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,’
