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

by Tom Bale

‘She’s at the loch,’ he muttered, by which he meant a beautiful cottage in the Scottish Highlands, just one of his four homes around the world – or five, now, with the villa in Crete. ‘She’s happier in Scotland, and I’m happier when she’s there and I’m anywhere but.’

  This was just the sort of callous plain-speaking that his fans cherished, but to Jen it was vile. She’d seen all too often how he used it to wound those closest to him, and it confirmed Freddie’s view that this latest marriage was a dreadful mistake.

  She had a sudden fear for her own parents. Was Dad being stoic about her mum’s frequent business trips, or did he secretly prefer being on his own? She would hate to think their marriage could be as devoid of love or meaning as most of Gerard’s relationships.

  She had little appetite for small talk with the man, so she came straight to the point. ‘How important is it to you that Freddie wins the divorce?’

  The question contained a test – it shouldn’t be viewed in such crude terms as winning or losing – but Gerard merely let the question hang while he reached for the humidor on his desk, selected a cigar and snipped off the end.

  Finally, his answer: ‘I care about my son, and my grandson.’

  In other words, Not you.

  Jen said, ‘I don’t think so. If you cared about Charlie, you wouldn’t be setting attack-dog lawyers on his mum—’

  ‘I adore that boy, and he certainly won’t be given reason to doubt it as he grows up. As for my lawyers, I leave the tactical decisions to them.’

  ‘How much have they cost you, up to now?’

  ‘I can afford it.’ He sneered as he lit the cigar. ‘I could afford a hundred times as much, and it would still be money well spent to be rid of you.’

  ‘What a gentleman.’ She was feeling sick, and the pungent aroma of the cigar wasn’t helping. ‘And what else are you paying for?’

  He paused, his open mouth full of smoke, his brow creased beneath the improbably brown hair. ‘Mm?’

  ‘You’ve just admitted there’s an unlimited fighting fund. So how else have you used your fortune to try and destroy me?’

  He gave her a scathing look. ‘I think you’ve been out in the sun too long. Are you seeing somebody?’

  Now she was confused. ‘No. And what’s that got to—’

  ‘I don’t mean who you’re fucking. I mean a shrink. A psychiatrist.’

  ‘Very funny. The way you’ve dodged my question, I’ll take it the answer is yes.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you’re finished? I have better things to do than listen to the paranoid delusions of a mentally challenged gym bunny.’

  She knew she’d get nowhere if she took the bait, but it was so difficult. She’d seen him like this on TV debates, goading his fellow panellists with unwarranted attacks on their integrity or sanity.

  ‘Did you hire Alex Wilson?’

  ‘Who’s that, a boyfriend of yours?’

  ‘I think you know who I’m talking about.’

  ‘Not a Scooby, my dear.’ He blew out smoke, his lips a rosebud pout, and squinted scornfully at her. ‘I still don’t get what Freddie saw in you. Fine, shag the tour guide when you’re stuck on a mountain and the only alternative is the herdsman’s prettiest goat – though personally I’d fuck the goat over you any time – but bringing back the bimbo. . . Tsk tsk. Though I suppose by then you had your greedy little claws around his thinking tackle.’

  Gerard was still cackling when her phone burst into life: an incoming call from Tim Allenby. Glad of a reason to interrupt the revolting conversation, Jen stood up and turned away from Gerard before answering. ‘Hi, what’s up?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you. I’ve just had an urgent message from Talia Howard.’

  Jen felt her stomach drop. Probably a mistake to take the call. ‘Oh, yes?’ she said neutrally.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with your case – at least, I hope not.’ He sounded flustered. ‘A body has been discovered, just around the corner from you. A woman was murdered, and the husband’s gone missing. Naturally he’s the prime suspect, and DS Howard appears to have discovered a connection between the two of you.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand. . .’

  ‘Sorry to deliver such a shock. It’s Russell Pearce.’

  40

  ‘Russell Pearce?’ Jen noticed an antique chaise longue against the wall; she collapsed onto it and sat with her head bowed, one hand cupping her forehead, Gerard utterly forgotten. ‘They think he killed her? Are you sure?’

  A memory of the woman’s face as she snarled and spat. Get off my property, you lying whore!

  ‘There’s a lot of forensic business to conduct, but it looks that way. The body was only discovered a few hours ago. And Pearce has definitely absconded – the car’s gone, he’s taken clothes and whatnot.’

  ‘And they want to speak to me?’

  ‘Yes. Talia wouldn’t go into detail, but something was found that gives them cause for concern.’

  ‘I see.’ She wondered if it was Pearce’s phone – the texts, the picture he’d sent her. But wouldn’t he have taken his phone? ‘Uh, when?’

  ‘ASAP is the impression I was given.’

  ‘I’m in London at the moment, but I could do it this afternoon, say around four o’clock?’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll let them know and send you Talia’s number.’ He took a breath. ‘In the meantime, please do take care. By the sound of it, what he did to his wife was not pretty at all.’

  She ended the call and wiped her face with her hand. She could feel Gerard’s gaze, and had the distinct impression that he was almost as perturbed as she was.

  ‘Who’s Russell Pearce?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Screwing him too, are you?’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘If I get word that your promiscuity is having an effect on Charlie—’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting. I would never do anything of the sort.’

  ‘Better not. You’d be surprised how much Chip confides in his number-one grandpa. So bear that in mind. . . for the time you have left.’

  The comment took her breath away. She gripped her phone as if prepared to use it as a weapon. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  A light shrug, as he puffed on the cigar. ‘You’re not going to win this battle, Jen. The sooner you accept that, the better for everyone.’

  ‘No. He needs his mother. Freddie is a good dad, and he loves Charlie to bits – I’d never dispute that. But he lives like a playboy. There’s no discipline, no structure, no sense of commitment or hard work.’ Studying Gerard’s expression as she spoke, she had a flash of insight: He’ll never admit it, but he agrees with me.

  ‘If you’re talking about setting examples, he can look to me for that.’ He gestured proudly at the room around them, and it took her a moment to comprehend: he was referring to Charlie.

  Gerard intended to be the boy’s role model.

  Horrified, she said, ‘Don’t give me that. You inherited this house from your father. I know your readers swallow the idea that you’re this great self-made man, but it’s a sham. The fact is, you were rich from Daddy’s money long before you were famous, and the wealth you’ve acquired since then has come from whipping up hatred of people who can’t answer back, people whose lives are already desperate enough, without you encouraging even more persecution. It’s the very last thing anyone should be proud of, and you sure as hell aren’t going to warp my son to fit into your nasty little mould.’

  By now she was on her feet, bouncing on her toes from the adrenaline rush. Christ, it felt good to unleash on a man who had been the cause of so much misery over the years.

  Gerard soaked it up, at first incredulous, then amused, finally red-faced and fit to explode.

  ‘Go ahead, deride my fame all you want. Deride my wealth, too, if it soothes your little liberal conscience – though I don’t recall too many complaints when you were living in a house bought and paid for by me.’ He shook his head as she we
nt to object. ‘But the power I have, I earned that for myself, lovey. It’s real, and it’s mine, and it matters.’

  His roving eye caught something, and he calmed a little, beckoning her towards the bookshelves. ‘Let me show you what I mean.’

  Thrown by the change of tone, Jen approached warily. Alongside the political memoirs and copies of his own work, there were various framed photographs including several of Charlie at different ages, which caused a painful squeeze of her heart. One prominent image, she noticed with distaste, was a shot of his third wife posing topless in the manner of a Page Three girl. Deborah Lynch was nearly thirty years younger than Gerard, and undoubtedly in fine shape, but Jen didn’t care for the very obvious breast enhancements, or the fact that Gerard wanted such an image on public display.

  The photograph he plucked from the shelf was a portrait of Gerard with his new wife, taken on a spacious hotel terrace with a glittering ocean in the background. Mexico, possibly, where Gerard had flown over a hundred guests for his wedding – not including Jen, of course, and Freddie had only attended under sufferance.

  Deborah was draped in a flowing white gown, her cleavage like treacle-coated footballs propped beneath her chin. She was sitting on Gerard’s lap, his arms tight around her waist. He was grinning wolfishly, while Deborah’s head was thrown back, her mouth forming a tiny circle as if about to laugh or gasp. Various guests could be seen around them, standing or sitting at tables laden with champagne and orange juice.

  Gerard pressed a nicotine-stained fingertip against the glass and said, ‘That’s at breakfast, the morning after the wedding. I’m wearing shorts and a bathrobe, can you see?’

  Jen shrugged: So what?

  ‘That, my dear, was for ease of access.’ He turned and leered, causing Jen to retreat a step or two. ‘We were first out on the terrace, and got settled at our table. I’d popped a couple of blue pills.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘I told Deb she wasn’t to move or give anything away. If she wriggled, I pinched her. Trouble is, the excitement got too much – she had to pretend she was choking on a mouthful of croissant.’

  Another horrible, hungry laugh, and then he pressed his tongue against the tip of a yellow incisor. ‘Twenty minutes we stayed like that. Shooting the breeze, entertaining our guests – who, for the record, included a cabinet minister, three backbench MPs, a BBC governor, two newspaper editors and a chief constable. All of them out on the terrace, looking me in the eye while I enjoyed my conjugal rights.’

  Jen didn’t know what to say. She continued to back away but he followed, thrusting the frame into her face.

  ‘Think on that, girl. Twenty minutes holding court with the great and the good, and Deb’s sitting happily on my cock.’ He sucked at the saliva leaking from his mouth, then jabbed the cigar at her face. ‘That’s what I can get away with, and don’t you ever forget it.’

  He was panting noisily, mouth open, with a kind of mistiness to his gaze that suggested he wasn’t completely in touch with reality. There was a sexual edge to his aggression which hadn’t been so blatant before, perhaps because she’d never been here without having Freddie present. Jen felt her body react to the threat, energy coursing to her muscles, ready to fight back. ‘So you’re admitting it, then?’

  ‘I’m admitting nothing.’ He looked her up and down and seemed to shudder, very slightly, as if registering how savagely she would respond if he were to try anything. ‘Whatever trouble you’re in, it serves you right. Now get out of my sight.’

  Jen was only too happy to oblige. But first she pointed at him, struggling to keep her hand steady. ‘If it was you that framed me, I’m going to find out. And I’ll fight for Charlie till my dying breath.’

  Marching out, she opened the front door, slammed it shut and then rested back against it for a second, taking a welcome gulp of untainted air. But there was barely a moment to recover from the shock of that encounter before she had to consider the terrifying news from Tim Allenby.

  If Russell Pearce had murdered his wife, was it Jen who had lit the fuse?

  41

  She was back in Brighton by three thirty, and made it to the police station by ten to four. The venue this time was the main station in John Street. She’d been told to ask for DS Howard, who offered a slightly terse greeting and then escorted her to an interview room, where she was introduced to Detective Inspector Victoria Booth from the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. Booth was a bulky middle-aged woman with dark curly hair, dimpled cheeks and the voice of a forty-a-day smoker.

  ‘I’m not a great one for coincidences,’ she told Jen. ‘And to see two crimes within a couple of hundred yards of each other, to which you are, to date, the only identifiable link. . . well, that strikes me as unusual, to say the least.’

  DS Howard said, ‘I should make it clear that we don’t consider you to be a suspect for the murder – if we did, we’d have asked Mr Allenby to attend – but could you describe your movements yesterday?’

  Jen had been tense enough up to this point; now she felt a little faint. Beneath the table, she pressed her hands together, the palms damp with sweat.

  ‘I was up around seven,’ she said. ‘Had a run, a swim in the sea. Then I drove to Rye, where I wandered round the shops, went to a cafe. . .’

  Howard frowned. ‘I had the impression you didn’t drive?’

  ‘No, I do. I borrowed a car – and don’t worry, it’s got “any driver” insurance.’ She flashed a grin, and when DS Howard motioned at her to continue, said a silent thanks that she hadn’t been questioned in detail about her visit to Rye.

  ‘During the day I had several text messages from Russell Pearce. I don’t know him – or at least I didn’t, other than by sight—’

  ‘Same as with Alex Wilson?’ Howard cut in, which Jen thought was slightly malicious.

  ‘Not really, no. He came up to me in the street, one day last week, and said he’d heard about the break-in. I ended up admitting that I’d been accused of a crime, because I had the impression that he keeps a close eye on activity in the neighbourhood. I thought he might have been able to help me, perhaps if he’d seen someone behaving suspiciously. . .’

  ‘Well, we know he spent a lot of time spying on passers-by,’ said Booth, and the two detectives exchanged a regretful glance.

  Jen went on: ‘He hadn’t seen anything, but said he’d be willing to make a false statement in my defence.’

  Howard: ‘In return for. . .?’

  ‘I think you can guess. He only hinted at first, but then he started to come on stronger. Stupidly I’d given him my phone number.’ They seemed surprised by this news, which Jen found puzzling. Wouldn’t they already know?

  ‘And you declined his offer?’ Booth asked.

  ‘Absolutely. I told him I didn’t want anybody to lie for me.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Not well. Yesterday the texts became more frequent, culminating in a picture of his lower body – in his underwear, thankfully.’ She frowned. ‘I assume you’ve looked at his phone by now?’

  Howard shook her head. ‘We don’t have the phone, and we’re still waiting on data from the mobile provider to give us the numbers he called.’

  ‘Then how did you know I was connected to him?’

  ‘The pictures,’ DI Booth said flatly. ‘The pictures and the video.’

  In yet another grim echo of the previous week, Jen had the experience of feeling sick to her stomach as she watched herself on their TV screen. The footage was shaky and often focused on her body, rather than her face. She recalled now the odd way in which Pearce had been holding his phone on Friday. There were snippets of dialogue, but after filming their encounter he must have edited it until the conversation made no sense, removing any suggestion that he had offered to commit perjury for her.

  She sat there, numb with shock, as they went on to show her a selection of photographs, mostly taken at long range, of her and a number of other women walking past the house. Some dated back months,
and Charlie was visible in a few of them.

  Jen shivered. ‘I feel. . . unclean. Violated.’

  DI Booth nodded. ‘That’s exactly what this is. A violation.’

  ‘And these are only a fraction of the total,’ Howard added. ‘He captured dozens, if not hundreds of different women, and a lot of these photographs seem to have been taken at various work places over the years.’

  ‘But what’s he getting out of it? There’s nothing erotic about them, surely?’

  ‘Who knows, with men?’ Howard muttered, and Booth said, ‘These are the starting point. He doctored many of them, using Photoshop to merge the faces with images of naked women taken from porn sites.’

  Jen shut her eyes. ‘Don’t say he posted them online?’

  ‘Not as far as we can tell. They seem to have been purely for his own. . .’ The three of them grimaced in unison, and Jen waved away the need for Booth to complete her sentence.

  Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘I’d better tell you what else happened yesterday.’ She described how she’d gone to the house, only for his wife to answer the door. ‘She was friendly enough at first, until I explained why I was there. Then she started screaming, calling me a whore, and spat at me as I was leaving.’

  ‘One of their neighbours heard that exchange,’ Howard said. ‘He wasn’t able to identify you, but what he told us tallies with your account.’

  Jen nodded curtly, stung by the implication that anything she said had to be verified. She confirmed that she went straight home and was alone that night, and since then she’d had no more texts from Pearce.

  ‘Do you know when it happened?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re not able to go into detail on that,’ Howard said, stiffly.

  Booth was a little more forthcoming: ‘The body was discovered this morning by a delivery driver.’

  ‘And what about Russell? Where do you think he’s gone?’

  ‘No idea. There’s a major search under way, and of course we’re trying to trace the car, as well as any use of his phone or bank cards.’