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
