LITMIR.BIZ

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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 pursue a murder conviction.’

      Ferris had made it sound like they were doing me a favour. My lawyer had urged me to go along with it. Told me I faced a stark choice. Plead not guilty to murder and face an almost certain conviction based on the evidence. Or plead guilty to manslaughter and claim that I stabbed Benedict in self-defence when he got violent, even though I couldn’t recollect how it had happened.

      ‘Look at it this way,’ Ferris had said. ‘If a jury finds you guilty of murder it’ll be life. If you go down for manslaughter you could be out in four or five years. That’s not the end of the world. And having got to know you a little I’m sure you can handle it.’

      He’d been right. I had managed to cope. But ironically the period after my trial had proved more of a struggle for Ferris.

      Something happened to make him kill himself. My lawyer sent me a copy of Southampton’s local evening newspaper, The Post. On the front page was a story about how detective Neil Ferris had jumped off a railway bridge into the path of a train. His wife, Pamela, was quoted as saying that she had no idea why he did it, and he didn’t leave a note.

      That night I lay on my bunk feeling sorry for his wife and daughters. But I wasn’t able to dredge up any sympathy for the man himself.

      ‘Do you plan on seeing Ash?’ Scar said.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘What makes you think he’ll talk to you?’

      I shrugged. ‘No reason why he shouldn’t.’

      ‘So what do you think he can tell you that you don’t already know?’

      ‘Maybe nothing, but he might be able to shed light on a few things that have bugged me.’

      I drank some champagne and glanced out of the window. The rain had stopped, and the sun was trying to force itself through the cloud cover. A lump rose in my throat again. I still couldn’t believe I wouldn’t be sleeping in that dingy cell tonight.

      ‘Anne Benedict has moved house,’ Scar was saying. ‘I gather it happened soon after the trial. She’s now living in Eastleigh on the outskirts of Southampton. Both her sons have moved out so she’s by herself.’

      Anne Benedict. The distraught wife of the victim. As she’d stared at me across the courtroom the thing that had struck me most had been her blank expression. What I’d expected to see were eyes filled with hate, but instead they were just devoid of life. That, I thought at the time, seemed strange. The Post – for whom her husband had worked – had described them as a close and happy family. But of course that was crap. Happily married men don’t pay for sex with prostitutes. I was keen to talk to the widow to find out what, if anything, she knew about what had happened.

      ‘Finally we come to Joe Strickland,’ Scar said. ‘He is a prominent Hampshire businessman with a few million quid to his name.’

      Strickland’s name had come up during the investigation because a few weeks earlier he had made threats against Rufus Benedict. The reporter had made an official complaint to the police, and Strickland was given a verbal warning.

      There was no question that Strickland would have been the prime suspect if the evidence against me hadn’t been so overwhelming. Benedict, The Post’s long-serving investigative reporter, had been probing Strickland’s business activities and was apparently close to publishing a story about him involving large-scale criminal activities, including corruption of local government officials. But the article was never written because Benedict was stabbed to death.

      ‘I’ve got Strickland’s address,’ Scar said. ‘He lives in a big detached house in an upmarket part of the city.’

      ‘Is he married?’

      ‘He’s got a wife and daughter. The wife’s name is Lydia and she runs one of his companies. The daughter lives with her boyfriend in London. He made his money as a property developer and now has his hand in lots of local pies, some of them illicit by all accounts.’

      ‘I’m looking forward to talking to him,’ I said.

      Scar furrowed her brow. ‘Do you really think he’ll be up for it? He’ll probably tell you to fuck off.’

      ‘But I won’t,’ I said.

      ‘Then he’ll have you arrested.’

      ‘I doubt it.’

      ‘Then maybe he’ll have you killed.’

      ‘Now that would be an admission of guilt.’

      Scar rolled her eyes and filled my glass. I swigged back the last of the champagne and said, ‘Thanks for helping me out on this. You’ve been a gem.’

      ‘To

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