you coppers,’ I said. ‘You’re brainless fucking twats who don’t think.’

He was about to respond when DCI Ash walked into the room wearing a broad grin that revealed sharp little teeth.

‘What is it with you, McGrath?’ he said. ‘I leave you alone with a lady for ten minutes and you’ve already managed to upset her.’

McGrath looked from me to Ash and then back to me. His face reddened and for some reason I felt sorry for him.

‘I’ve got a big mouth, guv,’ he said.

‘So tell me something I don’t already know.’

Ash came further into the room and looked down at me. He was wearing a blue suit and white shirt with a starched collar. The creases in the trousers were razor sharp. His thinning hair was slicked back with gel. He’d put on weight since I last saw him and had a more generous paunch.

‘Good to see you again, Lizzie.’

I arched my brow at him. ‘Really?’

‘For sure. It’s not often that someone I put away looks me up the day they get out. It is kind of freaky, though. Should I be concerned?’

‘Only if you’re a lying bastard with something to hide,’ I said.

The smile became a hearty chuckle which stayed with him as he walked behind the desk and folded his bulk into the chair.

‘Very funny, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re still a spirited little madam even after a few years in the slammer.’

I never did like Ash. There had always been an arrogance in his tone that angered me. From the moment he took me into custody he treated me like slime. His favourite put-down line back then was: ‘So how should I describe you, Lizzie? Or should I say Madam Lizzie? What are you: a brass, a tom, a whore or a prossy?’

‘Try escort,’ I’d responded that first time, but he thought it was funny and told me not to be ridiculous.

‘Escort implies that you’re sort of respectable,’ he’d said. ‘When in fact you’re anything but.’

I could tell he hadn’t changed. Still arrogant, obnoxious and judgemental. And that made him dangerous.

‘I’ve actually been expecting you to show up,’ he said. ‘Soon as I got wind that your girlfriend was in town and asking lots of questions.’

I stared at him. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

‘Come off it, Lizzie. We’re not stupid. Some strange bird looking like Al Capone suddenly appears on the scene and starts pumping people about things that are none of her business. Didn’t it occur to you that we’d get suspicious, especially when she began touting for information on a killing that happened years ago?’

‘How did you make the connection?’

‘It wasn’t difficult,’ he said. ‘She has a few contacts down in Portsmouth. One of them happens to be a snout for me. He alerted me that she was snooping around and we did some checking.’

‘So why didn’t you talk to her?’

‘No reason to. She hadn’t done anything wrong. And besides, we guessed that she was sniffing around for you. I’m assuming you’re here to tell me why.’

‘In a second.’ I took the folded note from my jeans and leaned over the desk to hand it to him. ‘First look at that.’

‘What is it?’

‘Someone put it on my girlfriend’s windscreen after we left the car for a short time.’

He held the note between his fingers as though the paper might be radioactive.

Then slowly he unfolded it and read aloud, ‘“Let it rest, Lizzie. Open up old wounds and you’ll regret it.”’

He grunted and dropped the note onto the desk.

‘So what do you make of it?’ I asked him.

He looked at me quizzically. ‘What am I meant to make of it?’

‘Well, if I’m not mistaken that’s a threat. And aren’t the police supposed to protect people who are threatened?’

‘This is a joke, right?’

Did I expect any other reaction? Probably not. Scar had told me the cops wouldn’t take it seriously. But, at least the note had given me an excuse to drop in on Ash, and that was good enough for now.

‘I want to know who wrote it,’ I said. ‘And I’d like to know if I should be scared.’

He threw a glance at McGrath. ‘So what’s your take on it, detective? Do you think we’re in the business of protecting confessed killers?’

To his credit, McGrath chose to ignore the question. He said, ‘Where was the car parked, Miss Wells?’

‘At The Court Hotel,’ I said. ‘We were inside for about half an hour. My girlfriend picked me up from Holloway and we drove there.’

‘Are you sick in the fucking head or something?’ Ash snarled. ‘What were you doing going back to that place?’

‘I wanted to see the room again,’ I said. ‘I wanted to refresh my memory.’

‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’

‘Because now that I’m out I intend to find out who stitched me up.’

The room got quiet. Both coppers stared at me as though I’d suddenly broken out in huge red welts.

Ash eventually broke the silence. ‘So prison turned you into a raving lunatic then.’

‘I didn’t kill Rufus Benedict,’ I said. ‘Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure I got the blame for it.’

‘That’s bollocks,’ Ash said, his voice filled with agitation. ‘There’s no question that you stabbed that poor, pervy bugger to death. You even pleaded guilty to manslaughter, for Christ’s sake. But, hey, you served your time so move on. Go back on the game or wash dishes in a curry house. I don’t care. Just don’t piss around trying to be a detective.’

‘I’m serious about this,’ I said.

‘You’re insane more like.’

‘That note suggests otherwise,’ I pointed out. ‘Someone is worried enough to try to warn me off.’

‘How do we know you didn’t write it yourself?’

‘Check the CCTV cameras in the hotel car park for starters,’ I said.

‘That’ll prove nothing. You might have got someone to plant it.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re a nut. Because you want attention. Because you’ve decided it’d be fun to waste our time. There are a hundred and one reasons.’

‘Get real,’ I said. ‘I’m telling you it was put there.’

He took a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose.

‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. No crime has been committed, and I don’t intend to divert resources to helping a lowlife killer like you.’

I let that one pass and said, ‘So how about answering some questions about Benedict’s murder. There were things that didn’t come out at the trial.’

He’d already started to get up from the chair. Now he stopped and looked down at me, his big hands resting on the desk.

‘You’ve got a fucking nerve, Lizzie. I’ll say that for you. But no way am I going to encourage you to make a nuisance of yourself. You’re clearly mad to even think you can pull this crap. So listen carefully. I don’t want you or Scarface to go around upsetting people. It’ll just cause a heap trouble for everyone, including me.’

‘You can’t stop me asking questions,’ I said.

He stood up and drew in a lungful of air. At the same time his stomach flopped ungraciously over his belt.

‘Don’t cross me, Lizzie. Just count yourself lucky that you’re not going to spend the rest of your life in prison. You’re out now because we let you get away with a manslaughter plea. So I suggest you make the most of your freedom. In fact I share the sentiments of whoever wrote that frigging note. So don’t go stirring things up because it won’t take much to put you back inside.’

I held his gaze. ‘Does that mean you won’t investigate the threat that’s been made against me?’

He glared at me, the veins in his neck swelling.

‘Just get the fuck out of here before I really lose my temper.’

McGrath was instructed to escort me down the stairs and out of the building. He didn’t say a word until we got to the exit, and I sensed he was a little embarrassed by his boss’s outburst.

Out in the sunshine, he said, ‘I’m sorry about that. The governor isn’t known for his good nature and even temper.’

I shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t have expected anything else from him.’

‘Well, we’re not all like Ash. As far as I’m concerned you committed a crime and you served out your punishment. Therefore, you’re once again a regular member of the community with the same rights as everybody else.’

He handed one of his cards to me. ‘I don’t for a minute condone what you’re doing, Miss Wells, but if you receive any more threats then give me a call. My mobile number is on the back.’

I mumbled my thanks, slipped the card into my back pocket.

‘It might be useful if you gave me your number,’ he said.

I turned on the phone that Scar had given me and read out the number.

‘Ash was right, though,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t go raking over old coals. The last thing you want is to get into trouble again and wind up right back in the clink.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ I said.

‘I’m serious, Miss Wells. If you’re not careful you could get into serious trouble again.’

I pressed out a grin. ‘Don’t see why. As you just said I served my sentence so like everyone else I’m now free to make an arse of myself as long as I keep it legal.’

I walked back to the car. Scar was puffing on a menthol and blowing the smoke out the window. She waited until I was strapped into the passenger seat.

‘Didn’t go well, did it?’ she said.

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You look fit to explode.’

‘Ash is a bastard.’

‘So I gather.’

I told her what had transpired in his office.

‘I did warn you that it wouldn’t be easy,’ she said. ‘I just can’t see anyone helping you out, especially the Old Bill. I mean, why would they?’

It was the same question I’d been asking myself for ages, and I still didn’t have an answer.

‘Let’s go to the flat,’ I said.

Scar gunned the engine. ‘Bevois Valley here we come.’

I lowered the side window and breathed in the familiar tang of salty sea air. It beat the smell of prison piss and disinfectant.

‘By the way, the Valley is close to the town’s red light district,’ I said. ‘Is this your way of trying to make me feel at home?’

Scar gave me a look. ‘It was the cheapest pad I could find. And it’s within walking distance of the bar we’re going to tonight.’

‘That so? What kind of bar is it?’

‘It’s big, dark and noisy. You’ll love it.’

‘Really? Let me guess – it’s called the Mercury Club?’

‘Hey, that’s right. You know it?’

‘Everyone knows it. It used to be the town’s biggest gay venue.’

‘Still is,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And you know what? I can’t wait to show you off there.’

We drove along the dock road. A cruise ship was berthed in the port terminal, waiting to transport hundreds of well-heeled passengers to exotic locations. Maybe one day I’d be among them. It was something I used to dream about when, as a child, I’d watch the QE2 heading out into the Solent, its bow cutting through the water like a knife through jelly.

The city was much as I remembered it, except there were more flats, more speed cameras, more students and more cars. It was the Southampton I’d grown up in. A vibrant community with a colourful ethnic mix; where ugly new buildings nestled beside stone walls and ramparts from bygone eras; where women were gobby and people spoke with an accent that fell somewhere between cockney and west country.

My father had worked in the docks before he succumbed to bowel cancer at the age of thirty-five, leaving my mother to take care of my brother and me. Life was never the same after that. My father and I had been very close. He was the one who read me bedtime stories and paid me the most attention. I was a daddy’s girl for sure and his death left me bereft.

My mother took it really hard and she never really came to terms with her loss. His death carved a hole in her life that couldn’t be filled. She was forever searching for a meaning to her existence, and unfortunately for me she eventually found it in religion.

And there, just up ahead, was St Mary’s church where she did all her praying. It’s the largest church in the city, and my mother was fond of telling me that the sound of its bells had inspired the words of the song The Bells of St Mary’s, which was sung by Bing Crosby in the film of the same name. I was never sure why she thought I was interested.

She used to drag me to the services, but I hated it. I hated the smell of the polished wood, and I hated the hypocrisy that permeated the air like toxic fumes. When I was fifteen I called a halt to it, stood my ground. My mother had given up on me by then anyway and didn’t go to war over the issue.

‘Your mother and brother live near here, don’t they?’ Scar said. ‘You want to go see them?’

The prospect of seeing my mother did not fill me with joyous anticipation.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘There’s no hurry.’

We drove on into Bevois Valley, a run-down inner city area full of student flats, live music venues and grubby takeaways. It’s a few minutes walk from the decrepit flat I used to live in with Todd, the loser who fathered Leo. He stuck around long enough to realise a child meant cost and commitment. Then he disappeared, leaving me to cope by myself. He never saw his son, and the last I heard he’d moved up north. Even the cops couldn’t trace him to tell him little Leo had died.

The flat that Scar had rented was just off the main drag opposite a small motorcycle repair shop. It was on the first floor of a scruffy terraced house. Peeling paint on the window frames. Chunks of brickwork missing. An overflowing wheelie bin out front.

It might have been a grim place in a grim part of town, but to someone who had spent nearly four years in a poky cell it wasn’t half bad. Even when I saw the flat’s interior I didn’t flinch, though I was sure most people would have.

The carpet was grey and threadbare throughout. Wallpaper clung precariously to the walls. Some of it had peeled away to reveal rough, brown surfaces beneath. The ceilings were smoke-ravaged and lumpy and the net curtains were the colour of wet sugar.

There was a living room, bedroom, bathroom and small kitchen that barely held two people.

But amazingly it felt like home. Maybe that was because the finer things in life had always eluded me. Money had always been scarce. I got used to second-hand furniture, Primark clothes, same-day loans and fake jewellery. Real cash only came my way when I started turning tricks, and all that money went into paying off debts and building society accounts for Leo’s future.

‘I’ve stocked up the fridge,’ Scar said. ‘So we’ve got plenty of food and drink. I’ve kept a tally of everything I’ve spent.’

Scar was excited. Could barely keep still.

‘Why don’t you unpack your bag?’ she said. ‘I’ll pour us a couple of drinks.’

The bedroom looked crowded with a double bed. Scar had bought a duvet and cover-set in black. She’d placed candles on the tiny bedside tables and there was a bunch of fresh flowers in a vase on the dressing table.

I threw my holdall onto the bed and unzipped it. Took out everything I owned and it didn’t amount to much. A few T-shirts, another pair of jeans, sweater, papers, some jewellery, a small photo album filled with pictures of Leo, my brother’s letters. I planned to go shopping soon to buy whatever I needed. There was at least five thousand pounds in the accounts, assuming Scar had spent a couple of grand on the flat and various other expenses. We’d cope on that for a few months, then decide what to do and where to go.

Back in the living room, Scar poured us beers and lit a couple of spliffs. The beer went down a treat and the spliff helped ease away the tension in my bones.

It all seemed so unreal. Like it was happening to someone else and not me. I was out. No more lockdowns. No more crappy food. No more shit from the screws. No more mind-numbing boredom.

I had my life back, but even so I didn’t feel there was any real cause for celebration. I just felt like I had things to do, an objective to achieve. Until that was sorted I felt I had to hold back.

‘Chill out, babe,’ Scar said. ‘It’s time to scream from the rooftops, for pity’s sake. You’re back in the land of the living.’

She was right and it made me feel stupid. There was no harm in enjoying the moment. The other stuff could wait. I owed it to myself to relax a little and savour the glorious buzz of freedom.

And then I felt Scar’s fingers in my hair. She came up behind me as I was staring out through the window at the bright blue sky above Southampton. Her touch was soft and gentle, and it set my body on fire.

It was the first time we’d made love on a double bed, and it was as good as I knew it would be. The sheets were soft and clean and we didn’t have to worry about the cell door being thrown open by some pervy screw.

Scar lit a few scented candles and the heady mix of jasmine and coital sweat was quite intoxicating.

We pleasured each other in ways that only women know how. Gently. Expertly. Homing in on exactly the right spots.

For a brief moment it took me back to my first girl-on-girl encounter some years before. I was eighteen and in between boyfriends. Natalie Boyd was a good mate with a firm body and fake tan. We were at a house party and more than a little drunk. Teamed up with two guys whose names I’d forgotten. Mine was an electrician whose parents owned the house and were away on holiday.

After everyone else had gone home, the four of us ended up naked in the garden jacuzzi together. Playful banter and a bit of groping before the guys egged Nats and me on to snog each other. And why not? I was horny as hell and curious to boot. Nats was wet and sexy and clearly up for it.

So we kissed, much to the delight of the two blokes who sat in the churning water stroking themselves. We then went on to explore each other’s bodies with our hands and tongues and quickly got carried away on a tidal surge of passion.

The lads continued to watch until they couldn’t contain their excitement any longer and we all partied well into the early hours.

It was my first lesbian experience and although it was great, it wasn’t life-changing. In fact, I wasn’t desperately keen to repeat it, preferring instead to continue steering a straight course where sex was concerned. Even when I became an escort I didn’t go for the girl-on-girl thing.

But that changed when I went inside and met Scar. We became firm friends and one thing led to another as it often does in prison. It was fair to say that she opened my eyes to a world of new and exquisite experiences.

But this time the sex was something else entirely. I got completely lost in the swell of desire and emotion, to the extent that I felt tears trickle onto my cheeks.

It was clear that our feelings for each other were undiminished. And I was overwhelmed by the fact that Scar was still there for me, despite the hassle I’d heaped upon her.

She was in her element, sucking and kissing every inch of my body, her tongue probing and teasing until I could stand it no longer and let out a high-pitched scream from deep inside my chest.

I shut my eyes tight as I came, then savoured the deep, rocking sensation that carried me all the way to a full, mind-blowing orgasm.




3 (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)


For a long time after our love making we just lay on the bed entwined in each other’s arms. A portable fan offered some relief from the heat of the afternoon.

Being with Scar again after a couple of months apart made me realise how right it felt. And it wasn’t just about the sex. We’d been drawn to each other because of an emotional empathy, a shared capacity to talk about our feelings. It was something I’d never had with any of the men in my life.

‘Come on, gorgeous,’ Scar said, rising from the bed. ‘Let’s go to town and do some shopping.’

After we showered, we drove to the West Quay retail complex in the city centre where I got my hair done and then went in search of some new clothes. I’d lost weight in jail and was now a size ten. That was one good thing to come out of my incarceration, I supposed.

Shopping had never been so much fun, even back in the days when the agency work meant that I had cash to spare. I bought a pair of jeans, a couple of skirts and blouses, sandals, shoes and a light summer jacket in beige with big brown buttons.

We spent an inordinate amount of time choosing sexy underwear, and to round it off I treated us to a couple of interesting looking toys in Ann Summers.

A few hours later we hit the town. Powdered, painted and reeking of perfume. It was my first night of freedom and I was determined to enjoy it.

Scar was dressed to kill in a short black leather skirt and lemon halter. I wore my new slinky jeans and a blue blouse that revealed maybe a bit too much of my pert breasts.

We had a tankful before leaving the house, so by the time we got to the Mercury Club we were both gobby and giggly and hot to trot.

The music inside was thunderous, and everywhere you looked there were same-sex couples. But I didn’t feel out of place or uncomfortable. The atmosphere might have been heavy and electric, but it was also friendly.

Scar seemed to know half the people there and introduced me to them as her girlfriend. I wondered how many knew that I had only just been released from prison. I was glad it was too noisy for conversation. It meant I didn’t have to answer awkward questions and could concentrate on having a good time.

I stuck to vodka, lime and lemonade, fearing the consequences of mixing my drinks. But Scar had no such concerns and was knocking back Tequila shots, Southern Comfort and the occasional wine. She got me in a clinch at one point and told me that she loved me.

‘I hope we can hold on to what we have, Lizzie. I know it won’t be easy for you now that you’re out. But promise me one thing – you’ll be totally honest about how you feel.’

I cupped her face in my hands and made a solemn promise which I knew I might not keep. Then I gave her a long, lingering kiss on the lips that coincided with a slow Jenny Read number that happened to be one of my favourites. So we continued clinging to each other as we moved around the crowded floor until the DJ upped the tempo and the club was once again shaking to the heavy beat of an R and B group.

It was 1 a.m. when we left the club and joined the parade of revellers heading home. The air was warm and muggy and filled with a cacophony of familiar city sounds – drunken laughter, loud swearing, the distant wail of police sirens.

We were both unsteady on our feet as we walked hand in hand through the dingy streets of the grimiest part of Southampton. Drunk, but not paralytic. It was a good place to be. Tomorrow life was going to get a lot more complicated. Maybe even dangerous. But tonight I was relaxed and enjoying the feeling.

We stopped at a mobile snack bar. Bought burgers and chips. Lots of salt and vinegar and tomato sauce. Sheer bloody bliss.

We were crossing the road towards our new home when the roar of an engine suddenly seized our attention. We stepped quickly onto the kerb as a car screeched to a halt right in front of the house about fifteen yards ahead of us.

Then the rear nearside door was flung open, and to my astonishment a man’s body was pushed out onto the pavement by an outstretched arm.

The car then revved up and lurched forward, the door slamming shut as it screeched away along the street, before turning out of sight.

Scar and I rushed over to the figure lying on the pavement. He was on his back and his blood-covered face was bathed in the glow of a street lamp. Blood frothed around his mouth so we knew he was breathing.

I dropped to one knee to take a close look. And that’s when my heart exploded in my chest and I almost fainted.

‘Oh my God.’

Scar lowered herself to a squat beside me.

‘Calm down, Lizzie. The guy’s alive. We’ll call an ambulance.’

I shook my head. ‘You don’t understand. This is Mark. This is my fucking brother.’

The sight of my brother lying there on the pavement instantly sobered me up. I yelled for Scar to call 999, then leaned over him.

‘It’s me, Mark. Lizzie. Can you hear what I’m saying?’

He was conscious, thank God, but I couldn’t tell how badly hurt he was. There was a large dark swelling beneath his left eye and his bottom lip was cut and oozing blood. But most of the blood was coming from his nose, which was red and inflamed.

He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tight trousers. The shirt was intact, very little blood, and I couldn’t see any knife wounds. That was a relief.

He opened his eyes and his lips parted as though he were about to speak. But blood pooled in his mouth, making him cough.

‘I’m here, Mark. We’ve called for an ambulance. You’ll be okay.’

He scrunched his face up in pain.

‘What’s happened to you? Who did this?’

He swallowed with difficulty, squeezed his eyes shut. I felt the panic rising inside me and fought to control it. Stay calm, Lizzie. He’s not seriously hurt by the look of it. Just battered and bruised. Could have been much worse. At least he hasn’t been knifed or shot.

‘An ambulance is on its way,’ Scar said, kneeling back down beside me. ‘How is he?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m hoping he looks worse than he is.’

My breath grew patchy. I could feel my whole body shaking.

‘So what the fuck is going on, Lizzie?’ Scar said. ‘Why’d they dump him here in front of the flat?’

It was the obvious question and one that had flashed through my mind already. But I was too traumatised to dwell on it right now. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but my brother’s face.

I recalled seeing him like it once before and shivered at the memory. We were kids then and a couple of boys had picked on me in the street, pulling my hair and calling me names. Mark was four years younger than me and about half the size of the boys. But that didn’t stop him wading in to protect me. Trouble was he took a savage beating, during which he hit his head on the kerb and suffered minor brain damage as a result. That was why he had learning difficulties and why my mother stopped loving me.

Now he was twenty-four and fourteen years on I was looking at his damaged features and wondering once again if it was down to me.

He tried to speak, but it was clearly painful, so I told him to stay quiet and stroked his wavy brown hair until the ambulance arrived. Scar wanted to come with us to the hospital, but I told her to go to the flat and get some sleep. She kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand and before I knew it I was in the back of the ambulance watching a paramedic tending to my brother.

‘He’ll live,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Wounds are superficial. Fist damage, I’d hazard.’

Her words were meant to reassure me and I suppose they did to a degree. Even so, for the next hour my nerves were stretched to breaking point. I was worried sick about my brother and I couldn’t shake the image of him being hurled out of that car onto the pavement.

At the hospital, Mark was treated in a cubicle in the emergency department. After he was patched up I was allowed to see him. There were stitches in his top lip and his left eye was swollen almost shut.

He was sitting up on a bed. His face had been cleaned, but he still looked a mess.

He was able to smile, though, and this lifted my spirits. I gave him a cuddle and kissed him on the forehead. I wanted to cry, but managed to hold it in. It wasn’t easy. Emotions were churning inside me like a storm in a bottle.

‘I didn’t know you were out before tonight,’ he said, his speech slow and slurred like always. ‘Why didn’t you call or come to see us?’

‘I was planning to. Tomorrow.’ It was a lame excuse, and I felt the guilt wash over me. But typically my brother did not hold it against me. His smile widened.

‘It’s good to see you, sis.’

I took a deep, stuttering breath to hold the tears at bay. ‘I’ve been trying to phone Mum, but there’s no answer.’

‘She’ll have switched the phone off,’ he said. ‘Always does when she goes to bed. I told her I had a key.’

‘So where were you tonight? And what happened?’

The smile vanished and he stared at a point beyond me, his swollen features taut suddenly.

‘I was at Tony’s,’ he said. ‘He’s a friend. Lives up the road near Iceland. We watched a film and I went home late. I’d let myself in and was pouring a glass of milk when someone knocked on the door.’

He stopped to wipe sweat from his brow.

‘When I answered the door there were two men standing there,’ he said. ‘One had a big tattoo on his chest. I could see it because his shirt was open. They asked me if I was Mark Wells and I said yes and then they grabbed me and pulled me out of the house. Their car was parked in front and they pushed me in the back. The one with the tattoo sat next to me while the other one drove. And as soon as we were moving he started punching me in the face.’

He started sobbing so I handed him a glass of water and told him to drink it.

‘Did you know these men?’ I asked him.

He gulped the water, spilling some of it down his chin.

‘I’ve not seen them before,’ he said.

‘So why did they do it? Did they tell you?’

He looked at me and blinked away more tears. ‘The one with the tattoo told me it was another warning to you, Lizzie. Said if you don’t stop dredging up the past then next time they won’t be so … merciful.’

‘Oh fuck.’

‘He also said if you go to the police again he’ll come back and kill me.’




4 (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)


The hospital kept Mark in for observation, and I stayed with him. I did my best to extract descriptions of the two men, but all he could remember was that they were both big and mean looking.

‘Like those blokes in black suits who stand outside pubs and clubs in the town centre.’

Heavy dudes in other words. The type who carry out the dirty work for someone else. Someone with the means to pay them well and keep them in check.

Was this the first real sign that I was way out of my depth on this and should heed the warnings that were coming at me thick and fast?

Mark did have a clear recollection of one thing though – the tattoo on his attacker’s chest. And no wonder. It sounded pretty distinctive. A dog baring a set of sharp teeth. It was just the head, he said, peering out from the opening in the guy’s shirt.

‘It was really ugly, sis. The way a dog growls at you as it gets ready to attack.’

It was an unsettling aspect. The man sounded like a scary bastard, just the sort of psycho you don’t want on your case.

The doctor did his rounds at seven. Checked Mark over and gave him the all-clear. No broken bones, no sign of concussion and no internal injuries. Just a few cuts, a couple of bruises and a loose front tooth.

But before he could be discharged a uniformed cop arrived to take a statement. I let him know that Mark had learning difficulties, and he made a note of it. Mark told him exactly what he’d told me and answered all the officer’s questions as best he could.

I then explained my situation and mentioned the note left on the windscreen at the hotel.

‘I want you to inform DCI Ash,’ I said. ‘He’ll want to know about this.’

At nine o’clock a taxi dropped us off outside my mother’s house. I saw her at the kitchen window as we piled out of the cab. The front door was flung open long before we reached it and when she set eyes on her son I thought she was going to have a fit.

‘Marky, Marky. What in the Lord’s name has happened to you? I thought you were in your room.’

She grabbed his shoulders and looked closely at his face. The swollen eye and stitched-up lip. The large plaster on his forehead. Her own face drained of colour and she started to shake violently.

‘Have you had an accident? Are you badly hurt?’

‘He was attacked, Mum,’ I said, ‘but his wounds are not serious.’

She turned to me, and a frown quickly turned to a scowl.

‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in prison? How come you’re with your brother?’

‘Let’s go inside and I’ll explain everything,’ I said.

She pondered this for a second, then put her arm around Mark and led him into the small, cluttered kitchen that was dominated by an ugly pine table with more craters than the moon.

My mother told Mark to sit down while she put the kettle on. He caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back and winked at him.

‘Lizzie stayed with me at the hospital, Mum,’ he said. ‘She took care of me.’

My mother turned away from the sink, kettle in one hand. She looked from Mark to me and pressed her lips together. That was usually a sign that she didn’t know what to say.

‘I tried to call,’ I said. ‘But Mark told me you take the phone off at night.’

She stared at me, pink, watery eyes full of doubt and confusion. I wanted to cross the room to embrace her, tell her not to worry, that everything was going to be fine. But I didn’t because I knew she’d only pull away. So I just stood there, knowing that what had happened to Mark was going to be another nail in the coffin of our relationship.

The last time I saw her was at Leo’s funeral. She’d lost weight since then from her short, stocky frame. Her face had hollowed out and the harsh lines and bloodless lips made her look older than her fifty-four years. The hair didn’t help. She’d stopped putting colour on it and it was now grey and lifeless.

Ours had always been a strained relationship. I was convinced that to begin with it was because my father doted on me, and she resented not being the centre of his world, even for that brief period. After he died she retreated into herself and what little affection she demonstrated towards me dried up completely. Then came Mark’s head injury, which she blamed on me. She said I’d attracted the attention of the boys by wearing a disgracefully short skirt and heavy make-up. I was fourteen at the time and wanted nothing more than to be like the other girls. But my mother didn’t see it that way.

Having found God everything to her was black and white. She became boorish and intolerant. She never took into account my raging hormones and teenage insecurities. And as I got older nothing changed. Whatever I did she disapproved of. And that had a good deal to do with why I went off the rails.

I stopped caring about what she thought of me. I ignored her advice and became more and more argumentative. Sometimes when she lectured me from her invisible pulpit I’d laugh in her face. If I was high on drugs I’d scream and swear at her. A couple of times she reacted by crying, but mostly she’d just shake her head and tell me I should be ashamed of myself.

Whenever I did try to be nice she would become suspicious because she’d assume I was only doing it because I wanted something. And most times she was right.

Her motherly instincts did kick in for a while, though, when my sorry excuse for a boyfriend walked out on me three months before Leo was born. She even invited me to move back in, but I couldn’t see that working so I stayed put in the flat, gave birth to Leo and tried to hold down a succession of dead-end jobs from barmaid to cleaner. It was hard and depressing and the money, even with tax credits, was barely enough to live on. That’s when the debts piled up and I tried to blank out my woes with drink and drugs.

I knew my life had spiralled out of control when I arrived at my mum’s one night to pick up Leo. I was rat-arsed. There was a scene, and she slapped my face. I deserved it too and it made me realise that I had to do something. The next day I saw Ruby Gillespie’s newspaper ad for escorts. I thought it would be a way out. Do it for a time to get on my feet, like a lot of women do. Some hope!

My mother came to see me in the police cell after I was arrested. Until then she didn’t know I’d become a prostitute. She was appalled, told me I was the devil’s child, whatever that meant. And she made it clear that she thought I was guilty of murder, which really hurt.

She took care of Leo when I went inside but refused to bring him to see me. She just couldn’t let go of the grief and the shame. When I demanded to see him she threatened to have him put into care. But I couldn’t allow that because I knew she loved him and would care for him even though I was dead to her. I did ask the authorities if I could have him with me in the prison’s Mother and Baby Unit, but my application was rejected on the grounds that my crime was so serious and I was a known drug user.

I vowed to emerge from the pit of despair a changed woman. I set myself objectives. Hold down a proper job. Make things right with Mum. Ensure my boy had a good life.

But then he got a headache and all my plans and aspirations died with him.

‘So are you gonna tell me what happened or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all frigging evening?’

My mother’s voice wrenched me back to the present. The trip down memory lane had shaken me. I took a deep breath and told her everything.

I was standing in Leo’s bedroom, which used to be mine. The last time I was here was that evening when I dropped him off before going to the hotel and my session with Rufus Benedict. I told my mother I was going to work in the club, and I told Leo I’d see him in the morning.

I remembered how I tickled him and he got the giggles. And then how he waved at me as I walked out the door. My head was full of such memories and I cherished them even though they upset me from time to time.

His room looked no different. My mother had decided to leave everything as it was. Bright pink walls and matching carpet. Paddington Bear curtains. A shrine to her dead grandson, something tangible to sustain the hatred she felt for me.

The bed was made and I choked up at the sight of the Donald Duck duvet cover. My mother bought it in the Disney store in Southampton along with the bedside lamp and some of the cuddly toys lined up on the shelves.

On one wall was a large framed photo of my son on that first Christmas. He was sitting in his high chair stuffing peas into his mouth. His round blue eyes stared out at me, full of love and trust and it was all I could do not to collapse in a heap on the floor.

There were things in here I wanted to take with me to my new home when I eventually found somewhere permanent to live. But that would have to wait.

I backed out of the room, too emotional to stay any longer. I could hear my mother in the kitchen, still crying. That was why I’d come upstairs. She’d lost her temper and had shouted at me. But I felt she had good reason to lay into me. This time I was to blame for what had happened to Mark. They – whoever they were – had used my brother to get at me. A crude and cowardly threat, but one that was nonetheless prompted by my determination to find out who had stitched me up.

‘I think you should move out for a while, Mum,’ I’d said. ‘You and Mark might not be safe here. Can you go to Aunt Glenda’s?’

That was when she exploded. Said I was a worthless, troublesome daughter and God would punish me. She broke down in tears and I walked out, knowing she’d dig her heels in and expect me to change my mind. And that created a dilemma for me because I didn’t want to. Seeing that Christmas picture of Leo had only strengthened my resolve. I couldn’t stop thinking that if I hadn’t gone to prison he’d still be alive.

I stood on the landing listening to my mother and wondering what was unfolding here. I must have put the fear of God into someone by coming back to Southampton and making my intentions known. Hence the note on the windscreen, and the attack on Mark. But why did they fear me? Was it because they thought I might actually find out who really killed Rufus Benedict?

My mother was still crying when I left the house. She refused to talk to me except to say that she was staying put and that she would never forgive me if those men did further harm to Mark.

I gave my brother my new mobile number and told him to be careful.

‘Stay indoors for a few days and call me if you see those men again,’ I said.

‘Will we be all right, sis?’

‘’Course you will, bruv. I won’t let them hurt you again.’

I phoned Scar and told her I was walking home, but she insisted on picking me up. She already knew what Mark had told me because I’d phoned her from the hospital, and she’d listened without comment. But once I was in the car it was a different story.

‘So there you have it,’ she said. ‘This insane quest has to stop. You’re putting the lives of your family in danger.’

‘It was probably an empty threat,’ I said.

‘You can’t be certain of that.’

‘No, but surely if these people are prepared to go to such extremes then they’d come after me. Why bother with my brother?’

‘Isn’t that bloody obvious? They don’t want to draw attention to themselves. If you turned up dead or in hospital then the police might start asking some serious questions and maybe even reopen the original case. But that’s unlikely to happen if your brother is the victim – even if you insisted it was a warning to you. Think about the reaction you got from Ash. He’ll just say you’re making it up.’

She had a point, and it wasn’t something I could just ignore. But neither could I ignore the fact that my ‘insane quest’ might actually produce results.

‘I can’t walk away from it even before I’ve got started,’ I said. ‘That would be crazy. I’ve planned it for too long.’

‘You haven’t planned it, Lizzie. You’ve obsessed over it. There’s a big difference.’

‘Not to me.’

‘But these men are seriously dangerous. The consequences of ignoring their warnings could be dire.’

I let her words hang in the air as she brought the car to a halt outside the house. For a moment I saw myself in her eyes and understood why she was vexed. What I was doing was fraught with risks that in her mind were unnecessary.

She switched off the engine. ‘Look, even if you get to the truth it’s not going to change the past. You served time in prison. Those are lost years. Put them behind you and get on with your life.’

I turned to face her. ‘And what about Leo? Don’t I owe it to him to find out why he died?’

‘He died because he contracted meningitis. Not because you were behind bars.’

I shook my head. ‘I know that if I’d been there he’d still be alive.’

‘You know nothing of the sort. It’s just part of this crushing guilt trip you’re on.’

‘So what if I feel guilty? Wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course, but that’s not the point.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Your future. That’s what you should be focused on now that you’re out. You have to accept that neither guilt nor revenge will bring back your son and those years spent in prison.’

‘Actually I do accept that. But what I can’t accept is that if I do nothing then whoever is responsible for the carnage will never be punished.’

‘Get real. What are the odds on you finding out who the real perps are? You’re not a copper. You don’t have the necessary skills. You’re stumbling blind into a world you’re not familiar with. A dangerous world at that.’

‘If I don’t at least try I’ll never forgive myself,’ I said. ‘If I walk away I really don’t think that my life will be worth living.’

I was worked up now, verging on tears. Scar reached across the seat, brushed a tendril of hair away from my forehead.

She sighed. ‘Okay, babe. I can see you’re as determined as ever. And I want you to know that I’ll stick by you and continue to help.’

I managed a smile. ‘Thanks.’

A beat.

‘There’s this guy I know,’ she said. ‘For a few quid a day I think he might be persuaded to keep an eye on your mum and brother. Would you be up for that?’

‘I suppose. If he can be trusted.’

‘He can. We go back a long way, and it so happens he lives down the road in Portsmouth. He’s also on the dole right now.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Craig Decker, but everyone calls him Tiny on account of the fact that he’s built like a brick shithouse.’

‘So how do you know him?’

Scar blushed. ‘He happens to be my ex-husband.’

In prison Scar had never mentioned that she’d ever been interested in men, let alone married to one. The revelation left me speechless.

‘I should have told you,’ she said. ‘The thing is it was a long time ago. I was young and I went with boys because I was in denial about my sexual orientation. At seventeen I met Tiny and the first time we did it I got pregnant. So we got married. But our baby died while I was giving birth. The marriage lasted another year, and then we went our separate ways.’

‘But you stayed in touch,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘He was a family friend so yeah, we did. But that was okay because there was never any animosity. He even came to see me in prison once.’

‘And did you tell him about yourself?’

‘If you mean did I tell him that I wasn’t straight, I didn’t have to. He guessed it when I stopped going with guys. I came out when I was nineteen. By then I’d had enough of pretending I was someone I wasn’t.’

It was hard for me to imagine Scar with a man and harder still to imagine how difficult it must have been for her before she came out of the closet.

‘I came close to telling you about Tiny a few times,’ she said. ‘But you know what it was like in prison. Nobody wants to open up completely. You all feel the need to hold something back about yourself. Usually it’s a part of your life you find difficult to share.’

I knew exactly what she meant. There were things about my own life I hadn’t mentioned to Scar. Secrets. Things I were ashamed of. Some of the stuff I got up to while on drugs.

‘So what do you think?’ she asked me. ‘Shall I get Tiny over so that you can suss him out?’

‘Would he be able to cope with being a minder?’

‘Oh, sure. Last I heard he was a bouncer and he knows how to look after himself. Just so you know, he served a short prison sentence for causing grievous bodily harm to a bloke who picked a fight with him in a pub.’

‘He sounds like a charmer.’

‘He is, believe me.’

‘What makes you so sure he’ll be up for it?’

The corners of her mouth slipped into a smile. ‘Because he’s skint and because he’s always said that if I ever need a favour I only have to ask.’

On the way back to the flat I used my mobile to call DS Paul McGrath. I got his number from the card he gave me.

‘I was actually just about to give you a ring,’ he said. ‘The DCI has asked me to look into the attack on your brother. I’m going to see him in a bit and then I’d like to get a statement from you.’

‘And there was me thinking that Ash wouldn’t take it seriously.’

‘The boss might not have the best people skills on the force, Miss Wells, but he’s a good copper. He’ll do all he can to catch those responsible for assaulting your brother.’

‘It wasn’t just an assault,’ I said. ‘They kidnapped him. They dragged him out of his own home and then put him into a car before beating him up.’

‘I’ve been briefed by uniform,’ he said. ‘So I’m aware of the circumstances. Am I right in saying that your brother has learning difficulties?’

‘That’s right, but it doesn’t mean he’s brain dead. He’ll be able to tell you exactly what happened.’

‘Will you be there?’

I wanted to, but I knew that if I did go straight back my mum would only kick off again.

‘No, I’ve just left,’ I said. ‘But our mother will be.’

‘Then I’d like to get a statement from you later.’

‘No problem. In the meantime you should know I’m really worried about Mark and my mum. The men said it was another warning to me and that if I went to the police they’d come back for him.’

‘It doesn’t mean they will, Miss Wells. It was probably just an idle threat.’

‘Like the note that was put on my windscreen, you mean?’

He didn’t respond and I heard him draw a breath.

‘I want you to provide protection for them,’ I said. ‘Station an officer outside the house or something.’

‘I’m not sure that will be possible, Miss Wells, but I will talk to DCI Ash and see what he thinks.’

‘And what about you,detective? Do you think someone is desperate to stop me poking around in case I uncover the truth?’

‘What’s happened does make that a distinct possibility,’ he said. ‘All the more reason not to play at being a detective. You’re putting yourself in danger.’

‘But if I stop now nothing will happen and the truth will never come out.’

‘We’re involved, Miss Wells. You can rest assured that we’ll thoroughly investigate these threats.’

‘And what if you don’t get anywhere? Will you then reopen the case into Rufus Benedict’s death?’

After a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘We can talk about that later.’

I snorted. ‘Yeah, right. Well, tell Ash that I’m sticking with this. There’s a good chance the men who killed Benedict attacked my brother last night. And that makes me even more determined to make them pay.’

Before hanging up I agreed to drop by the central police station at about two o’clock so that McGrath could take a formal statement from me.

I didn’t kid myself that the cops were suddenly sympathetic to my cause. It was just that they had no choice but to investigate the attack on my brother. But at least McGrath was not as dismissive of me as his boss was. And that was maybe something I could work on.

Perhaps I could even woo him with my feminine charms. That was assuming I hadn’t lost my touch.




5 (#u3f0a09e9-71c0-5c5d-b8d1-b9088c9a0664)


It was a relief to get back to the flat. I felt bone-numbingly tired, but too hyped up to go straight to sleep. I undressed and had a shower. The jets of hot water blasted the sludge from my brain and I felt much better.

When I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, Scar handed me a mug of steaming tea.

‘Would you like me to make you breakfast?’ she asked.

I shook my head. ‘I’m not hungry. You go ahead.’

‘I had something before I came to pick you up.’

I sipped the tea as I walked over to the window and looked out. Dark clouds were scudding across the sky, and the streets were a sombre shade of grey.

‘I called Tiny while you were in the shower,’ Scar said. ‘He’s coming over later.’

I turned and felt my eyebrows pull together.

‘So what did he say?’

‘He said he’d be happy to help out because he’s got nothing better to do. For fifty quid a day he’ll watch your mum’s house and keep an eye on her and your brother when they go out. And he understands that it’s not a done deal, and that you’ll want to see him first.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I said. ‘I take it he knows about us.’

‘Of course. That’s another reason he’s keen to get involved. He wants to meet his ex-wife’s girlfriend.’

I sat down on the sofa to finish my tea and think through the day ahead. Scar lowered herself onto the armchair opposite me and crossed her legs. She looked tired and drawn. And worried.

‘Are you all right?’ I said.

She hunched her shoulders. ‘This is all a bit scary, Lizzie. I still can’t believe what those fuckers did to your brother. We shouldn’t need to be recruiting a minder for them.’

I chewed my lower lip and looked her squarely in the eyes.

‘I won’t blame you if you decide to move out,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t fair of me to get you involved in the first place. If anything happens to you I’ll never forgive myself.’

‘Don’t be a bloody drama queen, Lizzie. I’ve told you, I’m in this with you all the way despite the fact that what you’re doing is crazy.’

I felt warm tears well up in my eyes. I’d never had someone in my life like Scar. Someone who was prepared to stick by me no matter what. It was a strange, but comforting feeling.

‘I don’t deserve you,’ I said.

She clucked her tongue. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you stopped putting yourself down? Okay, so in the eyes of the law you’re a killer as well as a retired whore. You bite your nails and grind your teeth when you’re sleeping. And you’re so stubborn it’s infuriating. But believe it or not you do have a few redeeming features.’

I tried not to grin. ‘And what are they?’

She pretended to think about it. ‘You have nice eyes. Your cheeks dimple when you smile. You’ve got a kind heart and soft hands.’ A pause, then: ‘Oh, and you make me very happy.’

I had to force myself not to cry. They were the kindest words anyone had ever said to me.

I put the mug of tea on the carpet and stood up. Scar raised her brow as I shed the robe and let it drop to the floor.

‘You deserve a treat for being so kind,’ I said, holding out my hand.

Another smile spread across her face and her eyes lit up. She got to her feet and took my hand. I gave her a gentle kiss on the lips and led her into the bedroom.

We made love for almost an hour and then we lay on the bed reminiscing about what it had been like inside. Before we eventually dozed off we talked about our fellow inmates, the ones we liked and the ones we didn’t like. And we reminded each other of the many times we’d had sex on the floor of the cell and in the showers. And how on several occasions the screws had walked in when we were doing it.

We had each occupied single cells before they put us together. Neither of us had wanted to share but from that first day we hit it off and it wasn’t long before we realised we were physically attracted to one another. I was the one who actually made the first move. Scar was upset over something and she was lying on her bed and sobbing. So I sat next to her and started massaging her shoulders and then her neck. When she turned on her back I felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. And so I did, and she responded by pushing her tongue into my mouth. It was as though we’d both been waiting for it to happen.

In the dream it’s Christmas Day and Mark is bouncing little Leo on his lap. We’re at my mother’s house and for once she’s in a good mood. The festive spirit has encouraged us all to make an effort for Leo’s sake. It’s his first Christmas and we all want to make it a special one.

Mark loves his little nephew and he used his disability welfare payments to buy him a giant panda that sings nursery rhymes. Mum’s bought him more toys than I can be bothered to count.

She’s been able to spoil him because I’ve paid for everything else, including all the food and wine and their new 42-inch flat-screen television. The money from the escorting has made it all so much easier. Before I started whoring we were living hand to mouth and life was a struggle. What little I received in benefits I squandered on fags, booze and drugs because it was the only way I could relieve the pressure. My choices were limited and my prospects were grim. And the longer it carried on the worse I felt about myself. But after swallowing my pride and seizing control of the situation, I’m now flush with cash and the future’s looking much brighter for Leo.

Of course, my mother has no idea what I really do when she’s looking after Leo. She thinks I’m holding down two jobs – one in a restaurant and the other in a bar. It accounts for the odd hours I work. I hate to think how she’d react if she ever found out the truth. But as far as I’m concerned that’s never going to happen.

As I look at my kid brother playing with Leo a great wave of sadness rolls over me. I’m reminded of what happened to him all those years ago when he came to my rescue. The damage to his brain from hitting his head on the kerb has blighted his entire life. He’s never had a girlfriend and he’ll almost certainly never have children. It’s such an awful shame.

My mother has thankfully stopped telling me that it was my fault, but I know she still thinks it. I can see it in her eyes sometimes when she looks at me. It makes me wonder if she wishes I was the one cursed with a disability.

‘Well merry Christmas everyone,’ I say in order to banish the negative thoughts from my mind. ‘And let’s hope we have many, many more.’

I get up from the sofa and walk over to my brother to give him a kiss on the cheek. Then I turn to my mother and give her a hug.

She pats my back affectionately and says, ‘Thank God you’re getting your life together at last, Lizzie. That little boy has changed you for the better. For his sake you have to follow a righteous path from now on. No more drugs and drink. No more consorting with unreliable men. Stay on the path and all will be well.’

I woke up with my mother’s words ringing in my ears. The memory of that Christmas Day was still vivid and I often dreamt about it. We all had such a great time and we were like a normal family again.

I’d been full of optimism back then, and I’d even dared to hope that my mother was beginning to think I wasn’t such a wretched daughter after all.

But, of course, I should have known better than to believe that things would turn out well for me, especially given the fact that I never did stick to that righteous path.

I didn’t want to get out of bed. I would have been content to lie there for the rest of the day, making love to Scar and slipping in and out of sleep.

But there were things to do. People to see. So I forced myself up and into the bathroom for another shower.

It still felt weird to have freedom of movement. In my head I’d been conditioned to the monotonous routine of prison life. Not having to ask for permission to do things would take some getting used to.

I wondered what it was like for lifers when they were tossed back into society after so many years inside. How the hell did they cope? Did they ever settle back into a normal rhythm? Or did they struggle to adjust until the day they died?




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/jaime-raven/the-madam/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.