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

by Tom Bale

  The first was from Freddie, reporting that Charlie had had a fantastic time on the boat yesterday; they were at the villa today and might be able to Skype later. Jen was pleased to hear it, though her enthusiasm was tempered by the knowledge that she’d have to ask Freddie about all this.

  Not ask. Confront.

  The other text was from Russell Pearce, and it sent a shiver along her spine: Assume u saw my message? Have the decency to answer, will you? I’m offering to save your life. Gotta be worth a lot, hasn’t it – and you will ENJOY IT, I guarantee that ;) ;)

  Jen was tempted to respond straight away, telling him to piss off or she’d report him for stalking. But mindful of her dad’s warning, she decided to leave it for now.

  Driving home, her mood swung between rage, despair and weary resignation. On closer analysis, what she’d learned was of no help at all. In fact, Kitty’s testimony might actually bolster the police’s suspicion of a relationship between Jen and Alex Wilson. He commissioned that artwork especially for you, and then you destroyed it in a fit of temper.

  By the time she reached Brighton it was almost four in the afternoon. After a couple of hours in the air-conditioned chill of the car, the outside temperature came as a shock. Her body felt grimy with dried-on sweat, and her throat was parched. Dehydration could partly explain why she felt so tired and dispirited, she thought. But only partly.

  There were plenty of other reasons, such as that creep Russell Pearce. As she walked towards her building she had a strong sensation of being watched. She turned quickly but there was no one in sight.

  She made it to the top landing, heard movement beyond Bridie Martin’s door and raced inside her flat. After gulping down a glass of water, she stepped into the shower and tried to unwind. She had to give some thought to the Skype call, and how best to handle a difficult conversation without upsetting Charlie.

  Her phone buzzed as she was drying off. Russell Pearce again.

  Here’s a taste of what you’re missing.

  And there was a picture attached.

  35

  It was one of those things you do, and then instantly regret. Sort of.

  Russell had no qualms about whether the image would be unwelcome or distressing; the worry was that he was incriminating himself, offering her material she could use against him. Far from wise – and yet sometimes he felt compelled the push the boundaries.

  It’s an illness, remember? One for which I may or may not seek treatment. . .

  The image wasn’t anything pornographic – not that Jen was likely to go to the cops, given the power he had over her. He’d used the timer function on his phone’s camera, and captured a neat close-up of his upper thighs and groin (with only an unfortunate hint of sucked-in belly at the top of the frame). He was wearing a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs that he’d stopped wearing years ago, when they became far too tight.

  He had a full erection, of course.

  The thrill was heightened by the fact that the witch was back home, chirpy as hell and busy making them a pie for dinner. He sent the picture, and imagined Jen being out with friends, perhaps in a bar or lying on a beach – yes, the beach. Her friends would see her reaction – the bemused smile, a tiny gasp – and demand to know what it was.

  Nothing, she’d tell them, and then she would roll onto her front, shield the phone with her hand and study the picture carefully, trying to hide her arousal from her companions. This message would get a response, no doubt about that.

  He was still in the bedroom, working on that fantasy, when the doorbell rang.

  No one answered at first. There was a Dacia on the drive, and Jen thought she could hear music inside. Lionel Richie. Somebody was home, possibly the wife – Jen still had the feeling she was being watched, though maybe he was spying on her from one of the bedroom windows.

  Then a click, and the door was opened by a woman who looked nothing like Jen had expected. She was probably late thirties, tall and quite shapely, with an expensive, well-cut summer dress that cleverly minimised a few lumps and bumps. Her hair, nails and make-up all pointed to a beauty regime of considerable dedication. Even the few dabs of pastry on her hands could have been applied on purpose to achieve the desired effect: domestic goddess at work.

  The woman smiled, a little cautiously. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Are you Russell Pearce’s wife?’

  She nodded, and even while Jen was thinking, But he’s a slob, the woman’s expression turned cold. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’

  ‘What I want is for your husband to leave me alone.’

  The woman started to splutter. ‘Leave you alone? Wh-what are you—’

  Jen thrust her phone forward. ‘He just sent me this. He keeps texting, harassing me. You can tell him I wouldn’t sleep with him if I had a gun to my head, and I don’t care what he threatens to do. One more message and I’ll report him to the police.’

  The woman wore a vicious scowl, but her mouth was opening and closing, finding no words. Jen had come here with the intention of confronting Russell himself, but she’d said her piece and couldn’t see any good reason to stick around.

  As she turned away, something wet struck her hair and dripped onto her temple. Jen gasped. Pearce’s wife had spat at her, and was now gripping the door, ready to slam it if Jen tried to retaliate.

  ‘Get off my property, you lying whore!’ she screamed. ‘He’d never go near a skank like you!’

  Russell listened from the top of the stairs. His legs were jelly; he had to cling to the banister for support. Hadn’t he known it might go disastrously wrong? He should have listened to that inner voice, got himself under control before it was too late.

  But ever the optimist, he waited till Kelly shut the door, then feigned surprise. ‘What was all that about?’

  With a murderous glare, she snarled, ‘That’s what you’re going to tell me. Right now.’

  ‘It was Jennifer, wasn’t it?’ He glanced casually out of the landing window, wanting to make sure the bitch was walking away.

  ‘You sent her a bloody dick pic. Who is she?’

  ‘It’s all right. Calm down.’ Russell felt that if he could survive the initial blast, he might just be able to finesse his way out of this. ‘I didn’t tell you about her, because I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Arms folded, eyebrow cocked, a stance that said, This had better be good. . .

  ‘The other day I’d popped out to the shop. On the way back I saw a woman standing outside number 14, where the burglary was. I asked if she’d seen anything, and she just came out and told me.’

  He paused. Drag it out. Make her ask.

  ‘Told you what?’

  ‘She admitted to it. Well, not in so many words. It’s some kind of domestic issue – remember the policewoman said the intruder had keys?’

  Kelly’s nod was an encouraging sign. She was buying into it.

  ‘Anyway, I think they’d split up, and he’d accused her of trashing his place. It seemed pretty clear that she must have done it, but she started begging for help. Gave me this sob story about her kid – she’s a single parent.’ He wore a look of disapproval, knowing Kelly would share it. ‘She asked me to tell the police I’d seen some bloke acting suspiciously—’

  ‘But you’d already spoken to them.’

  ‘I told her that, but she kept on and on at me. I ended up agreeing to think about it, just to get away. But then she wanted my phone number.’ He sighed, allowing it to become a wince. ‘I think she’s a bit unstable.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain the picture.’

  ‘I know. Call it a moment of madness. She kept trying to flirt, sending me images of herself. . . I wish now that I hadn’t deleted them. In the end I relented and did one for her, but not naked the way she asked. I suspect she was setting me up for this sort of blackmail, so thank God it’s out in the open now.’

  Kelly deliberated for an unnervingly long time. Russell sidled down the stairs, stopping halfway. C
lose enough to look into her eyes, but still out of striking range.

  ‘I want to believe you,’ she said at last. ‘But after what happened with that girl, Susie. . .’

  ‘Nothing happened with Susie.’

  ‘So you say, but you still had to leave Amex. If not for that, you wouldn’t have changed jobs and been made redundant.’

  He groaned, flapping a hand. ‘That was all a horrible mistake, I don’t want to go raking over it again.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. Neither do I.’ Something in the kitchen started bleeping; he thought it might bring him respite, but she ignored it. ‘What did she mean about you threatening her?’

  ‘I genuinely have no idea. You saw what she’s like. Unstable.’

  Silence. He met his wife’s gaze and held it, determined not to flinch. He was in control here; not her. Not the witch.

  And if she refuses to accept my explanation, he thought, I won’t be responsible for whatever happens next.

  36

  The Skype call took place at six o’clock – eight in Crete. By that time in the UK Charlie would have been warned to start winding down for bed, but not with his dad. It sounded like they’d be heading out to the nearest town, where there was a choice of tavernas and one in particular whose proprietor had taken a shine to Charlie.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Jen said, and she tried to mean it. They’re on holiday. A few late nights won’t hurt him. There are bigger things to worry about.

  She decided not to ask about the supposedly unreliable Wi-Fi, or the presence of Ella. There was no sign of the girl, and neither Charlie nor his dad had mentioned her.

  After a stilted beginning, Freddie announced that he had to check on something outside and left Charlie to speak to her on his own. Jen was grateful for this act of discretion, which enabled her to have a much more normal conversation with her son.

  Charlie, though, remained subdued, and reluctant to elaborate on any of his answers. Almost everything was ‘good’ – not ‘great’ or ‘amazing’ or ‘fantastic’, which was out of character for a boy who could fizz with excitement over the contents of the sandwich he’d had for lunch.

  ‘Charlie, listen. Just between you and me, are you sure you’re all right?’

  He nodded, mumbling something like, ‘It’s too nice here.’

  ‘What do you mean, “too nice”?’

  ‘It isn’t fair – cos you’re not here to enjoy it with me, and I keep getting bad dreams where you’ve been put in jail, and then. . . and then I have accidents.’ Ashamed, he turned his face away from her.

  ‘Oh, darling, you mustn’t worry about that. I promise you, Daddy’s not cross with you, and I’m sure it’ll stop soon.’

  He didn’t look convinced, and Jen was aware that she hadn’t offered any reassurance on the much bigger issue of whether his mother was going to be locked up. But if she denied the possibility and then later received a prison sentence, it would destroy his trust in her.

  ‘Try not to worry. I’m missing you, of course, but I had a nice weekend. I saw Granddad Ian, and he and Nanny send their love. And we all want you to have a wonderful time out there, okay?’

  He nodded dutifully, but still not persuaded. Now for the horrible part: ‘Could you ask Daddy to come in? I need a quick talk with him, just the two of us, okay?’

  Charlie seemed to recoil. Such a request was generally a signal for conflict between the two people he loved most.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she added hastily. ‘There won’t be an argument. It’s just yucky grown-up stuff.’

  Without another word, he got up and slouched out of shot, and Jen felt her stomach clench with sorrow. But she had to question Freddie, and it had to be done in private.

  She heard the slap of bare feet on marble. Freddie’s hairy legs came into view and he dropped onto the sofa, wiped his face with both hands and gazed blearily at the camera, like a contestant on Big Brother preparing to unleash a grievance.

  ‘Is Charlie out of earshot?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Definitely? Can you make sure?’

  ‘He is. What’s this about, Jen?’

  ‘I need to ask you something. I don’t want you making a joke of it, or trying to fob me off. It’s serious.’

  ‘Yeah, all right. Go for it.’

  ‘Are you trying to destroy me?’

  ‘What?’ A laugh burst from him, even while his face creased with a mix of shock and anger. ‘We’re getting divorced, and we don’t agree on a lot of stuff, but what the fuck—’

  ‘I’m being framed for a crime. I can’t see why anyone would do that, other than maybe you or your dad, looking to discredit me in the eyes of the court.’

  ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Jen, this is the twenty-first century. What you’re describing is like something out of the maf—’ He broke off, and Jen moved closer to her screen, wondering if this was it: an admission of some kind. But then he too leaned forward, and said, ‘Hold on, have the police got involved?’

  She shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Charlie said something that didn’t make sense. I chose not to push it, so he wouldn’t get upset. And out of respect for you,’ he added sourly. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘They’re accusing me of burglary and criminal damage. It’s complete bullshit, but someone planted evidence.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not gonna do that to you, am I? Hey – is that why he’s wetting the bed again?’

  Jen took a deep breath. ‘It might be.’

  ‘Shit.’ Sounding genuinely concerned, he said, ‘What’s going to happen, do you know?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m waiting to hear if I’ll be charged.’

  ‘And if you are?’

  ‘It’ll be in the hands of a jury. For a guilty verdict, it’s possibly a fine or a suspended sentence – if I’m really lucky.’

  ‘And if not?’ He looked up, gazed into her eyes from a couple of thousand miles away, read the answer in her face and shook his head in disgust. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  37

  That night Jen slept better than she had expected. When she woke on Monday morning, her overriding emotion was one of confusion. Who was doing this to her, and how could she find them?

  Freddie’s reaction had restored her faith in his basic decency. If only he could break away from his father’s pernicious influence, there might still be a chance to resolve their differences with another attempt at mediation. . .

  Except you’re going to jail, remember? No point agreeing on the finer obligations of your child’s living arrangements when you might not be around to fulfil them.

  While still in bed, she checked her phone. Following the run-in with his wife, there had been no more contact from Russell Pearce. She had texts from Nick, and from Anna; she replied to Anna’s but left Nick’s for now.

  And there was an email from Jonathan Oldroyd at SilverSquare. The tone was almost accusatory, wanting to know who she was and where she had got that document. It had been sent at just after three in the morning, and yet he’d supplied a mobile number and asked her to call any time from eight o’clock.

  First she took a shower, grabbed some breakfast and considered what to do with her day. The weather was fabulous and it was a public holiday, a combination that meant anywhere worth going would be jammed with people. Perhaps she’d be better off heading to the Skyway and offering her services for a few hours – Nick would no doubt be glad of the extra help.

  When she called Oldroyd, he shouted a greeting over the roar of traffic and explained that he was on his way to the office. ‘On a bank holiday?’ she queried.

  ‘It’s my own business, so the calendar’s irrelevant.’ He’d just flown back from a meeting in Los Angeles, hence the late email. ‘I was deeply troubled by the notations on that document, so I apologise if my response was overly aggressive.’

  ‘Do you know what they mean?’

  ‘I believe I do, yes.’ He had a deep voice, and
the authoritative burr of a moneyed background. ‘Look, I don’t suppose you’re anywhere near London? This isn’t a subject to discuss over the phone.’

  ‘I’m in Brighton. Why can’t we talk on the phone?’

  ‘Because, to be blunt, you could be anybody. And I can’t afford to reveal anything that might get back to my competitors.’

  He asked if her background was in product design, and Jen gave a snort. ‘I work at a sports centre.’

  ‘Ah. What about those guys you named in the email?’

  ‘I don’t actually know who they are. I was hoping you could help me with that.’

  ‘Mysteries abound,’ he drawled. ‘I’d come to see you, but there are meetings that I have to attend.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Jen said. ‘What time are you free?’

  She decided against getting caught up in the capital’s traffic, and went by train instead, grateful for the money her dad had given her. There were plenty of seats, perhaps because the fine weather was sending everybody in the opposite direction. The mid morning tube from Victoria was a different matter, and when she emerged onto Kensington High Street the stifling heat and crush of humanity reminded her why she loved living on the coast.

  SilverSquare had an office in Drayson Mews, just a couple of minutes’ walk from the station. Jen was buzzed in at the front door and climbed the twisting stairs to a small lobby, where Jonathan Oldroyd was waiting to greet her.

  She already knew he was in his early forties, a decorated officer in the Grenadier Guards with a squarish face, clear blue eyes and greying hair. He was sporting a neat beard that hadn’t been present on the website photo, and leaning on a walking stick. After introducing himself, he took a limping step towards a door that had been propped open with a fire extinguisher.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me. Leg’s playing up.’ He explained that on long-haul flights his knee became so painful that he had to remove his prosthetic, but swelling of the residual limb made it difficult to fit back on. He launched into a description of an infected stump, then stopped abruptly, and grinned. ‘I have a smooth line in small talk, as you can tell.’