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
