by Adam Croft
I don’t remember this. I don’t recall any of it. Why would I wait three hours, then forward the email on to the person I was talking about? I try to think back to that day, remember what I was doing. Did I go out? Did I drink? Could I have done it by mistake somehow? I can’t see how I could have possibly gone into my Sent Items folder, opened the email, hit Forward, typed Matilda’s address in and then hit Send, all by accident. It doesn’t fit. There’s one option which does fit, but I can’t go there. There must be a better explanation. I don’t want to think of the alternative.
I look up and see the coffee jar on the work surface, next to the kettle, teabags and sugar. It’s been pulled out, as if I was in the middle of making a cup of coffee. I don’t drink coffee, though. I’ve only got that jar there for when Mum and Dad come round, and because it came as a matching set of three with the tea and sugar ones. Then I remember. I was going to make a coffee last night. I thought it would sober me up. The thought of coffee now makes me feel sick. I need something though, and I think it’s going to have to be a mug of tea and some ibuprofen.
I get up, walk over to the side and pull out the jar of teabags. As I’m taking the lid off, my wrist knocks the coffee jar. I go to grab it with my spare hand, and send it skittering across the surface, before it sails off the edge and smashes on the tile floor.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This day is not getting any better. There’s ceramic shards and coffee everywhere, and I daren’t even take a step back in case I get glass embedded in my foot.
I look down at the mess on the floor, the coffee granules having coated the entire kitchen floor. They’re under the fridge, under the washing machine, everywhere. The shattered red ceramic stands out boldly against the scattered coffee granules, the creamy white insides of the china now visible for the first time. And that’s when my eye is caught by something sparkling, glittering amongst the mess.
I bend down to get a closer look, and I notice something purple in there too. My eyes widen as I realise what it is. There’s no mistaking it. It’s an amethyst necklace.
37
By now I’m shaking. There’s absolutely no doubt this is Nan’s missing necklace. I’d recognise it anywhere. But how the hell did it end up in my coffee jar?
The immediate assumption is it must have been Tom. Just like Mum and Dad suspected. But he’s never been to Nan’s house. He doesn’t even know where she lived. So there’s no way it could have been him. It can’t have been Mum and Dad, because they wouldn’t have taken it and hidden it there. In any case, it’s only me who uses the coffee pot when they come over. And they were the ones asking me where it had gone. They seemed really upset about it.
It makes no sense. Something isn’t right. Things aren’t adding up. Everything seems to be falling away from me. Just when I thought it was going perfectly, the dominoes are starting to topple. Everything is crashing down around me, and I don’t know why.
Did I go to Nan’s house? Yes, quite a few times. I was there a few days before she died. But there’s no way she wouldn’t have noticed it missing if it had been taken at that point. Her dementia hadn’t got to that point, had it? I didn’t notice that it had. And anyway, there’s no way I’d have taken it and then forgotten about it, is there? But there’s the haziness over what happened last night. The email to Matilda. Cath’s blocked number. The email from Tom’s ex. All of those incidents are frightening the life out of me. Why are there bits I can’t remember? Why do I have blanks? Why can’t I find that email now?
I take the piece of paper out of my pocket and look at it again. Jess Caton. Her words coming flooding back to me again. And that’s when I remember the other bit: Devon and Cornwall Police. This is something to do with Tom. It’s somehow connected with his life in Cornwall. His life before me. There’s something there, and I need to know what it is. And there’s only one way I’m going to be able to find out.
38
I don’t take the time to think about it or plan ahead. I know where I need to be, and I know what I need to do. I pack my travel case, then gather everything by the front door. I only take the essentials. I don’t know how long I’m going to be. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, either, but that’s irrelevant right now. Tom’s away, I’m suspended from work and I need to know the truth.
I load everything into my car, then go back into the house to be sick into the toilet. It clears my nausea temporarily — just enough to keep me comfortable for a while. I wonder if it’ll make me any safer to drive, but I doubt it. I’ll just have to be careful. I need to get away from here as quickly as possible and get to Cornwall. I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to discover the truth, but Tom’s back in a few days, and two of those are going to be taken up by the drive down to the south west.
It’s only once I’m in the car that I realise I don’t know what I’m going to do down there. My first aim has to be to find Jess Caton. I’m pretty sure she said she was based in either Bodmin or Boscastle. Or was it Bideford? I think that might even be in Devon.
I look at Google Maps on my phone, trying to remember which town Jess said she worked in, but I can’t narrow it down any further. Bideford definitely appears to be in North Devon, but that’s still entirely possible because she works for Devon and Cornwall Police. I look at directions to Bideford, and it’s showing four and a half hours at the moment. Boscastle and Bodmin are both nearer five hours, so I decide I’m heading for Bideford first. At least I’ll be a hell of a lot closer than I am now.
I set off, checking to see how much fuel I’ve got in the car. Three quarters of a tank. I’ll probably have to fill up at some point, but there’ll be a motorway service station I can use. The main thing now is to get away from here and get some miles under my belt so I’m closer to Cornwall. Closer to the truth. Closer to finding out who Tom really is.
I’m only a few minutes into the journey before I start to feel sick again. The movement of the car isn’t helping, but I know I’ll be on the motorway soon, and that’ll make things a little easier. As long as I stop thinking about how ill I feel, I’m sure I’ll be okay.
On the motorway, I notice every single sign for services and ask myself if I need to stop or if I think I can make it to the next one. Each time, I drive past, sure I can make it another few miles down the road. Before I know it, the miles are dropping off and the time is ticking down to my arrival in Bideford.
Once I’m there, I’ll find the police station and I’ll ask for Jess Caton. I know there’s a good chance she doesn’t work there and she’s at Barnstaple or Bude or Budleigh Salterton, but at least they’ll be able to tell me which station I need to be at. I hope she’s working today, too. I doubt very much they’ll tell me where she lives — a complete stranger turning up and demanding to see a specific officer. I hope they’ll at least get a message to her that I’m there. She’d definitely respond to that. And what if they ask me what I want to see her for? I can’t say ‘Because she sent me an email telling me her ex is a psycho’. I’ll need to make something up. Say it’s confidential. Will they fall for that? Surely everything is confidential when it comes to the police, so that won’t wash as an excuse. I can’t say I’m a friend of hers, when it’s clear I don’t even know which police station she works at.
I’ll think of something. I have to. I need to. Because it’s the only way I’m going to get closer to discovering the truth about Tom, one way or the other.
39
It’s mid-afternoon by the time I arrive in Bideford. Apart from a quick stop at Chieveley Services to go to the loo, reset my nausea clock and fill my car up with petrol, I do the entire drive in one go.
I pass Barnstaple on my way in and wonder if I should stop there first, just in case that’s where Jess works, but my sat-nav tells me it’s only about ten miles and twenty minutes on to Bideford, so I stick with my original plan.
As I arrive in Bideford, the road takes me over a bridge that crosses a river, and I park up in a car park j
ust the other side. I open Google Maps on my phone and look for Bideford Police Station. I’m really close. Zero point two miles away, apparently. But I’ve got a parking space and I need to stretch my legs, so I get out of the car, buy a parking ticket and walk the rest of the way.
The journey takes me back towards the bridge, then along the waterfront for a hundred yards or so. It’s beautiful, even at this time of year, and I can just imagine how the summer sun must bounce off the whitewashed buildings. The water seems to open up to a beach on the other side. This must be an estuary.
As I pass a long, high slate and stone wall, I notice a sign saying POLICE. There’s a railing along the top of the wall and a building beyond that. That must be the station. I walk along a little further, and the wall starts to get shorter and shorter until it meets the road I’m walking along. I walk up the long ramp, back in the direction I’ve just come from, and into the police station.
By this point, I’ve already decided what my plan of attack is going to be. I can’t imagine I look as if I’m in a great state, and I hope I can use that to my advantage.
When I walk inside, the place appears to be empty apart from one officer behind the inquiry desk. I walk up and ask to speak with Jess Caton.
‘Caton?’ the man says. ‘Sorry, don’t know that name. Does she work here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I answer. ‘I was told I need to speak with her and that she was with Devon and Cornwall Police.’
The man looks at me for a moment, then types something into his computer.
‘She’s not based at this station I’m afraid, love,’ he says. ‘Would you like me to pass on a message or fetch you another officer?’
‘No. I really need to speak to her. Which station is she based at?’
He looks at me again, this time taking in my full appearance. ‘She’s at Bodmin,’ he says. ‘You’re quite a way off patch. Would you like me to get a message to her? Wouldn’t want you to drive all that way for nothing.’
‘It won’t be for nothing,’ I say. ‘How far is it?’
The police officer makes a noise like a plumber about to tell me my boiler needs replacing. ‘You’re looking at an hour, hour and a half. It’s in Cornwall, love. If you’re going to do it, I’d avoid the Atlantic Highway. A30’s probably your best bet, but that can be a pig sometimes too.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘Is she working today?’
The man lets out a small laugh. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to tell you that, even if it was something I could find out on this old heap of rubbish. Which it isn’t. I’ll tell you what, leave your name and number with me and I’ll see if I can get it to her. If she’s about, I’ll ask her to call you.’
I nod, then tell him my name and number. I know that if that gets to Jess, she’ll be in touch. She seemed very keen to tell me all she knew. If I remember rightly, she even told me her badge number, although I’ve got no chance of recalling what it was. All I can do is wait for her call. In the meantime, I’m heading for Bodmin.
40
It’s nearer an hour and a half by the time I get to Bodmin, and I park up in a supermarket car park just across the way from the police station. It looks more like an office block, and is situated right on the outskirts of town near a bypass, and I soon realise this isn’t just a police station. It’s a hub. Jess Caton must be office-based. A detective.
My heart is thudding in my chest as I walk towards the building. It’s nearly quarter-to-five. Not that most police officers will work nine-to-five, of course.
What am I going to say when I get there? I was going to use the same line I used in Bideford, but the appearance of this place has thrown me completely off kilter. Bideford Police Station was an unassuming brick building at the edge of the water in the centre of town; Bodmin is a glass office block in the middle of nowhere.
My legs feel like jelly as I walk inside. The one person who can tell me the truth about Tom could be in here. The woman who called herself his ex. Another woman who’s known Tom, been with Tom. Who claims to know more about him than I do.
I go up to the front desk inside the plush building and ask to speak to Jess Caton.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ the young woman asks me.
‘Uh, no. But I was told I needed to come here to speak to her.’
‘Okay, can I take a few details?’
I decide to give her the important bits before she asks for anything awkward. ‘Yes, my name’s Grace O’Sullivan. The officer at Bideford Police Station said I needed to come here to speak to Jess Caton.’ Not technically a lie. ‘He said he’d give her a call with my details too, so she should be expecting me.’
‘Okay, just a moment,’ she says, picking up her phone.
As she does so, my own phone starts vibrating in my pocket. It’s a withheld number. I glance at my watch, and realise the time. Could it be Tom? Has he landed in Japan yet? He said he’d ring me as soon as he had. He wasn’t meant to arrive until the evening our time. I answer the call.
‘Is that Grace?’ the voice says. It’s a woman. I know exactly who it is. And she doesn’t seem at all surprised to hear from me.
‘Yeah,’ I say, my voice weak.
‘It’s Jess Caton. Listen, can you meet me in an hour?’
41
I tell the woman behind the desk not to worry, and that Jess has been in touch. I thank her, and head back to my car.
My heart’s pounding and I feel sick again. The officer from Bideford must have managed to get a message to Jess. She wants to meet me at six o’clock in a pub called The Garland Ox. I look it up on my phone and see it’s in the centre of town.
There’s a Premier Inn a mile or so away from here which apparently has availability. It’s a twenty-five minute walk from the pub. It won’t leave me much time to check in and have a shower for the first time since yesterday morning, so I pull out of the car park and head for the hotel.
When I arrive, I check in and head straight for my room. The shower is hot and soothing, and I start to feel the first signs of my hangover clearing. I stay under the water for as long as I can — which is only about five minutes — before drying myself off and getting changed. A couple of minutes after half-past five, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, and I leave the hotel and walk in the direction of the town centre.
It’s cold out, and I wish I’d brought some warmer clothes with me, but there’s not much I can do about that now. The cold will help clear the rest of the hangover. In any case, I’ve got other things on my mind right now.
I don’t know what I want to ask Jess. I don’t know if I want to ask her anything. I need to hear what she has to say. She claims to have more she couldn’t tell me in an email. My heart jumps as I try to imagine what it might be, whether I’ll believe it. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d never heard of this woman. Now I’ve driven to the other end of the country to find out what she’s got against Tom. But I need to hear it.
The Garland Ox is a small pub on a busy street. I step inside, realising I don’t even know what Jess looks like. I can only imagine I’ll stand out like a sore thumb, though, and that she’ll be able to spot me a mile off.
I order a lemonade and sit down at a small table by the window, and watch as people slowly file past on their way home from work or just out walking the dog. A couple of minutes later, the door opens and a woman walks in. My heart lurches as I see her. She looks almost identical to me. Her hair, face, body shape. We could almost have been twins.
She sees me and walks straight over to me.
‘Grace?’ she says.
I nod. ‘Hi,’ I say, standing and shaking her hand.
‘I thought I’d recognise you. Tom’s certainly got a type, hasn’t he?’
‘So it seems.’
Jess gets herself a drink, then comes and sits down opposite me.
‘I hope I didn’t shock you with that email,’ she says, ‘but when I found out he had a new partner I had to warn you. I totally get it if you don’t believ
e me, or if you think I’m some sort of nutter. But I’m guessing that you probably don’t, seeing as you’re here.’
‘Yeah. I don’t really know why that is,’ I say. ‘Well, I do. Normally, I probably would have emailed you back or phoned you. But I read your email last night, and when I woke up this morning it was gone. I remembered your name, though, and that you said you were a police officer here.’
Jess’s eyes narrow. ‘Does he know you’re here?’
‘No. He’s in Japan. For work.’
‘Okay. Switch your mobile off.’
‘What? Why?’
‘So he doesn’t know where you are. He’s clever, Grace. Too clever. That email didn’t just delete itself. I bet you any money Tom did it. That’s what he does. He’ll be able to access your emails remotely. Probably your messages and phone calls, too. And he’ll almost certainly be able to see where your phone is. You need to switch it off so he can’t track you any further. He’ll probably already know you’re here and that I’ve called you, but there’s not a lot we can do about that. We definitely don’t want him to narrow it down any further. When’s he due back in the country?’
‘Not for another few days. He’s not even landed in Japan yet.’
Jess nods slowly and lets out a deep breath. ‘Okay, good. That’s a long flight. He won’t have been able to track your movements today if he was on a plane himself. If you turn it off now, the last time your location will have reported back to him will have been before he switched his own phone off to get on the plane. I mean…’
‘What?’ I ask.
