The Madam

by Jaime Raven

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry, babe,’ I said. ‘But I’m wound up. I just wanted him to know that I’m not prepared to take their crap any more.’

  ‘And that’s the problem,’ she said. ‘You’re just thinking about yourself all the time. We’re together now. I love you and we’ve both got the opportunity to start over again. I don’t want you to fuck it up.’

  She grabbed her half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray on the table and pinched her lips tightly around the filter.

  I could see her point and it made me feel bad. Scar had a lot to lose if I was put back inside.

  ‘You need to give serious thought to what you’re doing, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘Be realistic about what you can actually achieve. You’re all excited because you’ve found out a few things about Benedict and Strickland that you didn’t know before. But that’s probably as far as you’re going to be able to take it. And if you don’t accept that then you’re asking for trouble. If they don’t bang you up again then you could get yourself killed.’

  As she spoke, tears started to slide down her cheeks, and her lips trembled. I had never seen her so distraught and I felt a stab of guilt in my chest.

  I put down my glass and moved to sit next to her on the sofa. She was shaking and sobbing, and her body collapsed against me.

  ‘I can’t help being scared and worried,’ she said into my shoulder. ‘I don’t want to lose you and I have a horrible feeling that I will if you carry on.’

  I didn’t want to lose Scar either. And I didn’t want to blow the chance of embarking on a long and meaningful relationship with her.

  Deep down I knew I had set myself a near impossible task. And yet I’d told myself I should plough on regardless. Maybe Scar was right, and I should accept that there was only so far I could take it.

  It was all very well seeking publicity and stirring things up. But how likely was it that I would elicit a confession or find concrete evidence to prove my case?

  ‘I understand how you feel and why you want to get at the truth,’ Scar said. ‘And I’ve always been willing to help you. But I didn’t realise how dangerous it would be. And I can’t help thinking now that it’s just not worth risking everything when the odds are stacked so firmly against you.’

  I started crying too then, the sobs gushing out of me. And as I clung to Scar I suddenly came to a gut-wrenching decision.

  ‘I’ll stop,’ I said. ‘For all our sakes I’ll let it go. It’s over, babe. You don’t have to worry any more.’

  It was a rash decision made in the heat of the moment, and I knew I might come to regret it. But I also knew there was no going back.

  Scar responded by shrieking with delight and telling me that it was absolutely the right thing to do.

  I experienced a momentary flash of panic, but at the same time felt a weight lift from my shoulders.

  ‘You’ll come to terms with it, babe,’ she said. ‘I know it’s hard, but at least we won’t have to worry about you losing your freedom again.’

  The emotion of the moment overwhelmed us both. We clung to each other as the tears flowed.

  Then we opened another bottle of wine and talked about it. Scar’s relief was palpable, although she sought constant reassurance that I was serious.

  ‘Of course I am,’ I told her. ‘What you just said really hit home. I realise now how reckless I’ve been and how close I am to losing you and inflicting more pain on my mother and brother. I need to come to my senses and accept the reality of the situation.’

  But it wasn’t going to be easy. I knew that. I’d obsessed about it for so long and had been determined never to give up. I’d even convinced myself that I was making progress, that my tenacity was paying off.

  But Scar was right. In all likelihood I wouldn’t achieve my ultimate goal, which was to exonerate myself and expose those responsible for what had happened. And the mere act of pursuing it was increasing the risk of ending up in prison or even on a mortuary slab.

  I felt mentally fried by the time we finished the wine and scoffed a couple of microwaved ready meals.

  It was still only nine o’clock when we decided to slope off to bed. We were both too hyped up to sleep so we lay for a time in each other’s arms talking about the future.

  Scar’s insecurity came to the surface, and she wanted to know if I was sure about committing myself to a relationship with another woman.

  ‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine being without you. And just for the record, I discovered long ago that dicks are overrated.’

  We both laughed and I knew then that I had made the right decision. If I hadn’t realised before that Scar was my future then I did now. I owed it to her to stay out of prison and to give our relationship a chance to blossom. I couldn’t allow my obsession to get in the way. It would be another huge mistake to add to the mountain of errors that had screwed up my life.

  Inevitably perhaps, we were both seized by the desire to make love. Scar made the first move by running her fingers over my breasts, causing goose bumps to spring up on the surface of my skin. And then she kissed me on the mouth, and I felt an immense flood of warmth wash into me.

  It was sublime, as always, and so very different from the insensitive and often brutal encounters I’d had with the men who paid me for sex. Maybe that was why I’d become a late-blooming lesbian. My experiences as a prostitute had probably left a scar on my subconscious and caused a shift in my sexual orientation.

  At least that was how I now chose to rationalise what was happening to me.

  ‘I want to eat you,’ Scar said as she put her face between my thighs and worked her magic so that I reached a mind-convulsing orgasm.

  Then it was my turn to pleasure her and I savoured the sweet scent of her juices while she pulled at my hair.

  Eventually we lay back against the pillows, sheened with sweat and gloriously exhausted.

  Scar dropped off straight away and began snoring quietly and contentedly. But sleep eluded me. I couldn’t help thinking about the decision I’d made and whether or not it meant I would never have peace of mind.

  After a while I got up, slipped on my dressing gown and padded lightly out of the room for a cigarette and a cup of tea.

  I’d just put the kettle on when I heard my phone buzz with an incoming text message.

  The phone was where I’d left it on the coffee table in the living room. I retrieved it and saw that the message was from an anonymous caller.

  But when I opened it up I was surprised at the identity of the sender and shocked at what she’d written.

  Lizzie … I’ve decided to tell you everything. Come to my house right now before I change my mind. And come alone … Ruby.

  17

  To my eternal shame I decided to go to Ruby’s house, despite what I’d said to Scar.

  The invitation was just too tempting to resist. I didn’t even think to ask myself why she’d had a change of heart, or indeed how she had got my mobile number. I was suddenly consumed by an overriding urge to find out what she had to tell me.

  I checked the time. Eleven o’clock. I wondered fleetingly if I should wake Scar to tell her what I planned to do, but instantly decided against it. She’d quite rightly be furious and try to talk me out of it. And I didn’t want to be talked out of it.

  I took a moment to respond to Ruby’s message. I tapped in the words on my way. Then I crept back in the bedroom to retrieve my clothes.

  Scar didn’t stir. I looked down at her half-covered face and prayed that she would forgive me for reneging on my word.

  As I dressed in the living room, I wondered if I could get to Ruby’s and back before Scar woke up. At least I would have time then to come up with an excuse before I was forced to explain myself.

  I put on jeans, a light sweater and a leather jacket. I decided to walk to Ruby’s because I’d had too much to drink to risk driving.

  Before leaving the flat, I peeked in again on Scar. She w
as still fast asleep, and I felt pretty sure that she wasn’t going to surface any time soon.

  I fought off another rush of guilt and tiptoed to the front door, closing it quietly behind me.

  It was dry outside and quite mild. A blurred moon hovered above the city and the air was thick with petrol fumes. I was surprised to see that there was still a lot of traffic on the roads at such a late hour. But then cities no longer went to sleep. They remained in perpetual motion, responding to the needs of their ever-growing and increasingly restless populations.

  I walked as quickly as I could, hands in pockets, head down. I tried to tune out the sense of guilt that was weighing heavily on my mind. I told myself I had no choice but to find out what information Ruby wanted to impart.

  I got to Ruby’s street in no time and saw that the lights were on in her house.

  When I walked up to the front door I was surprised to see that it was open a few inches. I assumed that she had seen me coming from one of the windows and had unlocked it.

  As I pushed it open and stepped over the threshold, I called out her name. There was no response. The hall was in darkness but a shaft of light cut across it from the living room.

  ‘It’s Lizzie, Ruby. I’m coming in. Where are you?’

  I shut the door behind me and called out again. But still there was no reply.

  There was a light on at the top of the stairs and also in the kitchen at the end of the hall. But there were no sounds and no movement.

  I walked up to the living room door and peered inside. Empty. So too was the kitchen, although I could smell fresh cigarette smoke.

  I called out again and when I got nothing back I ventured up the stairs.

  By now I was gripped by a creeping sense of unease. Why wasn’t she answering me? Had she popped out, thinking it would take me longer to get here?

  I reached the upstairs landing and the silence enveloped me. The light was coming from the main bedroom, the door of which stood open.

  I stepped up to it and peered in. Another empty room, the large double bed unmade. But as I entered, I heard running water. It was coming from what I assumed to be an en-suite bath or shower room. The door was ajar, and there was a light on inside.

  ‘Ruby! Are you there?’

  No answer.

  I crossed the room, pulled the door open.

  And what I saw made me dizzy with disbelief.

  Ruby Gillespie was lying on the tiled floor between the toilet pan and the shower cubicle. She wore a flimsy nightdress that was drenched in blood and the handle of a large kitchen knife protruded from her chest.

  Her eyes were open and her deathly stare was fixed on the ceiling.

  I felt a sickening wave of despair and closed my eyes to stem the bolt of panic. When I opened them again I had to lean against the doorframe to stop myself falling over.

  Ruby Gillespie had been murdered, and since the blood was still oozing out of her chest it must have happened in the last few minutes or so.

  Oh God.

  I tried to swallow but my mouth was bone dry. Inside my head I started screaming and my heart beat so rapidly I thought it might explode.

  Suddenly I sensed a presence behind me and heard a floorboard creak. I started turning, but before I could see who was creeping up on me I took a savage blow to the back of the head.

  It shattered my senses and sent me spinning into a deep, dark pit.

  18

  God only knows how long I was unconscious. When I came to I was lying face down in the doorway. My head was throbbing and my vision was blurred.

  Any hope that I was waking from a nightmare faded when I pulled myself into a sitting position and saw Ruby’s blood-soaked body. It thrust me back into a hideous reality.

  I stared at the knife in her chest, wishing it away. Then, to my horror, I realised that I was also covered in blood. It was smeared across my clothes and my right hand. I let out a cry of alarm and started struggling for breath.

  But after a moment instinct took over. I hauled myself to my feet and turned to look in the bedroom. There was no sign of my attacker, the same bastard who had no doubt stabbed Ruby.

  Was he or she still in the house waiting to have another go at me? I froze, not knowing what to do. My eyes were drawn back to Ruby who had been cold-bloodedly murdered.

  I looked at my right hand. The blood was still wet and was smeared across the palm and between the fingers. Was it her blood or mine?

  I used my left hand to feel the back of my head where I’d been struck by something hard. There was a slight, painful lump. But when I took my hand away there was no blood on it.

  So how had I managed to get Ruby’s blood on me? I didn’t touch her before I was hit and …

  It came to me then in a sudden blast of clarity that made the hairs on my neck quiver.

  I was being set up. Just like before.

  The body. The blood. The knife.

  Jesus Christ, I’d walked into a trap, lured to Ruby’s house by a message that might actually have come from her killer.

  It would explain why I had been smeared with blood while unconscious. The killer wanted to make it look as though there had been a struggle. He, she or they had probably wrapped my hand around the knife handle in order to leave my prints all over it.

  Fear filled my chest and pressed against my lungs. It was the perfect stitch-up, crudely similar to the scenario four years ago. Then it was Benedict’s body on the floor of a hotel room. Now it was Ruby Gillespie sprawled on tiles in her shower room.

  And here I was again, standing over the body with blood on me.

  I clenched my fists and bit my tongue. A rush of nausea sent me stumbling into the bedroom where I vomited over the bed sheets.

  My throat burned and my eyes watered. For a few seconds stinging tears blurred everything around me.

  I straightened up and tried to steady my breathing. There was a bitter taste in my mouth and my throat hurt. I knew I had to somehow seize control of the situation and get my mind working before I was paralysed by terror.

  I pushed down the impulse to take out my phone and alert the police. If they turned up now it would appear to them that I was as guilty as sin. Another open and shut case.

  It was already on record that Ruby had been upset by my previous visit. How could I possibly make them believe that I hadn’t killed her? There was the message asking me to come to the house. Her blood on my clothes. My prints everywhere.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I turned to have another look at the body and used every fibre of my being to stop myself screaming. I wanted to believe that it wasn’t happening – that it was a bad dream from which I would soon wake up.

  But of course it wasn’t and I had to get my thoughts in gear if I was to work out what to do.

  I took a deep breath and walked out of the bedroom onto the landing. There I stood and listened for sounds from downstairs. But I heard nothing.

  I forced myself to look in the two other bedrooms and bathroom to make sure the attacker wasn’t lurking behind a door. But the rooms were empty.

  I walked downstairs on legs that felt fragile, half-expecting someone to jump out on me. But I was alone in the house. All the other rooms were empty as well.

  In the kitchen I went to the sink, turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face. Then I paced the floor, biting my lip.

  If I wasn’t going to call the police then I needed to come up with a plan. Would it be possible for me to fix things so that nobody would ever know I had come here in response to Ruby’s text message? It was a tall order and would entail removing all the evidence of my presence. That included the knife, my prints, my vomit with its mass of DNA.

  I was still thinking about it five minutes later when I heard the loud wail of a siren.

  I rushed into the living room and turned off the light. The curtains were closed, and I pulled them open slightly to look out onto the street.

  The sight of a police patrol car pulling into t
he kerb in front of the house chilled me to the bone.

  I realised it was too late to do anything other than open the door or flee the scene.

  It took me a split second to decide that if I stayed I’d be arrested and banged up for the rest of my life. I just couldn’t see how I could convince the police that I hadn’t murdered Ruby.

  So blind panic sent me tearing back into the kitchen where an unlocked door gave access to the back garden.

  I heard the front doorbell ring as I stepped outside. And as I sprinted across the lawn towards the rear fence I couldn’t help thinking about the mountain of incriminating evidence I had left behind.

  I ran like the clappers across the grass, arms pumping, legs pounding. A voice in my head roared: Don’t stop. Get away.

  The garden fence loomed about six feet high so I threw myself at it in a desperate bid to get a purchase. Luckily I did, which allowed me to pull myself up and over. I landed with a heavy thud on the other side, a narrow alley between the houses.

  There was just enough light for me to get my bearings. I swallowed my racing breath and shook my head to clear the fuzziness.

  I heard a dog bark in one of the gardens. Then the wail of another siren. I had to keep moving. No time to pause, not even for a second.

  I moved off to the left where the alley came to an end about thirty yards away. I had no idea where to go or what I would do when I got there. All I could think about was putting distance between me and the police.

  I reached the end of the alley, which opened out onto a side street. I stepped cautiously onto the pavement and looked both ways. There was no one about. I decided to cross the road.

  But it proved to be a mistake. I was halfway across when I heard a shout. I turned and saw that a uniformed copper had come around the corner and was walking towards me with a torch in his hand. I guessed he was one of the officers who had arrived in the patrol car and had come to check the back of Ruby’s house.

  He lifted the torch, and the beam briefly touched my face.

  Shit.