by Adam Croft
He looks at me for a few moments as this registers with him. ‘This is about the night of the wedding, isn’t it?’ he asks.
‘What about it?’ I say, remembering there are two recording devices that could pick up a confession here.
He ignores my question. ‘Did you get the locks changed?’
‘They’re my locks. I wasn’t feeling safe after I had my phone stolen, so I wanted to upgrade my security.’
‘You had them changed to keep me out, didn’t you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I tell him. ‘I just let you in, didn’t I?’
‘Why are you doing this, Grace?’
I avert my eyes to avoid meeting his gaze. ‘I just don’t think we’re best suited to each other. Not after what happened.’
‘After what happened?’
I look at him. ‘After you pinned me to that wall and tried to strangle me the night of Cath’s wedding, Tom. What did you think I meant?’
‘Are you serious? I’ve never laid a finger on you in my life! Not on anyone, in fact. Where on earth has all this come from? Are you okay?’
I let out a half-laugh half-snort. ‘Don’t treat me like an idiot. Are you going to make out I imagined it now?’
‘Not imagined it, no. But you were extremely drunk, Grace. Bear in mind I was totally sober that night, so I think I’ve probably got a better memory of events than you have.’
He’s good. But not good enough.
‘Oh, my memory is just fine, don’t you worry. I don’t forget things. I don’t have memory lapses. I don’t do things and then wipe them from my mind.’ As I speak, I can feel myself getting more and more worked up, angrier and angrier at the man who tried to ruin my life and is now standing before me, trying to deny it.
‘What on earth are you talking about, Grace? What’s going on?’
‘I know what you’ve been doing, Tom,’ I tell him, my voice shaking with anger. ‘I know who you are.’
His gaze turns less confused, more serious. ‘Alright. Go on then. Tell me.’
‘You forwarded that email to Matilda, didn’t you? The one I sent to Sue.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes you do. You don’t need to tell me, though. I know. Here’s something you can tell me, though. How did you find out where my nan lived? How did you get into the house? Why did you take the necklace?’
As he looks at me, his face blank and expressionless, I can see he knows exactly what I’m talking about. He knows. He did it.
‘What necklace? Honestly, Grace, I don’t know what you’re going on about.’
‘The one you took from my nan’s house and hid in my coffee jar, because you knew that’s exactly where my mum and dad would find it when they came over. You knew they were looking for it, you knew they were upset and you wanted to make it look as though I’d stolen it.’
‘This is crazy. Why the hell would I want to do that?’
‘To push me away from them, and them from me. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You try to isolate women from their family and friends. That’s why you told Cath I’d made that Bridezilla comment. It’s why you blocked her number on my phone. You knew it’d drive a wedge between us. That’s why you forward that work email to Matilda. You knew we’d lose her as a client and I’d potentially lose my job. I’d have become emotionally and financially dependent on you. And that’s been your aim all along.’
‘Jesus Christ, Grace. Where has this all come from? It’s absolute madness. How on earth do you expect me to have broken into a house I didn’t know about or forwarded emails from an account I have no access to?’
‘That’s what I want you to tell me. I want you to admit what you are and what you’ve been trying to do, and I want you to tell me every detail. I have a right to know.’
Tom lets out a laugh. ‘You’ve got a right to absolutely nothing after accusing me of all that. I’ve been perfect for you, Grace. I’ve been everything you wanted, right from the start.’
‘Just like you were with all the others?’
Tom’s eyes narrow as he studies me. ‘What do you mean? What others?’
‘Erin. Jess.’
There’s a minute flicker in his eyes — barely perceptible, but enough for me to notice — as I say Jess’s name.
‘I don’t know anyone called Jess,’ he says.
‘Funny. I do.’
He looks at me, willing me to continue. So I do.
‘She got in contact with me,’ I tell him. ‘But then again you already knew that, because you deleted the email thinking I hadn’t seen it. But I had. You know, that email account you claim you don’t have access to. I went to see her, Tom. Down in Cornwall. She told me everything. Everything you’d done to her, everything you’d done before and since. How you called her your Butterfly. How you tried to isolate her from her family and friends. Pulled her off social media. Tried to ruin her life and make sure she was completely reliant on you. But it didn’t work, did it? And it’s not going to work with me, either. She found out who you were, and so did I. So I suggest you do exactly the same as you did with her, and walk out. Go somewhere else. Stay out of my life. And take a long, hard look at yourself before you even think about getting involved with other women.’
He shakes his head slowly. ‘This is absolutely insane. Grace, I live with you. I love you. You love me. Why the hell would you even believe a word a psychopathic ex-girlfriend tells you over me? There’s a reason I left that woman, and it’s not because she told me to, I can promise you that.’
‘You’re lying, Tom.’
‘No, I’m not. I promise you, I’m not.’
‘There you go again. One lie after another. You can’t help yourself, can you? Let me tell you this, Tom. I know all about your lies. All of them. I know who you are. I know what’s gone on. And yes, do you know what? I actually feel sorry for you. But maybe now you can accept it and move on like a normal person.’
‘Move on from what? What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about Erin, Tom. She didn’t leave you, did she? She didn’t take your daughter and do a runner. I know what happened. I know she died, Tom. I know they both died in a car accident — the one you claim your parents died in. But your parents aren’t dead, are they? They’re alive, Tom. I know they’re alive because I found out where they live. Jess told me. I parked up outside their house and watched them, Tom. I sat there for an hour as your dad washed his car and your mum put the bins out.’
‘And you accuse me of being a psychopath?’
‘So I’m right, am I?’
‘Grace, I don’t know who you think you were watching, but it wasn’t my parents. I’ve told you what happened to them.’
‘No you haven’t. You told me what happened to Erin. Except you couldn’t handle the fact that they’d been taken away from you. You hated the fact your parents were still around and they weren’t, so you changed your reality, didn’t you? You told yourself it was your parents who’d died, and that Erin and your daughter were still alive. You wanted to give yourself hope. I get it. And I feel sorry for you.’
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ he says, his voice a hoarse whisper, tears forming at the edges of his eyes.
‘No I’m not, Tom. You know I’m not. You just can’t accept your guilt over their deaths. You feel responsible for it, because you’d got blind drunk at the pub and they were coming to pick you up. Yet again. That’s why you don’t drink much any more, isn’t it? That’s why you always want to be the one to drive everywhere. You need to come to terms with it, Tom. For your own good.’
‘I don’t have anything to come to terms with.’
‘Yes you do,’ I say, taking a stiff, shiny piece of paper out of my pocket and showing it to him. ‘You have to come to terms with this.’
Tom looks at the photo and I can see the reflection of his perfect family in the tears that coat his eyes. Just as I think he’s about to finally burst into tears, I notice
his jaw clenching and the veins beginning to bulge at the sides of his head before he launches himself at me.
48
This time, I’m quicker. This time, I’m sober. I know what he’s about to do. I manage to dodge him and throw him off balance and he crashes into the hall wall, stumbling over his suitcase.
I’ve thought ahead. I’ve planned for every eventuality. I’ve left the door unlocked, and I’ve got my car key in my pocket, just in case I needed to do this. Just in case I needed to run.
‘Get the fuck back here, you fucking bitch!’ Tom yells at me as I scramble for the door and open it. ‘Don’t you fucking dare walk out on me!’
I sprint up the front path, every fibre in my body screaming at me as I hear Tom clambering to his feet and running for the door.
‘Grace! Grace!’ he calls, putting on a show for the neighbours. The change in his tone inside just a couple of seconds is frightening. Couldn’t possibly seem angry in front of them, could he? Got to make out he’s the reasonable one, just in case anyone’s watching. Ever the actor. Ever the planner. But he hasn’t planned this one.
I fumble with my car key as I run, and scrabble to press the button to unlock the car. It takes a couple of attempts before it works, and I see Tom come out of the front door and start running up the path.
I hurry to get the car door open, my hands shaking with adrenaline, my whole body coursing as I climb inside and pull the door shut just as Tom reaches it. I push the lock button, hearing the reassuring sound of the car locking a fraction of a second before Tom starts pulling at the handle and banging on the window.
It’s not angry. It’s not desperate. It’s calm and calculated, almost as if I’ve stormed off in a huff and he’s trying to placate me and make me see sense. But I can see right through it. I know what he’s doing. He’s putting on a show.
I ignore him as best I can and try to start the engine, the key taking an age to slot into the ignition barrel as I tremble with fear and adrenaline. Finally, eventually, the car starts.
I put it into reverse and back out of my parking space and onto the road, leaving Tom floundering as the car shoots backwards. I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to go somewhere. I have to get away from here. Get away from him.
I shift the car into first gear, release the clutch and press my foot down hard on the accelerator.
As the car lurches forward, I notice movement to my side. It’s Tom. He’s stepped out into the road. And it’s too late for me to do anything about it.
I let out a gasp and a small scream as he crashes into the windscreen and bounces off, onto the road behind. I stamp on the brake and come to a shuddering halt, stalling the car in the process.
I open my eyes, panting hard, the beat of my heart deafening in my ears. I look in my mirror and see Tom lying on the tarmac, crumpled. I turn my eyes away from the mirror and onto the road in front of me. I could drive away right now. I could restart the engine and floor it. I’d be out of here in no time. Away from it all. Away from Tom. Safe and sound. But my eyes keep getting drawn back to Tom lying in the road. The Tom I thought I knew and knew I loved. And then people arrive. A man comes out of the house opposite and jogs over to Tom. A lady walking her dog leans over him and pulls her phone out of her pocket.
And that’s when I know it’s all over.
49
I had no choice. There’s no way leaving would have made things better. The police would always find me. It’d be a hit and run. No doubt about it. Mitigating circumstances wouldn’t even come into it. Tom would always manage to worm his way out of anything else.
It was clear pretty quickly that Tom was okay. He did an impressive job of trying to look as if he was on his last legs, but there was no way he was badly injured. Not at that speed.
As we waited for the emergency services to arrive, I must have felt every emotion under the sun. Anger at Tom for what he’d done. Panic at what would now happen. Relief at having the opportunity to tell the police everything.
They’ll be able to speak to Jess. She’s one of their own. I stay silent all the way to the police station, telling myself that over and over. I’ll let them book me in, get me a solicitor and then I’ll tell them everything. I’ll make sure they get hold of Jess and find out what Tom’s really like. It won’t just be my word against his. Not any more.
I always thought police stations would be a little more accommodating and comfortable than the ones on the TV. If anything, they’re worse. This one is cold, drab and depressing.
They’ve arrested me for attempted murder. Not that it matters in the slightest. While I’m here, I’m safe. I’m in the best possible hands, with people who can help me. All I need to do is make them aware that I’m the victim, not the criminal.
They process me at the custody desk, take my details, ask me if I’ve drunk any alcohol or taken any drugs recently, then take my shoes and belt off me. As if I’m going to hang myself in my cell. Tempting, but no.
I’m scared. Of course I’m scared. I’m petrified. I’ve never been arrested in my life. I’d never even set foot inside a police station until Bideford. But now I’m in a cell of my own.
But there’s something else that overrides the fear. It’s the knowledge that this will soon be over. That I can tell them everything. They’re arranging a solicitor for me, and as soon as I get to speak to him I’ll hopefully find out if there’s something more that can be done. A restraining order, perhaps. Either way, I need to get this all over and done with. I need to move on with my life.
I don’t know how long I’m in my cell, but eventually the door opens and a police officer tells me my solicitor is here and wants to speak with me.
I’m taken through into a small room that’s more like a stationery cupboard masquerading as a meeting room, and I sit down with the man who introduces himself as Brian Conway. I tell him everything: that Tom deliberately jumped out in front of my car while I was trying to escape from him, that he’s a liar and a conman who’s been trying to systematically destroy my life and that there’s a police officer in Cornwall who can back up absolutely everything I’m saying. He listens intently, but I get the feeling he thinks I’m some sort of mad woman who’s trying to dump an insane story on him in an attempt to prove I’m not crazy.
He jots down a few notes, but I don’t think he’s convinced. He probably hears all sorts of excuses and sob stories, and I doubt very much if this is coming across as the most sensible one. He tells me he recommends giving the police a pre-prepared statement, but I tell him no — I want to tell them everything myself. I don’t want to come across as the sort of person who’s going to say ‘no comment’ to everything. I want to cooperate with them, let them see it’s actually me who’s the victim, not Tom.
A short while after our briefing, we go through to the interview room where two plain-clothes officers introduce themselves as Detective Inspector Jane McKenna and Detective Constable Mark Brennan.
McKenna takes the lead. ‘Grace, you’ve been arrested for the attempted murder of Thomas Ramsay. Can you explain your relationship to Mr Ramsay please?’
‘He’s my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.’
‘Recent ex?’
‘Very recent. About thirty seconds before… before what happened.’
‘And what did happen?’
I take a deep breath, then let it all out. ‘We had an argument in the house. I told him it was over. He launched himself at me and tried to attack me. He’s done that before, last week. This time I got out of the way. I decided I had to run, because he’s dangerous. So I got into my car and went to drive away, but he threw himself in front of it to make it look as if I’d hit him.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he’s crazy. He’s manipulative.’
‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ McKenna says. ‘We’re looking at attempted murder here. Were you driving the car that hit Thomas Ramsay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you drive that ca
r at Thomas Ramsay deliberately?’
‘No. I was trying to drive away. He threw himself in front of the car.’
‘Did you intend to kill Thomas Ramsay?’
‘No.’
‘Did you intend to injure or otherwise harm Thomas Ramsay?’
I swallow. ‘No.’
The interview turns clinical, as if the officers are only keen to cover the basics. There’s no opportunity to tell my side of the story. Barely ten minutes later, the interview is terminated and I’m taken back to my cell.
50
It’s a few hours later when they finally take me in for a second interview. They can keep me in for twenty-four hours, apparently. More, if they get authorisation to do so.
When the interview starts, McKenna briefly covers what we spoke about in the first interview, then asks me if I still agree with all of those statements.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But I want the opportunity to tell you the background. My side of the story. I want you to know who Tom is, what he’s done to me. I’m not the criminal here. I’m the victim. I promise you.’
‘That’s what this interview is for, Grace,’ McKenna says. ‘But it’s also for us to put some other questions to you based on things we’ve investigated and discovered in the interim.’
‘Okay,’ I say, nodding furiously. ‘Good.’
‘What was the catalyst behind your breakup with Thomas Ramsay, Grace?’
I let out a large sigh. ‘Jesus. Well, he’s crazy. He’s a liar, a psychopath. He’s manipulative. He attacked me, last week. He tried to attack me again today when I told him things were over between us.’
‘Okay. Do you have any evidence of this?’
‘There are recordings,’ I say, suddenly remembering the equipment I bought. ‘Two pens. There’s one on the side in the kitchen, and one in the living room. They’ve got microphones and things in them. They’re set to record. They’ll have picked up what happened before I ran outside. The argument. The things we both said. Everything will be on those.’