The Madam

by Jaime Raven

  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 was
n’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.’