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

by Tom Bale

  She trawled her memory for his surname, but wasn’t sure if it had ever registered; apart from the initial questionnaire at the climbing centre, he wouldn’t have been required to provide any more paperwork, and although he’d signed in and out of each session, Jen had never had any reason to check his name.

  It couldn’t be ruled out that Dhillon had doodled on a random sheet of paper, but her instincts told her this document held some kind of significance. And if they already knew that she was fighting back, she didn’t have much to lose by contacting SilverSquare.

  She found an email address for the MD, Oldroyd, and sent a brief message, apologising for the mysterious nature of her enquiry and asking if the business had any connections to an Alex Wilson or a Sam Dhillon. After deliberating over the potential risks, she took the decision to attach a copy of the photographed document.

  It felt like the longest of long shots – and there was a good chance that her email would be seen as coming from a crank, and immediately deleted – but at least this felt better than doing nothing.

  By seven thirty there was still no reply from Freddie. Checking the time difference with Crete, she realised that Charlie might well be in bed, even allowing for the customary lack of rules when he stayed with his dad.

  She’d been tempted to pop out for an evening swim, but the wind looked to have strengthened, and there was some cloud in the sky. This, she told herself, was the only reason for staying home – not the fear that a black BMW would follow her to the beach.

  Even while cursing her own lack of willpower, she sent Freddie an email, suggesting they Skype tomorrow instead, and asking whether Charlie was eating healthily and not getting too much sun. She was cooking herself an omelette using leftovers from the fridge when it occurred to her that Freddie might have gone quiet because Charlie had told him about her encounter with the police.

  Jen had ruled out trying to coach her son to say nothing. As well as being grossly unfair on him, it would almost certainly have backfired. On several occasions Charlie had let slip something about one of his dad’s girlfriends when it was clear he’d been sworn to silence. But the next time she spoke to Freddie, she might have to brace herself for some difficult questions.

  And how Gerard will crow, when it all comes out. . .

  Since talking to her dad, she’d been retreating from the idea that Freddie or his father was responsible for trying to frame her. It wasn’t a question of evidence, or even a gut feeling; just a yearning desire to believe that no blood relation of Charlie’s could stoop so low.

  Freddie emailed back an hour later, claiming the phone signal was too weak to call or text, and they were also having problems with the Wi-Fi. He would have been happy to Skype but Charlie was now fast asleep after a long day exploring the Lasithi Plateau in a dune buggy.

  At this, Jen started to fume, until she read on: Don’t worry, I made sure he was SAFE! And C sends big love to his mama xx-xx

  That sign-off was what Freddie had used with her in the early days – the best days – and Jen, for a moment, felt absurdly moved. It was probably there by accident, a little leftover muscle memory, but still.

  With a rare warm glow, she went back to him, reiterating that it would be great to Skype tomorrow. Freddie’s reply was immediate, and blunt: Can’t tomorrow. Off on boat trip early till late. Maybe Sunday?

  So much for lingering affection. It was difficult not to respond in kind: Make sure Charlie takes his travel sickness medicine. And don’t forget that he MUST be home Wednesday afternoon at the very latest!

  She wanted to remind her ex-husband that the real world of duty and responsibility hadn’t gone away, but she regretted it at once. Sometimes even she got bored laying down the rules.

  She interpreted the silence that followed as a sulk. Finally, another email: You didn’t tell me he’s wetting the fucking bed again. Her reply was a desperate plea to show understanding, not snap or do anything to increase the stress Charlie would be experiencing. It came as no surprise that Freddie didn’t answer.

  And that should have been it. She was tired, couldn’t take any enjoyment from TV or concentrate on the book she was reading. But instead of going to sleep, she drew her legs up on the sofa, placed the laptop on her knees and scrolled through Facebook until she found – just as she knew she would, because she always did – something that upset her.

  Why couldn’t she learn?

  The picture had been taken by a girl called Ella. No one Jen knew. But her profile was completely public, and she’d tagged Freddie, who had ignored countless warnings by Jen to tighten up his online security.

  She suspected it was deliberate: he wanted her to see his many conquests. Though Jen didn’t have to go looking, did she?

  It was a selfie, Freddie’s lightly sunburned cheek pressed to Ella’s tender baby face. She looked about seventeen, though the profile information suggested she was twenty-two, a graduate who now worked as a promoter at a seafront bar in Brighton. Still too young, if Jen wanted to take a severe view – which at this time of the night, in this mood, she most certainly did.

  Ella had rich dark hair and big blue eyes and a slightly lolling mouth, which in Jen’s view made her look a bit stupid. Freddie no doubt saw it differently. The picture had been taken earlier that day, perhaps at the villa; in the background there were marble floors and cane furniture, plump cushions and a few toy cars.

  And Charlie.

  He was only partially visible, sitting some way behind them. An iPad rested in his lap, and he looked to be hunched over it, a pose that spoke to Jen of profound isolation and unhappiness. Even while she cautioned herself not to read too much into it, she felt her heart breaking. This was the future for Charlie, once Jen was behind bars: the poor boy neglected while Freddie threw back the tequila and smoked weed and fucked teenagers. And there wouldn’t be a thing that Jen could do to protect her son.

  She knew she was probably overreacting, so she took her sorry self off to bed and promised that tomorrow would be a saner, fresher start. No more negativity. No more paranoia.

  The artwork, she was thinking as she fell asleep. Find the artist. Let Elen be your guide.

  31

  Saturday was bright but blustery, with fluffy clouds scudding across the sky and the sea pitching luminous green rollers towards the shore. The new, non-paranoid Jen survived a brisk walk into the city and saw nothing that gave her cause for alarm. No BMW or X-Trail or Subaru. No suspicious characters trailing after her.

  She spent the morning on a trawl through the gift shops, galleries and antique stores of Brighton. Her quest took her from St James Street across to North Laine, up to Western Road and into Hove, then back to the tourist-crammed Lanes and finally out to the shore and the smart new retail space in the refurbished arches close to the i360. In some places she was in and out within seconds; other times she lingered, lost in the pleasure of idle browsing and all too eager to forget that her search had a serious purpose.

  Where possible she chatted to the staff. Some were artists themselves; most were experts as well as warm enthusiasts for their trade, but none seemed to be familiar with the type of figurine she was talking about.

  It was going to be another dead end, just like the search of Sam Dhillon’s hotel room. That, and the fact that the MD of SilverSquare hadn’t replied to her email, caused her spirits to sag.

  And it wasn’t just that. Despite this boat trip, she’d clung to the hope that Charlie would find a way to get in touch, but she’d had nothing from him. The single bright spot was a lovely message from her father, pledging his love and support.

  There were also a couple of texts from Nick, wanting to know if she felt better, and dropping a not too subtle hint that he was available later if she wanted to ‘hook up’.

  Then: a breakthrough of sorts. In a tiny, cavern-like space underneath the coast road, a thin, stooped man with bright white hair thought he knew the sort of thing she was describing. ‘That style, anyway, if not the subject matter
.’ He couldn’t recall the identity of the artist, ‘but I do have an acquaintance who might know. Give me your number and I shall have a word.’

  Jen, always reluctant to pass her number to strangers, decided that the circumstances demanded it. Leaving the gallery, she realised it was almost three o’clock, and she’d had nothing to eat all day. She found a cafe on the promenade, ordered a panini and while waiting for it to arrive, once again fell prey to the lure of Facebook.

  A new update from Ella. A selfie-stick job, or perhaps taken by somebody else. Freddie? She was lying on the deck of what might have been a private yacht, wearing the skimpiest of bikini bottoms, with only a golden brown forearm to cover her boobs from the world.

  You’d better not be topless in front of my son. Jen realised she was gritting her teeth. It was hard enough keeping Charlie away from the overt sexualisation on TV, from ghastly online porn, without having to worry about one of Freddie’s starlets parading themselves in front of a seven-year-old.

  The tears came without warning. She recognised that she was grieving, in a fashion, for the fact that she was losing Charlie, bit by bit: losing him to Freddie, losing him to the big bad world in which he would one day have to find his own space. A grim reminder, also, that she had lost Freddie, and despite all the damage inflicted by the divorce, it still hurt to see him with other women.

  She felt like a screw-up. Even her own mother had no idea how to relate to her. Had they really got on fine before Tilgate? Her recollection was that the twins had gobbled up every scrap of Mum’s time and attention, leaving practically nothing for Jen.

  And be honest, you ran away to hurt your sisters, too. You wanted to punish them all, for not understanding you. . .

  Disgusted with herself – so much for no more negativity – she glanced up and there he was: Alex Wilson, leering at her through the cafe’s picture window.

  Jen flinched. Rocked back in her seat and nearly overbalanced. She glanced round, wondering if she would need to ask for help or find an escape route, and when she looked back he had gone.

  A woman with a buggy strolled past, then an elderly couple. The cafe’s other customers were still chatting, eating, reading: life on a lazy Saturday.

  Had she imagined it?

  She felt bile rising. Her appetite forgotten, she hurried out and scanned the holiday crowds, but of course Wilson had vanished. All part of the plan to mess with her head.

  The knowledge that they were out there, watching, following, made her feel like a caged animal. As she crossed the road and walked briskly along East Street, she became aware that her chest felt constricted. Her whole body broke out in a cold sweat and her vision went crazed, the world shifting beneath her, all sound dulled to a maddening insect drone.

  She stumbled, groping for the welcoming shadows of a doorway between two shops, only to collapse onto the cold concrete step. The street was seething with people, their bodies strobing the sunlight as they flashed past. Jen was vaguely aware of muttered comments, snorts of laughter or pity, and then someone was shouldering his way through.

  Wilson had followed; he was coming for her—

  ‘Hey, you okay?’ A stranger crouched before her, gently touching her arm. His voice was deep and comforting, and he carried with him a rich peaty smell that brought to mind a forest floor. He’s the Green Man.

  Jen rubbed her eyes, blinked a few times and saw he was a young homeless guy, his possessions bundled up in a doorway opposite. A small black dog was sitting on his bedroll, observing her with a steadfast gaze.

  ‘I’m okay. Just a dizzy spell.’

  ‘Sure?’ He helped her to sit up, and after watching to see that she wasn’t about to pass out again, hurried into the shop next door and returned with a glass of cold water. ‘They know me there. They’re good people.’

  And so are you, she thought. It made a welcome change from all the suspicion and paranoia. There are good people in the world. . .

  Thanking him, she drank gratefully. He stood by as she got to her feet, then he must have sensed the sudden awkwardness, a hand moving reflexively to her pocket. You wouldn’t normally offer money to somebody who’d helped you in the street, but knowing he was homeless. . .

  ‘Now take care, all right?’ he said, and was gone before she could say a word.

  She walked slowly to her bus stop in North Street, resolving to come past another time and drop some money into his hat. While waiting for the bus, she received a text from the white-haired gent at the gallery. His friend thought the artist was a woman called Kitty something, no other details, but a gallery in the town of Rye had exhibited her work and might know more. He’d provided the gallery’s name and a website address. Best of luck! the message ended.

  This isn’t over, she thought. I’m not beaten yet.

  32

  The drive to Rye was a slow one – fifty miles on single-lane roads choked with holidaymakers and Sunday drivers. Jen wasn’t in any great hurry, but she could have done without so much time to think.

  Yesterday’s collapse had left its mark. She’d experienced something close to a panic attack once or twice before, but never with such intensity. The lack of food and water probably hadn’t helped, but it emphasised the damage this was doing, to live in a permanent state of fear and confusion. How much longer before it broke her?

  A dull, unhappy evening had segued into a night of troubled sleep. In the worst of her nightmares she’d been back in the forest, hiding from a malevolent search party led by Alex Wilson and Sam Dhillon. Behind them, skulking in the shadows, was a man who seemed to be the sort of strange amalgam that only happens in dreams: DeanRussellNick. When they passed her hiding place, she had felt relief – but then she heard Charlie’s screams. It was her son they wanted, and when she tried to pursue them her legs became as heavy as stone and the tree branches fell across her path like bars.

  You’ll never see him again.

  She’d woken in a cold sweat, and was out of bed soon after six. She forced herself to go for a run, then took a quick swim in the sea. There was a spike of panic when, from the water, she saw a man who resembled Alex Wilson, strolling along the beach in her direction. But it turned out to be a false alarm.

  Back at the flat, she was intercepted by Bridie Martin. ‘I had the police round Friday, asking about you. They wouldn’t tell me why, but I said you didn’t strike me as the criminal type. Of course, I don’t know you that well, do I?’

  ‘No,’ Jen wryly agreed.

  ‘But I was home all day on Monday, when it happened – whatever it was. They asked if I’d seen you, and I said you’d come home in the evening, normal time, with Charlie. But I’d also heard you earlier in the day, when you came back and then left again.’

  Jen frowned, recalling Bridie’s confusion on Monday. ‘But I didn’t, Bridie. I was at work.’

  ‘Who was it, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone coming in or out of the building?’

  ‘Only whatshername, from the ground floor.’ She fretted for a moment. ‘I suppose it could have been Simon? Though he still hasn’t looked at my radiator, and that’s three times I’ve called them.’

  Simon was the maintenance man, employed by the managing agents. He’d have good reason to sneak into the building without being harangued by Bridie, though Jen thought it more likely that it had been an intruder, planting the figurine for the police to find. If Bridie had spotted him, it might have helped to clear Jen’s name.

  But mentioning that now would only scare the wits out of her neighbour. She agreed that it was probably Simon, and they parted on friendly terms.

  By the time she left for Rye there was still no word from Charlie. Even Ella hadn’t posted on social media since yesterday morning. Now, every glimpse of the sea on her journey east brought forth lurid and irrational fears: the boat had capsized or been swept off course in a sudden storm; a devastating fire on board had caused it to sink. If it was a private yacht, how long before
anybody raised the alarm?

  You’ll never see him again.

  It was her first visit to Rye, and nothing about the outskirts of the town explained why it was supposedly a magnet for tourists. The traffic around the modest ring road was snarled up, the fine weather drawing dozens of pedestrians in an almost continuous stream across the road. Freddie’s trusty satnav took her to a busy car park in Rope Walk, where she eased the Audi into one of the last remaining spaces.

  The gallery was located on the High Street, about halfway up the hill on which the historic town was situated. She’d decided to visit in person after browsing the website. Although she had found a phone number, her call had gone straight to a recorded message, informing callers of the opening hours.

  The other factor that had prompted her decision to visit was an image on the website of a wire and glass figurine – a sinuous representation of a deer. The artist’s name wasn’t included, but Jen felt sure it was the same person who had created the pieces in Alex Wilson’s home.

  As she walked up the hill, she checked her phone. She’d texted Freddie and had nothing. She was about to try again when a new message popped up, from a number that wasn’t in her address book.

  Have you thought about my proposal? It’s more than fair. Could be a lot of fun too! R xx

  She puzzled over it for a moment before it clicked: Russell Pearce. With a shudder of revulsion, she went to delete the text, then decided to keep it for now, in case he gave her any more trouble. There was no way she would be replying, let alone taking up his offer. Creep.

  Despite its advertised opening hours, the gallery was shut. Jen peered through the glass at the gloomy interior, and immediately spotted another piece of artwork in the distinctive style: this one of a pair of hares fighting. She felt that she was agonisingly close to a breakthrough, but only if the gallery opened for business. If it didn’t, her journey had been wasted.