The Madam. Jaime Raven

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 wasn’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.’

      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