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

by Tom Bale

  ‘But it wasn’t!’ Jen exclaimed. ‘I didn’t do it.’

  He studied her carefully. ‘And you’re not acquainted with this Alex Wilson?’

  ‘Only what I told them – sometimes he crosses my path as I’m walking to work.’

  ‘And the landlord, the building’s owner?’

  ‘No idea who that is.’

  ‘Very well.’ He sighed. ‘The accusation that somebody planted the figurine in your flat presents quite a challenge. Upstanding juries can react very negatively to claims of police corruption.’

  ‘I’m not saying the pol—’

  ‘DS Howard said that you did.’

  Jen felt herself blushing. ‘Only in the heat of the moment. The thing is, if it wasn’t them. . .’

  ‘Who was it? Exactly. I take it you saw no evidence of an intrusion when you got home?’

  Reluctantly, Jen shook her head. ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Good locks on your doors?’

  ‘Just the one. Though I’m in a rented flat, so there could be any number of people with keys.’

  ‘Ever had reasons for concern in that respect?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Though I’ve only been there for six months.’

  Allenby thought it over, then delivered his conclusion. ‘On the bare bones of the case I’m surprised, frankly, that they haven’t charged you by now. It suggests to me that they’re not a hundred per cent sure – and I know Tania won’t go to the CPS until she has a rock-solid case.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. What do you think she’s waiting for?’

  ‘Could be more enquiries at your place of work. I’m concerned by the allegation that Wilson lost his keys at the Skyway, though I understand they’ve confirmed that you weren’t at work on Sunday?’

  She winced. ‘That’s true – though I did have to pop in during the afternoon.’

  ‘You were there on Sunday? DS Howard didn’t say—’

  ‘Because I didn’t tell her.’ She registered the solicitor’s expression, one eyebrow sceptically arched, as if he’d lost any lingering faith that she was being straight with him.

  Jen ran through the reason for her visit, and stressed that she went nowhere near the changing rooms where the men’s lockers were located. And Charlie had been with her, of course.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to putting a seven-year-old in the witness box,’ Allenby remarked. ‘The CCTV coverage – think very carefully about where you went, and what the cameras would have seen.’

  Jen closed her eyes, trying to visualise the layout of the sports complex. ‘The CCTV’s quite limited, and half the time the cameras are playing up. They cover the main reception, and a couple of other desks that handle payments. The cafe, one or two corridors, the sports halls.’

  ‘And is it possible to reach the men’s lockers without being seen on camera?’

  ‘I guess you could probably find a way via the boiler room, but you’d need at least one key that isn’t normally issued to staff like me.’

  ‘And do you know where those keys are kept?’

  With a sigh, she nodded.

  ‘And can that location be reached without being seen?’

  Another nod. ‘I’m screwed, aren’t I?’

  ‘Well, if they find you on the centre’s CCTV, even if it’s only in the reception area. . .’ He massaged his temples with his fingertips. ‘It’s unfortunate that I wasn’t present for yesterday’s interview.’

  This seemed like such a huge understatement that Jen couldn’t see any point in responding. After thirty seconds of silence, Allenby spoke again, his smile a kind of tactful grimace.

  ‘Bear in mind that a full admission now, and a guilty plea in court, might see a greatly reduced sentence—’

  ‘But I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Even a non-custodial sentence,’ he continued gently, ‘especially as your record until now is unblemished. Is there any possibility that the victim would speak up in your favour?’

  She couldn’t help glaring. ‘This isn’t a lovers’ tiff. I’ve never said a word to the man.’

  ‘All right. But if they find evidence of a connection between you and Mr Wilson, that will be the clincher.’

  ‘There isn’t a connection,’ Jen stressed, infuriated that he didn’t seem to be listening.

  ‘So we’re sticking with your account? Nothing to alter, and the only omission is that you dropped into the Skyway yesterday afternoon?’

  Jen nodded. ‘I know it probably looks obvious that I did it – it almost looks like that to me. But unless I’ve had a complete mental breakdown, there has to be another explanation.’

  ‘Is there any history of mental illness? Blackouts? Psychotic episodes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Right, okay. I’ve already suggested that Tania would be wise to look into some anomalies.’ He granted Jen an encouraging smile, as if he’d been waiting for the right moment to lift her mood. ‘This hidden camera, for a start. If Wilson had a problem with the lodger, why only the one camera in the hall? Why not in the room with the valuable artwork?’

  Warming to the energy in his voice, Jen said, ‘I suppose it does sound a bit iffy.’

  ‘It does, though we also have to bear in mind that human beings are intrinsically peculiar, so the purpose of the camera may never become clear.’

  ‘Something I thought of last night – what about the pen I picked up? It’ll have my fingerprints on it.’

  ‘That helps them as much as it does you. It puts you in the room where the damage occurred.’

  ‘The pad, then. If there was an impression of my writing on the sheet below, it would prove I left a note.’

  He agreed to ask about it, then told her that enquiries with nearby residents had drawn a blank. ‘I want them to push this angle a bit harder. Somebody might have seen you picking something up from the lawn and not appreciated the significance.’

  ‘There didn’t seem to be anyone around. I was looking for a neighbour who might have been able to take the keys.’

  ‘Doesn’t rule out someone watching from a window.’ He sucked his teeth again. ‘Once you got into work, did you tell anybody about finding the keys? Did you mention it to your son, or to his friend’s mother when you went to collect him?’

  ‘It just didn’t seem that important.’ She sighed. ‘Would the police be prepared to talk to the other residents of my building, in case they saw anything suspicious?’

  ‘Regarding an intruder? It’s doubtful, unless we can give them a good reason.’

  ‘So in the worst case scenario, what’s likely to happen?’

  ‘I think they’ll charge you,’ he said bluntly. ‘And because of the value, and the apparent degree of premeditation, it’ll go to the magistrates’ court for a plea.’ His eyebrows went up: a question.

  ‘Not guilty,’ she said.

  ‘Then it’ll be referred to the crown court, which is preferable, on the whole. Better to take your chances with a jury than a lot of stuffed-shirt magistrates.’

  He ran through the issue of costs, and reassured her that she should qualify for legal aid. He seemed content to finish there, but Jen had another question: ‘And if it goes against me, at the crown court?’

  Allenby leaned back and folded his long arms across his chest. ‘You’re of previous good character, you have a dependent child, a steady job. . . With a fair wind and a top-notch legal representative’ – he winked – ‘you might swing a suspended sentence and a large fine, though at this stage it would be prudent to make contingencies for six to twelve.’

  There was a strange black flash in her mind; the first apocalyptic shudder of her world coming apart. ‘Six to twelve. . .?’

  ‘Months.’

  ‘In prison?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Jen said nothing more, but she was sure the horror showed in her eyes.

  Six to twelve months. In terms of what it would mean for Charlie – and for her role as his mother – it might a
s well be the rest of her life.

  14

  After that, the morning passed in a daze. By eleven o’clock she found herself stepping outside into another glorious summer’s day, a free woman once again.

  For now.

  Shielding her eyes against the blazing sunshine, she descended the hill into Hollingbury, stopping at a patch of open ground next to Carden Avenue. There was a children’s playground on the far side of a football pitch, but only a handful of people in sight. The grass was baked hard and Jen found a spot where she was unlikely to be noticed. She sat down, covered her face with her hands and sobbed until her palms were wet with tears.

  Part of her reaction was down to relief, a way of exorcising the painful emotions that had built up during her night in the cell. But it was also one of horror at what lay ahead.

  Six to twelve months, away from Charlie, away from her family. And then a lifetime to bear the taint of criminality.

  She’d been let out on police bail, pending further enquiries, with a date to return in two months, though DS Howard had advised that they might be in touch a lot sooner. A number of conditions were attached to her release: she was forbidden from making contact with Alex Wilson, and nor could she enter Regency Place from the south or go anywhere near number 14.

  That meant taking a different route to the bus stop for work, which was simple enough. But how would she explain it to Charlie when they were heading to the beach or the shops? Hey, buddy, let’s take a detour so Mummy doesn’t end up in jail. . .

  On their return to the interview room, Allenby’s presence seemed to provoke a more adversarial mood. Jen had agreed to the suggestion that her solicitor should read a short statement, confirming the version of events she’d previously given and informing the detectives that she had made a brief visit to the sports centre on Sunday afternoon.

  It was clear from their reaction that they hadn’t yet unearthed this information. The questions that followed were persistent to the point of tedium, and Jen felt it agonising to have to confine her answer to a single phrase, repeated over and over again.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You’re in the process of divorcing,’ Reed said, in a sudden departure from a series of questions about the layout of the Skyway. ‘Never an easy time, especially if there’s a child involved. Custody issues to sort out. What sort of man is your ex?’

  Jen glanced at her solicitor, as if to say, Surely this can’t hurt. . .? He answered with a warning look: Better not to get drawn in.

  ‘No comment.’

  Reed gave Allenby a cold smile. ‘Freddie Lynch, that’s his name, right? And he’s, what, a musician or something?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘And he’s the son of Gerard Lynch, I just found out.’ A note of admiration in Reed’s voice. ‘Must be interesting, having a famous father-in-law. My dad always asks for his new book at Christmas, even though he reads the column every week.’ He snorted. ‘How nice is that, getting paid twice for the same bit of work? And Gerard’s very big on law and order, from what I’ve seen.’

  Jen struggled to keep her expression neutral. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Seems to me that if you did something which you now regret, you’d be scared to admit it for fear of embarrassing the family, and maybe damaging Gerard’s career—’

  ‘No comment.’ This time it was said through gritted teeth, and the detectives were quick to pick up on the difference in tone.

  ‘He’s a polarising figure,’ Howard said, ‘so his opponents are likely to use it against him. But I suspect you’re a lot more worried about admitting to a relationship that might impact on your divorce.’

  ‘I’m not—’ Jen began, then swallowed. ‘No comment.’

  ‘This is a fishing expedition,’ Allenby said. ‘My client’s made a statement, and she has nothing more to say. I think we’ve all got better things to do with our time, haven’t we?’

  The interview had ended soon after this contribution. Now, as Jen picked herself up and walked to the nearest bus stop, she realised that she had to take Allenby’s advice and get her own life back on track.

  Her mobile phone had been returned, but it was switched off. She powered it up, and found several texts: two from Nick, wanting to know why she wasn’t at work, and one from Anna: Hope you’re ok. Let me know when you can x

  Jen spent a few seconds thinking herself into the role of ‘unwell woman’, then called Nick and claimed to have come down with a stomach bug. She’d been up half the night vomiting.

  ‘Why didn’t you call earlier? I could have got somebody to cover.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just wiped out.’

  He made a disgruntled noise. ‘Hope it’s only a twenty-four hour thing?’

  ‘Me too. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘D’you need anything? I could come round tonight.’

  ‘No, better not,’ she said hastily. ‘Might be contagious.’

  A bus was trundling towards her. She got off the phone and jumped aboard. Although she was desperate to be reunited with Charlie, the police had kept her clothes and shoes as evidence, and she didn’t want her son to see her in this drab grey tracksuit. It also made sense to check the apartment, in case the search had left it in chaos.

  Resting her head against the cool glass, she gazed out of the window, glad to be on a bus rather than in a police car. If it had been in her nature to wallow in misery, the poverty evident in London Road was a sobering reminder that many lives were on a downward spiral in this vibrant city.

  She changed buses at the Old Steine and disembarked, out of habit, on the corner of Bristol Gardens. Then she remembered the terms of the bail and had to take a ten-minute detour to enter Regency Place from a side road, Henley Gardens, some fifty or sixty yards north of number 14.

  She stopped at the corner, unwilling to turn and head for home. She stared at the house where Alex Wilson lived, wondering who he was and why this had happened. There were no cars parked outside, no windows open, and she found herself taking a few steps in that direction, almost drawn by the fact that it was now forbidden. Always the rebel, as her dad liked to point out, though she would argue that she just wanted to understand—

  A cough made her jump. She turned to find a man ambling towards her from a house on the opposite corner of the junction. He was perhaps late thirties, medium height and fleshy, with thinning brown hair and narrow eyes hidden by the shadow of a heavy brow. He wore grey jogging shorts, spotted with white paint, and a rugby shirt with yellow stripes. He was fiddling with the drawstring on his shorts as he stopped alongside her, gesturing with his other hand towards the terrace.

  ‘There were police out there most of yesterday. Going door to door as well.’

  Jen merely nodded. Why was he telling her this?

  ‘I live just there.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and used the distraction to sneak a look at her chest. ‘I’ve seen you walking past sometimes, with a little boy?’ He sounded vague, but the intensity of his gaze suggested he was anything but uncertain.

  Even though he made her uncomfortable, Jen couldn’t help experiencing a spark of hope. ‘What about yesterday morning?’

  ‘Yesterday morning?’ Again, there was something calculated about the way he pondered. His tongue was visible when he spoke, and added a slushy sibilance to his voice. ‘I think I might have done – around nine-ish?’

  ‘Nearer to half past. The guy who lives at number 14 came out and got into a white Subaru. Did you see that?’

  ‘Not sure if I did. But that’s the house the police were interested in. Apparently there was a break-in—’

  ‘Where did you see me, exactly?’ Jen, in her impatience, was almost gabbling as she indicated the opposite pavement. ‘My route took me along here. I was on my own, carrying a sports bag. When I got to number 14, you might have seen me picking something up off the grass. . .?’

  The man was frowning; she sensed that her interruption had displeased him. With another, less furtiv
e appraisal of her body, he asked, ‘What did you pick up?’

  ‘The man dropped his keys. I noticed them as I walked past, and didn’t want to leave them there—’

  ‘The police said it was a break-in, but the suspect might have had keys.’ It was his turn to interrupt, and he seemed to take pleasure in relaying this information, his lip curling slightly. ‘A young woman, they said. So I assume it was you?’

  Now on the back foot, Jen reluctantly admitted that it was. The man looked intrigued rather than disapproving; he introduced himself as Russell Pearce and offered what turned out to be a moist and overly firm handshake. Surreptitiously wiping her hand on her leg, Jen decided that she had little to lose and possibly something to gain, so she gave her name and briefly described her actions yesterday morning, then explained how the police had turned up at her flat and presented her with a completely different version of events.

  ‘They think you smashed up his possessions? Why would you do that?’

  ‘Exactly. It would be really useful if you can remember what you saw – not just me, but if there were other comings or goings at the house.’

  ‘I was decorating round the back most of the day, but still. I can see how much this means to you.’ He fingered the stubble on his chin. ‘Perhaps there’s a way we can sort this out.’

  ‘Like what?’

  She took a half-step back and his palms came up, anxious not to lose her. ‘If it’ll help, I could go to the police, and tell them I saw you.’

  ‘But if it was only when I walked past here. . .’

  ‘I’ll go a bit further than that. Like I say, I really want to help.’ He fished a phone out of his back pocket and checked the screen. ‘I work from home, so I can arrange my time pretty much as I please. Why don’t we grab a coffee, or a drink, maybe?’

  ‘I can’t. Sorry.’

  ‘Just to talk it through. Make sure I know how to deal with any awkward questions.’

  Jen shook her head. ‘I haven’t lied to the police, and I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone to lie on my behalf, either.’