Each Little Lie: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist

by Tom Bale

  Each Little Lie

  A Gripping Psychological Thriller with a Heart-Stopping Twist

  Tom Bale

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  A Letter from Tom

  Also by Tom Bale

  See How They Run

  All Fall Down

  New Releases Sign-Up

  Acknowledgments

  For Kate & Dan, Lucy & Tony

  1

  He’d crossed her path before, but today was different. There was a flash of light as the man hurried across the patch of grass at the front of his property; Jen caught the glint of sunlight on metal, the sense of something falling.

  For most of August he’d been running later than normal, which made her wonder if his schedule, like hers, was influenced by the school holidays. As usual, he was carrying a couple of his mysterious boxes, cradling them awkwardly in both arms, as if the contents were precious rather than heavy.

  On some mornings he took his car, a Nissan X-Trail that was parked at the kerb; on others – like today – he was being collected. A white Subaru waited in the road, engine running. The driver, a middle-aged woman, had already thrust the passenger door open.

  Until recently the man had often attempted eye contact, and sometimes a cryptic smile to acknowledge that their routines had coincided yet again. Perhaps he’d secretly hoped she would ask what those boxes contained. But a couple of weeks ago she’d been crossing the road by the hospital when his X-Trail came blasting around the corner and nearly ran her down. Since then she’d made a point of ignoring him, and he must have got the message. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he crouched and manoeuvred himself onto the seat, propping the boxes on his knees.

  The car was already moving as he pulled the door shut, the woman accelerating with unnecessary vigour towards the junction with Bristol Gardens. As Jen drew level with the man’s property she had to shield her eyes with one hand. The low morning sun had set the windows ablaze: perhaps that was what she’d noticed?

  No. After a month of hot weather the scrap of lawn was parched and pale, so it wasn’t difficult to see what the man had dropped on the grass.

  A set of keys.

  Instinct took over. Discarding her sports bag, Jen snatched up the keys and ran.

  In a past life, pre motherhood, she had been a dedicated runner and climber; even now, at thirty-four, she was light on her feet and very fast. She made it to the end of the street in seconds, but the Subaru was already too far away.

  Checking the road was clear, Jen stepped out and waved to attract the driver’s attention. A flash of brake lights gave her hope, only for the car to take a sharp left turn and disappear. Jen stood for a moment with her hands on her hips. Now what?

  The grumble of an engine reminded her that she was in the middle of the road; a delivery van rolled towards her, the driver frowning even as he checked out her body. She was dressed for work, which meant trainers, tracksuit bottoms and a baggy T-shirt. Not baggy enough, perhaps.

  She jogged back to the house, aware that the keys in her hand now represented a problem. Unless. . .

  She rang the doorbell, waited a few seconds, then knocked loudly. She couldn’t recall having seen anyone else coming or going, but that wasn’t to say the man didn’t have a partner or a family. Should she put the keys through the letterbox?

  It was almost nine thirty. She had to be at work for ten, and the bus service in Brighton wasn’t always reliable. Ideally she needed somebody to open the door, take the keys and let Jen get on with her day.

  Retreating across the grass, she squinted at the upper windows. No hint of movement. She turned in a slow circle, hoping someone had seen her predicament and was coming to help. Mislaid his keys, did he? Don’t worry, I’ll take them for you.

  Regency Place was a curious but not unattractive mix of terraced houses, new builds and small apartment blocks. Jen’s own flat was about ten minutes’ walk away, up the hill. This house was one of only three modest two-storey homes, squeezed between a row of lock-up garages and a plot of fenced-off waste ground. Directly opposite was a longer terrace, but it was positioned side-on to the road, so the occupants of the end house had only a limited view across the street. Because of that, Jen thought, they were unlikely to know the people who lived here.

  But there were at least two neighbours she could try. She knocked at the house next door, but the sound that came back had a hollow, empty feel to it. Moving to the third property, she made out the frantic skittering of paws on a hard floor. There were signs everywhere: ‘WARNING: BEWARE OF THE DOG’. . . ‘NO CALLERS’. . . ‘ADDRESSED MAIL ONLY’.

  A volley of barks followed her knock, and what sounded like a heavy animal threw itself against the front door. Jen backed away, feeling slightly relieved when no one answered.

  She returned to where she’d left her sports bag on the lawn and studied the keys in her hand. Three in all, attached to a cheap plastic key ring: a Yale, which seemed to correspond to the front door; a bulkier key for a mortise lock; and a small one that might fit a padlock. She checked the time again – nine thirty-three – and considered her options.

  Now that she’d found the keys, she could hardly toss them back onto the grass. Somebody else was bound to come along and spot them, and that person might not be as law-abiding as Jen. Nor were there any better places to leave them for the householder to find.

  Again she thought of slipping them through the letterbox. But if they were the only set, the man would have to break in to his own house, or hire a locksmith. Jen didn’t want to cause him that kind of hassle, even if he did sometimes drive like a maniac.

  Hand them in at the police station? That was no doubt the correct
thing to do. But the nearest station was a bus ride away, and how long would it take to be seen? These days there were probably all sorts of forms to fill in.

  I could take the keys with me and leave him a note? That seemed like a far better solution.

  She crouched to open her bag. She usually carried a couple of the weekly timetables from work, listing the various training sessions and fitness classes on offer. She was less certain about a pen, but maybe there’d be something at the bottom of the bag; even just a pencil or crayon used by her seven-year-old son, Charlie.

  After rummaging for several seconds, she emptied her spare clothes and toiletries onto the grass and felt around in every corner of the bag. She found a copy of the timetable, but nothing to write with. Returning home to fetch a pen would take fifteen or twenty minutes – time she didn’t have.

  She turned to scan the street in both directions: no one in sight. She sighed. There was an idea forming, though she wasn’t yet sure if she wanted to entertain it.

  Then she flinched, and turned towards the house. Had she heard something from inside?

  She moved closer to the front door and listened carefully. Did the silence have a different quality to that of the neighbouring property, or was it merely her imagination playing tricks, because she wanted someone to come and take these keys off her hands?

  Nine thirty-six – she really had to get going. She knocked again, four loud thumps on the door. Glanced up to check the windows, and at the same time registered that there was no box to indicate the presence of a burglar alarm.

  Make a decision. . .

  When she looked down, the Yale was gripped between her thumb and forefinger. She slipped it into the lock.

  2

  After opening the door a fraction, she hesitated, alert to any sound or vibration from within, then called out: ‘Hello? Anyone there?’

  All that came back was a faint ticking noise, and the hum and gurgle of a fridge. She opened the door wider and peeked inside. The hallway was narrow, with a flight of stairs to her left, a living room to the right and the kitchen straight ahead.

  ‘Hello?’ she called again. ‘I found your keys outside. Can you come and get them?’

  There was no answer, no movement, no sense of anybody listening. And yet Jen felt a tickle on the back of her neck. She turned quickly, sure that somebody was about to accuse her of intruding. But the street was deserted.

  She shook off an irrational twinge of guilt. This wasn’t intruding: she was trying to do a good deed. If she went inside, it was only to find a pen so she could write a note.

  Okay, maybe there was just a tiny illicit thrill as she stepped over the threshold – because who didn’t enjoy an opportunity to look around an unfamiliar house?

  The hallway had laminate flooring, and as she set her bag down she noticed dust and grime in the corners, bolstering her gut feeling that this man lived alone; housework obviously wasn’t high on the agenda.

  She was in two minds about shutting the front door, and settled for leaving it ajar. She cleared her throat, and called out once more: ‘Is anyone home?’

  Gonna be very late for work. With that urgency on her mind, she moved towards the open doorway to her right and found a small living room, bare except for a sofa, a single straight-backed chair and a TV on a metal stand. There was a mirror on the wall but no pictures, no photographs or personal effects. A folded newspaper on the sofa was the only sign of recent occupation.

  She made for the kitchen, passing a toilet and a closed door to what she assumed would be the dining room. There was a faint smell of aftershave or body spray in the air, she realised; something woody and masculine and not very subtle.

  The kitchen was small, with shiny white units and black marble-effect worktops. The built-in appliances were rarely used, if the dust on the hob was anything to go by. A single coffee mug sat on the worktop, next to a kettle that still had condensation visible through the water-gauge window. A wrapper from a cereal bar lay on the floor: breakfast on the run, consistent with the man’s urgency as he left the house.

  She couldn’t see anything to write with, and wondered if she should just leave the keys outside the front door, perhaps covered by a pot or a bowl. She felt a growing sense of unease, and decided that venturing upstairs would be too intrusive. It was the dining room or nothing.

  She gripped the handle, then let it go and knocked instead, chilled by a sudden notion that she would open the door to find an entire family seated at the table in absolute silence, all turning to stare at her.

  No one answered, of course, so she opened the door, had a look inside, and gasped.

  Her first thought: Well, this explains the boxes. And if pushed, perhaps she’d have to concede that her curiosity about them had been a factor in her decision to enter the house.

  The room still held a dining table, but it was covered with dozens of figurines, ranging in size from a few inches to perhaps a foot and a half tall, set into heavy resin bases. The figures themselves were constructed from ingenious combinations of steel and copper wire, glass and precious stones and even the sort of everyday nuts and bolts that you might pick up at a DIY shop.

  Most of them were representations from classical mythology – the gods and monsters of ancient Greece, the spirits and demons of Celtic folklore. Jen stared at them in fascination. As an outdoor enthusiast from early childhood, she felt a deep affinity for the myths and legends of the Green Man, of Cernunnos the Celtic god of the forest, and saw a lot of merit in the idea of treating the planet as a single precious organism.

  She took a step into the room and felt something crunch underfoot. The floor was gritty with fragments of glass and strands of wire. That suggested some work was done in here, although the room wasn’t equipped as a studio, and the man projected none of the vitality or enthusiasm that Jen had encountered in the artists she’d met over the years; he usually had the weary, put-upon demeanour of a bureaucrat.

  Jen wondered if he was a retailer, and chose to keep some of his stock at home. She had little doubt that this artwork was valuable. Each piece was individually crafted, and must have taken many hours to produce. Perhaps the man was familiar enough with the work to make a few tiny alterations himself.

  At the far end of the room there was a shelving unit on which more of the figures were arranged, along with a stack of flat-packed cardboard boxes. There were also scissors and packing tape, and a jar with half a dozen Sharpie pens. A large roll of bubble wrap sat on the floor beside the unit, and resting on that was a spiral notebook. Hallelujah!

  Jen moved slowly, anxious not to bump into any of the larger figures. It was tempting to stop and admire them, but she was already going to be late for work, and that would only make things more difficult with Nick.

  The notebook was brand new and unused. She tore out a page, took a Sharpie from the jar, but as she crouched slightly to write there was a soft clanging noise. Her foot had nudged a metal waste bin beneath the table.

  At first she thought it contained no more than ordinary rubbish – scraps of packing tape, offcuts of cardboard and bubble wrap, an empty bottle of cherry cola – but then she spotted a head poking from the debris.

  And she recognised it.

  She couldn’t resist taking a closer look. Retrieving the figure carefully from the bin, she saw that one of the legs had snapped below the knee, presumably rendering it worthless.

  Jen didn’t agree. Even with the damage, it was a beautiful, delicate piece of art: a tall, sinuous representation of Elen of the Ways, an antlered goddess of ancient Britain who was said to watch over pathways, both physical and spiritual. Jen had first heard of her a few years ago, while hiking in Northumberland with a group that included a couple of practising Wiccans.

  The figurine was about ten inches tall, with antlers carved from what might have been real bone sprouting from her skull. Her glorious red hair was composed of multiple strands of copper wire, and she was clad in a long, flowing cloak made with dozens
of dark green beads, each one no larger than a peppercorn. Her face had been shaped from crystal, perhaps rose quartz, and caught the light as Jen turned it in her hand, making it seem almost as though her expression had changed from sombre reflection to something warm and wise.

  Jen had never seen such a gorgeous piece, and she resolved to ask the man, when he came to collect his keys, how much these figures sold for and where she could buy them.

  But this one’s broken, thrown away; you could easily—

  She shut that idea down at once, but felt a twinge of disappointment as she placed the goddess gently back in the bin. She scribbled a note, explaining that he’d dropped his keys and could arrange to collect them by calling her mobile number. Then she tore off a couple of strips of packing tape, retrieved her bag from the hall and left the house, struck by the shock of heat and humidity as she stepped outside. For the past few weeks, Brighton had felt more like some sun-drenched resort in the Aegean or the Med than the English Channel, and Jen was loving every minute of it.

  After closing the front door, she fixed the note to the upper panel, smoothing out the tape until she was sure it was stuck firmly in place. A car passed while she had her back to the road, but otherwise the street was quiet.

  So why the knot of tension in her guts as she turned away, the feeling that she was being not just watched, but judged?

  She shivered. Hefting the sports bag onto her shoulder, she set off at a jog towards the corner and kept up the pace all the way to the bus stop on Eastern Road, praying for an uncongested route to Portslade. If there were any lingering doubts, they were quickly pushed aside. What she’d done had been the right thing, as well as the easiest solution at the time.

  3

  Work was at the Skyway, a sports centre built on the site of a former engineering works on the border of Hove and Portslade, a short walk – or, today, a breathless run – from the bus stop on New Church Road. There was a well-equipped gym and a twenty-five-metre pool, available to members only, with squash courts, a soft play area and a large mixed-activity hall – for basketball, trampolining and so on – open to the public.