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

by Tom Bale

  The bar was now so crowded that the dessert was served promptly – the table was wanted for a second sitting. In the melee Sam was almost impossible to spot, and the price for seeking him out was a good-natured lecture from Anna on the rules of the mating game.

  ‘I know it’s corny, and disgustingly sexist, but he has to respect you. On the other hand, foul this up and I’m gonna get his number and shag him myself.’ Anna pursed her lips. ‘He’s a meat eater, don’t you think? And that’s not a euphem—’ She let out a yelp as Jen leapt up, her chair scraping on the polished wood floor.

  ‘Get the bill, will you? I won’t be a minute.’

  Sam was heading for the exit. Just the one beer and then he was leaving – suspicious, or had someone let him down?

  As she squeezed through the crowd, she used Russell Pearce’s description to justify what might otherwise seem like an act of lunacy. A young Asian man, sufficiently well-groomed to be regarded as gay – which said more about Pearce’s preconceptions than anything else. The chunky chrome watch seemed to confirm it, or was that just more delusion on Jen’s part?

  At the door, she glanced back. Anna was lost from sight and wouldn’t know she’d left the bar. That made it a little more hazardous, perhaps.

  But Sam was nowhere to be seen. Church Road was well lit and busy with traffic; unless he’d ducked into a doorway he ought to be visible. First Avenue was a different matter: it was an extra-wide residential street that offered parking spaces on each side, as well as a double row down the centre. The pavements were punctuated with trees that threw deep shadows across the cars.

  It was a tree that had concealed him, as Jen discovered when she ran a few yards, wobbling a little because the heels made a drastic change to her usual trainers. Sam was alone, head down, walking purposefully with a phone in his hand.

  When he suddenly cut left, into the road, Jen ducked behind a parked car. She heard the soft thunk of a door opening, a louder one as it shut. Stooping to remain below the roofline of the parked vehicles, she crept closer until she caught sight of a sleek BMW saloon with two figures inside.

  One was Sam Dhillon.

  The other was Alex Wilson.

  In her shock, she almost gave herself away. Stumbling backwards, Jen rested against a van, one hand clutching her belly, breathing as if she’d just been winded by a fall.

  She heard the loud click of heels and found three young women tottering in her direction, all Kardashianed to the point where their own mothers would struggle to recognise them. ‘You all right, babes?’ one asked, and when Jen assured them that she was, they moved on, exchanging whispers that led to a burst of giggles.

  Jen didn’t care what they’d said, but she suspected their appearance would divert the attention of the men in the BMW. Ducking low, she headed back towards the bar, only checking behind her once she was sheltered by one of the trees. She could just about see the BMW. Sam was looking at the driver, whose head seemed to be cocked slightly, as if he was on the phone.

  Was it Alex Wilson? Already she was starting to doubt her own judgment. From this distance, at night, with other parked cars in the way, surely it was impossible to confirm the identity of a man she didn’t particularly know in the first place?

  She hurried on, only to hear an engine purr into life. The BMW was facing Church Road, so they’d be coming her way. Crouching down, Jen slipped off her heels and dashed back to the corner and into the bar, apologising as she shouldered past a group of people on their way out. A couple of them made rude remarks, but she ignored them, loitering by the big glass doors as the BMW reached the junction, waited a few seconds for the road to clear, then pulled out.

  Jen guessed it would go right, but in fact it performed an illegal U-turn and headed back into First Avenue, heading for the seafront. That meant there was a chance. . .

  She found Anna chatting to the waiter as he tore off the receipt from a portable card machine. Sensing her approach, Anna looked up and frowned at Jen’s agitated manner, and the shoes in her hand.

  ‘We need to go. Quickly.’

  Not waiting for a response, Jen ran out and crossed First Avenue. Fortunately, Anna’s car was parked facing the coast. Up ahead she could see brake lights flashing in the darkness at the end of the street. She was counting on the A259 being busy enough to delay the BMW for a while.

  Anna caught up with her at the car. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  Jen indicated the driver’s seat. ‘Please hurry. It’s really important.’

  ‘But you can’t—’

  ‘Give me a minute and I’ll explain. Please.’

  Grumbling to herself, Anna unlocked and got in. Jen dropped into her seat, grabbed the belt and checked over her shoulder. ‘You’re clear to pull out. Go.’

  Anna backed up sharply enough to send the parking sensors into a frenzy, then lurched out of the space. ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘We need to follow a black BMW, only it’s got a bit of a head start.’

  ‘So who’s in it – your new friend?’ Catching a nod from Jen, she said, ‘Then why don’t you phone him?’

  ‘It’s not about Sam. It’s who he’s with.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Anna thought she understood. ‘Don’t tell me it’s one of the girls from your work?’

  ‘Nothing like that. This is about Monday.’

  They were coming up to the junction; no other cars ahead of them. Jen hadn’t seen which way the BMW had turned, but left seemed the likelier option.

  Anna hit the brakes and for a moment they both stared forlornly at the coast road, traffic zipping past in both directions. Beyond the road lay Hove Lawns, sprinkled in the darkness with the glitter of mobile phones and the flicker of several barbecues. At Jen’s command, they took a left turn and drove east, towards the city centre.

  The speed limit here was thirty, but Jen urged her friend to overtake the obedient drivers and catch up with a mass of traffic now stationary at a set of red lights. She leaned forward, one hand on the dash, squinting to lessen the glare of oncoming headlights as she tried to identify a particular vehicle from the dual lines of traffic ahead.

  From here to the Old Steine there were a number of junctions in quick succession, most of them controlled by traffic lights. With a bit of aggressive driving it should be possible to make up some of the distance between them, but that depended on Anna’s cooperation.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Jen said quietly. ‘I can imagine how crazy this must seem. But it could mean the difference between life carrying on as normal for me, or being sent to prison.’

  24

  While Jen did her best to explain, she was also puzzling over the BMW’s route. Why do a U-turn to get to the coast when they could have turned right into Church Road and reached the centre that way?

  It had to be that their destination was on the seafront – either that or they were heading for a distant part of Brighton that was more easily accessible via the A259. Like Kemptown. Like Regency Place.

  Had Russell Pearce got it wrong about Wilson moving out?

  Anna, thankfully, was responding to the challenge and driving like a demon. At one point she veered into the opposite carriageway to overtake a particularly slow driver who was hogging the outside lane.

  ‘Don’t get us killed,’ Jen muttered.

  ‘Make up your mind.’ Anna nodded at the inside lane. ‘Isn’t that a BMW?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Shit.’ The car was in a line of eight or nine vehicles waiting to pull away from lights that had just turned green. The outside lane had responded more quickly, which meant Anna was coming up fast on the BMW. Four or five car lengths and they would draw alongside.

  ‘Slow down,’ Jen said.

  ‘I’m trying, but I have to keep moving – otherwise it’ll be noticed.’ Her point was emphasised by the impatient flash of headlights from the car behind.

  The inside lane sped up, only to slow again for a car turning left at the junction. Then a blinking light caught Jen’s attention. T
he BMW was indicating left.

  ‘Can you get over?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Jen checked to her left – solid traffic – but when she looked back the BMW was already pulling off the road, veering into a lay-by or slip road just ahead of the junction: Jen realised it was the entrance to a hotel.

  ‘Carry on!’ she yelled, and Anna gave a bark of sarcastic laughter.

  ‘Jesus, you’re a crap navigator.’

  Anna saw the lights changing and hit the accelerator, zipping through as they turned to red. Now there was a space, since the car travelling next to them had stopped for the lights.

  ‘We need to pull over.’

  ‘Okay.’ Anna changed lanes, then deftly swerved into a lay-by. She’d barely come to a stop when Jen opened the door.

  ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

  ‘Jen, please, it could be dangerous.’

  Anna tried to clutch her arm but Jen pulled free, her attention already switching to the junction they’d just passed. The green light for pedestrians was still lit so she ran towards the crossing, saw the light wink out but by then she was committed, sprinting across the road as a small van tried to anticipate the lights, edging forward and almost taking her out.

  Jen dodged sideways and leapt for the pavement, grateful for her decision to stay sober tonight. She felt clear-headed, fast and agile; pumped up with adrenaline and ready for anything. . . not that she had a plan, beyond seeing where the two men had gone, and hopefully determining whether the driver was Alex Wilson.

  That part turned out to be easy. The front corner of the BMW crept into view, and Jen quickly turned to a restaurant with a handful of tables outside, pretending to inspect the menu while the car nudged its way back into the flow of traffic. It rolled past, and Jen chose her moment to snatch a look at the driver’s face.

  Definitely Alex Wilson.

  She weaved around the tables and took a right into the access road, racing up the steps to the hotel entrance. Ignoring the revolving door, she pushed through the glass door next to it and slowed, knowing that she mustn’t attract too much attention, blundering barefoot and dishevelled into the lobby.

  Fortunately the hotel was quiet. Most of the sofas placed around the room were unoccupied, and a couple of staff at the reception desk were deep in conversation with a guest. There was a bar to her left, and a sign for lifts and stairs pointing straight ahead.

  Jen couldn’t see Sam in the bar, and her instinct told her that he’d make for the lifts. She crossed the lobby and turned into an alcove that housed two elevators and a door to the stairs. One of the elevators was stationary on the ground floor, the other was rising from two to three. . . and then it stopped.

  Could she get there in time? The stairwell was deserted, the dusty concrete steps functional and rarely used. Jen took them the way she might race up a scree-covered slope, her feet never making contact for more than a fraction of a second.

  She dimly heard the clunk of the lift door closing. Another five, ten seconds and she was on the third floor, pausing a moment to listen before easing the heavy fire door open. A long corridor stretched away to her left, empty and dark, while to her right there was another fire door and then what looked like a short dead-end corridor.

  Jen went that way, wincing as the door creaked. The dead end was actually a sharp right turn into another hallway with a dozen or so rooms. She peered round the corner and saw Sam Dhillon coming to a stop about halfway along. He slotted a key card into the reader, and went into the room.

  The presence of a fire extinguisher on the wall helped Jen to mark his position. As soon as the door shut she crept forward and made a note of his room number, then turned and hurried back, stepping lightly so he wouldn’t hear the vibrations through the floor.

  It was possible that this little adventure would turn out to be worthless, but right now Jen felt more energised than she had all week. After blundering in the dark for so long, now at least she knew something that they didn’t.

  The big question remained: who exactly were they?

  At the car, she found Anna in a frantic state. ‘Oh thank God, I didn’t know whether to come after you, or call the police, or what. . .’

  ‘You worry too much. Let’s go.’

  ‘Uh uh. I want to know what you’ve got yourself mixed up in.’

  ‘If I knew, I’d tell you. I mean it.’

  ‘So what just happened?’

  ‘I wanted to see where he was going, that’s all. I didn’t speak to him, and he didn’t see me.’

  ‘And I take it you won’t be setting up a date?’

  Jen shook her head, even as she had a thought, Now you mention it. . .

  On the short drive back to Kemptown, she tried to explain her theory that she was being set up. As to motive, she had absolutely no idea, and as Anna said, ‘Someone like you doesn’t have enemies.’

  ‘Mm. I can think of one or two.’

  ‘Freddie, do you mean? God, I hope not, but I suppose you’ve got to ask him.’

  At the flat, Anna declined the offer of coffee. ‘Keira’s being dropped off at seven thirty.’ She also refused to take any money for the meal. ‘This is on me, I insist. You just be careful, all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Jen could laugh off her concern as they kissed goodbye, but when she climbed the stairs to her flat, the fears began to crowd in.

  A few weeks ago, Sam Dhillon had tried to chat her up in a bar. Now she knew he was an associate of the man whose property she was accused of damaging. How could that be anything but an indication of a conspiracy against her?

  Once in the flat, with the security bolt slid home, she put the kettle on and took out her phone, then found the card Sam had given her. As with the first one, it said simply, Sam Dhillon, Consultant, and listed a mobile phone number. No website or address, and no clue as to what he might be consulted on.

  It’s fake. Created just to lure me in.

  She grinned: now that did sound paranoid. But before this bold mood could desert her, she keyed in his number and made the call.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice wasn’t as warm as in the bar; he sounded cautious, even slightly irritated.

  ‘Oh, hi. This is. . . it’s Jen, from earlier.’ She didn’t have to fake the nervousness, though she allowed her voice to slur very slightly, as if the call was the product of some Dutch courage.

  ‘Jen? Hello! I’ll be honest and say I didn’t expect you to get in touch this soon – if at all.’

  She tried to laugh. ‘Well, no time like the present. I, er, wondered about meeting for coffee. Are you around tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Um, let me see. . .’

  She cut in: ‘I don’t have a lot of time free, so I was thinking quite early. Ten o’clock?’ Too much later and her plan might not work.

  ‘Well, okay.’ He sounded disconcerted. ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  ‘There’s a cafe in Hove Museum, on New Church Road. Do you know it?’

  ‘I can find it. Ten tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  She went to end the call but heard him say, ‘Can I ask what changed your mind?’

  Jen shut her eyes for a second, then forced herself to grin, knowing he would hear it in her voice.

  ‘My friend. She thought I was mad to ignore you last time, and said if I didn’t call you, she’d ask you out herself.’

  Like all the best lies, it had its basis in truth, and she could hear Sam chuckling as she cut the connection.

  Tomorrow, she thought, with a tingle of excitement.

  The hunt was on.

  25

  On Friday morning she was on the seafront more than an hour before their proposed meeting. Ideally she needed to see Dhillon leave the hotel, though if he had other things to do and had already gone out, she was screwed.

  It was another sunny day, but the wind was sharper: the perfect excuse for Jen to wear jeans and a thin fleece over her T-shirt; she also had a plain bla
ck baseball cap in her pocket, and a pair of sunglasses.

  At the aquarium she crossed onto the promenade and jogged along the lower level until she reached the steps by the children’s paddling pool. Donning the cap and glasses, she climbed the steps to the pavement and found that one of the city’s historic Victorian shelters offered plenty of concealment, as well as a good view of the hotel entrance.

  Sam Dhillon emerged at about twenty to ten, by which point she’d watched Brighton’s newest landmark, the i360, transform itself from chimney to tourist attraction and back to chimney, and her brain felt deadened by the constant drone of traffic and squawk of seagulls.

  Now, with a jolt of energy, she stood up and watched Dhillon make for the cab that had turned into the access road. He was in a different suit, and carrying a slim leather satchel that might contain something essential to his career, but equally could be a clever prop, to persuade her that he was a thriving, in-demand consultant.

  The fact that he’d taken a cab was a nuisance. She hadn’t wanted to suggest a rendezvous too far away, in case it struck him as suspicious, but Hove Museum now felt alarmingly close. If he changed his mind he could be back here within minutes.

  Once the taxi was out of sight, Jen crossed the road and strode into the hotel, removing her sunglasses but not the cap. She went straight to the elevators and ascended to the third floor, using the few seconds of privacy to rub her eyes until they watered.

  The left-hand corridor was empty but the distant whine of a vacuum cleaner brought a smile. Jen pushed through the fire door, turned the corner and saw light spilling from a doorway at the far end of the corridor. At room 318 she paused and listened, then lifted her phone and started to speak as she ambled towards the open door.

  ‘No, you must have taken them both. Darling, I’m serious. What am I meant to do?’ Plenty of suppressed emotion in her voice, as if tears weren’t too far away. ‘I know you can’t come back, but I need to pick up the. . .’ Tailing off as she reached the doorway and saw the cleaner, who caught the movement and cut off the vacuum cleaner.