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

by Tom Bale

  Jen followed him through an open-plan office with a dozen or so desks, about half of which were occupied. The majority of the staff seemed to be in their twenties or thirties, all dressed in casual clothes – including board shorts – and most too intent on their work to spare them a glance.

  Oldroyd took her to a small meeting room with a round table and four chairs. A coffee machine and a water cooler sat against the wall, and she gratefully accepted an offer of cold water.

  There was an iPad on the table, which he moved aside. Beneath it lay a copy of the document she had sent him. Sitting with his right leg stretched out to the side, he tapped the paper and said, ‘If you don’t mind, could we start with this, and how it came into your possession?’

  She had already formed the opinion that this man was trustworthy, so she began with the frank admission that she was being framed. In an attempt to clear her name, she’d followed one of the men whom she believed was responsible for her plight, and had managed to photograph a document in his possession.

  ‘I don’t know for sure that he or his associate wrote those notes, but if I can find out what it means, it might give me a clue as to who they are.’ She set out her theory that one pair of initials could relate to staff at SilverSquare. Oldroyd thought the same, though the other pair didn’t correspond to anyone he employed.

  ‘I also wondered if “DD” means due diligence?’

  ‘It does. The twenty-fourth of September is the agreed completion date.’ His lips compressed into a tight white line as he looked her in the eye. ‘Which is a closely guarded secret, known only to the directors here, and a handful of the senior staff and their representatives at the company who are in talks to acquire our business.’

  Jen whistled. ‘That’s why you were so cross in the email.’

  ‘Yes – apologies for that. But how this Mr Dhillon came by the information, I would dearly love to know.’ He tapped the paper again. ‘And the reference to key man insurance – very troubling.’

  He asked how, exactly, she was being framed, so she gave him the whole story. Oldroyd listened attentively, occasionally flexing his right thigh and adjusting the prosthetic. By the time she’d finished his face was grave, and she had the distinct impression that he’d reached a conclusion about something. She was expecting any number of questions, but not the one he asked.

  ‘How much do you know about corporate espionage?’

  38

  By way of background, he explained that it had become all too commonplace for businesses to spy on their rivals, employing specialist firms whose staff were often drawn from the security services, military and police.

  ‘I’ve heard people in the UK deluding themselves that it’s only a problem with Russians, Chinese, some of the Middle East, but I don’t subscribe to that. In today’s world, you’re hunting for anything that can give you a competitive advantage – and for many, it doesn’t matter how dubious or downright illegal it is.’

  His concern had been prompted by an earlier approach, from one of the biggest players in their sector, which had been rejected. ‘Their philosophy and ethics were completely at odds with ours. They’re a bunch of raptors, basically. Now we’re set for a merger – okay, a takeover, in effect – by one of their closest competitors. A lot of analysts think that acquiring our expertise will give them the edge over the raptors. It’s been worrying me from the start that these buggers would love to sabotage the deal, if they could.’

  ‘Have they tried?’

  ‘I’ve not seen any evidence – until this.’ He pointed to one pair of initials. ‘I’ve had my IT guys looking through our systems. I’m confident that we’re about as watertight as you can ever be, in terms of hackers and the like, but this document indicates that some sort of operation is under way, to be completed before the twenty-fourth.’

  ‘So you think Dhillon and Wilson might work in corporate espionage?’

  He nodded. ‘Obviously you’re an individual rather than a business, but their MO with you looks to be the same – as is the objective, I imagine? Somebody sees you as competition, and they want you out of the way.’

  Jen thought about it. ‘That answers the question about why they would be doing these things to me, when I’ve never done anything to harm them. I can’t say Wilson looks much like a spy, though.’

  He gave a dry chuckle. ‘In real life they don’t tend to resemble Daniel Craig. This chap probably shifted paper around for twenty years, then saw a chance to make a lot more money, and all he had to do was check his conscience at the door.’

  ‘But I still have the problem of who hired them.’ She’d already referred to her messy divorce, and now described how Freddie had seemed genuinely shocked by the news of her arrest. ‘But I’m still bothered by something my father-in-law said.’

  Oldroyd grunted. ‘This is Freddie’s old man? What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a journalist and broadcaster.’ Jen answered reluctantly, unsure whether it was wise to be quite so candid. ‘Gerard Lynch.’

  Oldroyd rocked back and nearly fell off his chair. ‘You mean the professional loudmouth?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘And is he as big a twazzock in real life? I can only tolerate him on Have I Got News For You because Merton and Hislop take the piss out of him.’

  ‘He claims they’re all best buddies off camera, but I don’t believe that. Though he’s always bragging that Private Eye wouldn’t dare take a pop at him.’

  Oldroyd’s wistful smile faded. ‘That newspaper column of his? They were handing the paper out on a flight I took a while back, and he was spouting the usual tosh about politics, and Europe, and immigration. What stuck with me is how he insisted that winning is everything. Forget fairness, rules, morality – just win. Win at all costs. And if that truly is his overriding philosophy. . .’ He nodded at the document. ‘You certainly can’t rule him out.’

  Before they could discuss it further, a thickset Chinese man in a ‘Ready Player One’ T-shirt tapped on the open door and said, ‘Jon. Something you need to see.’

  With an apology, Oldroyd grabbed his stick, planted his left foot and heaved himself upright. He made it seem natural that his motion caused him to turn away from the door, but Jen caught his face creasing with pain and realised the manoeuvre was intended to hide that reaction from his colleague.

  In his absence, Jen sent her dad a quick hello and a reminder – Eat healthily, or at least just eat! – then opened the Kindle app on her phone and read a couple of per cent of a thriller that someone at work had recommended.

  Ten or fifteen minutes passed. She read through a cliffhanger chapter end and coasted onto a plateau, but the drama in her own life was scratching away at her concentration.

  From where she was sitting, she had a limited view of the office. She could hear the insect-like chatter of skilful fingers on expensive keyboards, the hum of the CPU fans; occasionally a laugh or murmur of conversation.

  Bored, and growing restless, she topped up her water and gazed idly at a notice board next to the drinks machines. Along with some health and safety stuff, and flyers for pizza delivery and an upcoming comedy gig, there were a handful of photos taken from a work night out. Shot glasses featured prominently. Oldroyd and the Chinese man seemed to be letting their hair down as much as their younger staff, some of whom looked to be shedding clothes and inhibitions as the night wore on.

  Hearing the clonk of the walking stick, she darted for her seat, as if Oldroyd might accuse her of spying if he caught her standing up. Coldness flooded her body. It felt like another panic attack coming on, a fight or flight response. But she didn’t have anything to fear from Oldroyd. . . did she?

  He came in, moving faster than before, as though the discomfort was no longer relevant. The Chinese man followed, along with a tall black woman who was whispering anxiously into her phone. She ended the call just as Oldroyd introduced her as Cara, and the man as Keng. ‘They’re our IT whizz-kids, and what they tell me is
that we have a big, big problem.’

  The background: SilverSquare’s business was naturally subject to an immense amount of secrecy. Most of their work came from multinational firms who tasked them with creating prototypes of new products. Because of the vulnerabilities inherent in network computers, their policy was to use standalone devices for their design work – that is, not connected to the internet in any way whatsoever. They used iPads, Macbooks and the like for everything else, but sterile computers – or CAD workstations, as Oldroyd called them – for design.

  ‘Paul Keegan is our creative director, someone who absolutely would be identified as a “key man” by anybody who targeted our business.’ Oldroyd glanced at his colleagues. ‘And we’ve just found a cache of child porn on his computer.’

  ‘A computer with no internet access?’ Jen wanted to be sure she understood.

  ‘That’s right,’ Keng said. ‘It’s a large collection of images and videos, but they weren’t amassed over time, as you might expect. Looks more like they were gathered and placed in a particular software program, then somehow loaded onto the computer—’

  ‘Via a flash drive,’ Cara said.

  ‘The program is a Trojan,’ Keng continued. ‘We haven’t yet completed the analysis—’

  ‘I have,’ Cara said.

  ‘But it seems to be designed to give the impression that certain files are being accessed, usually early in the morning or late in the day—’

  ‘No, there’s a trigger.’

  With a wry smile, Oldroyd explained the conflict: ‘I always set the two of them to look into problems individually at first. A spot of competition brings out the best in people.’

  Grinning, Cara swiped her tongue across her teeth. ‘It’s the sudoku-type game that Maisie worked on a couple of years ago. Whenever he stops to play that, the log will record that he also spent some time viewing the, uh, material.’

  ‘Which, from the one or two things I just saw, is truly appalling,’ Oldroyd said with feeling.

  ‘But he doesn’t actually view it?’

  ‘No,’ Cara answered confidently. ‘I sit close enough to see his screen. So do a couple of others.’

  ‘But would a court accept that?’ Keng put in. ‘Or would they be swayed by the police’s forensic expert? Usually some poor guy under huge pressure of work, and therefore inclined to go for the evidence at face value.’

  Cara shrugged. ‘To make it worse, I think there’s an end date, when the program will load the images into a public folder, before converting itself into an innocuous software enhancement.’

  ‘A kind of logic bomb,’ Keng said. ‘And when it explodes, it takes the user’s career with it.’

  ‘Some time before the twenty-fourth of September,’ Oldroyd said. ‘But the computer has sophisticated encryption to prevent unauthorised access, so this thing had to have been introduced during working hours, while Paul was logged on.’

  Keng said, ‘Outside chance, a cleaner, or a contractor. But most likely. . .’

  ‘An employee,’ Jen said, her gaze turning to the notice board. She realised now that her sense of panic had been triggered by something in those photos, but she wasn’t sure what.

  She got up and peered closely at the pictures, and it happened again: an association with her own workplace. The climbing wall. . .

  ‘Jennifer?’ Oldroyd sounded baffled by her fascination with the images.

  Then she saw it: a group shot of seven people, arm in arm, hair wet with perspiration, eyes shut or out of focus. . . and beside them the eighth person, who’d clearly been dragged into the group but was wriggling free, turning away and almost hidden from sight at the moment the image was captured.

  It was the woman who’d come to the Skyway with Dean.

  39

  Jen removed the photograph and brought it back to the table. ‘This woman here was at the climbing centre where I work, along with a man called Dean, who I think is connected to Wilson and Dhillon.’

  Oldroyd peered at the picture. ‘I’m not absolutely sure who that is. Cara?’

  The IT specialist studied it carefully. ‘The angle’s not great – looks like she was trying to avoid being photographed. Her name’s Yasmin, and she started around April or May. An admin assistant. After a couple of months she said her boyfriend had got a job in New Zealand and she’d decided to go with him.’

  ‘So she was employed on a permanent contract?’ Oldroyd queried. He explained to Jen: ‘We keep temporary staff to a minimum, to avoid just this sort of risk.’

  ‘She must have survived the initial vetting,’ Cara said. ‘But then it’s a relatively low level role.’

  ‘And no alarm bells when she upped and left?’ Oldroyd sounded exasperated.

  Keng scratched his chin. ‘Jon, I don’t think there are many organisations more vigilant than us. The truth is, you can never be a hundred per cent secure.’

  Still glowering, Oldroyd sent them off to continue the task of identifying and minimising the fallout from this discovery, then said to Jen, ‘I don’t see that they have to know the details of your own problem.’

  ‘I appreciate that. Thanks.’

  ‘In view of the nature of what’s been found, we’ll have little option but to involve the police – and of course that means explaining how we were alerted to the matter.’

  Jen hadn’t thought that far ahead, but she immediately agreed. If that led to some awkward questions, so be it.

  Oldroyd wanted to know if there was anything else she could tell him about the woman.

  ‘Not really. She only came to the climbing centre a few times. But that’s still too much of a coincidence for me.’

  ‘And me.’ They agreed to keep each other updated, and then he led her back to the stairs, held the door with his elbow and gave her a farewell peck on the cheek.

  ‘You’ve shown a lot of courage in choosing to pursue this, but please take a word of warning from somebody who knows. Never underestimate your enemy’s capacity for cruelty.’

  Good advice, Jen thought as she walked back to the tube station on Kensington High Street. If she were to abide by it, she’d probably jump on a train to Brighton and hole up in her flat until either Wilson or the police made their next move.

  Could she do that?

  She studied the network map. The underground was hot, noisy, crowded and unwelcoming: for those reasons alone it was tempting to flee the city – and yet, knowing he was only a couple of miles away. . .

  Jen took the Circle line to Edgware Road, then switched to the Hammersmith line and emerged at Euston Square, blinking owlishly in the harsh sunlight. Someone walked past munching on a burger, and her stomach gave an envious growl. She made a detour to a Sainsbury’s Local, bought a sandwich and ate it as she walked the short distance to Gordon Square.

  Gerard’s London home was in a row of Grade II-listed Georgian properties, a seven-bedroom mansion over six floors. It looked like the natural residence of the wealthy upper classes, though Gerard didn’t quite fit the bill in that respect. His family hailed from Manchester, his father a working-class success story – jobbing builder to millionaire property developer after twenty years of hard graft, aggressive self-promotion and suspiciously good fortune, almost certainly the result of regular backhanders.

  Both of Gerard’s grandfathers had worked down the mines, and Gerard wasn’t averse to appropriating their hardship as if it were his own experience, even though he’d been privately educated at great expense and had never dirtied his hands with anything more perilous than newspaper ink.

  She had no idea if he was home today, and couldn’t quite decide if she wanted him to be or not. She gave a start when his voice barked through the intercom: ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Jen Cornish,’ she said, and she could almost feel a reciprocal shockwave vibrating through the tiny speaker.

  A second or two of silence, and then: ‘Wait there.’

  Jen stood rigidly, hands curled into fists. She took several deep brea
ths, like a swimmer about to dive into murky water. There was so much resting on the next few minutes – and a lot of it depended on what she said, on how forcefully she could direct the conversation.

  When she heard the door unlocking, she couldn’t prevent a quick, fearful glance over her shoulder, as if she might not be seeing daylight again for a while. Or maybe that she wouldn’t be quite the same person when she came out.

  Gerard opened the door himself – presumably the housekeeper had the day off. He was dressed in what looked like tartan pyjama trousers and a thin V-neck sweater with nothing underneath it. White hairs sprouted over the edge of the sweater, and a St Christopher’s pendant rested between his moobs.

  ‘Why are you here?’ He bared his fangs at her, making no move to invite her inside.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘About?’

  She studied him closely – surely he would know what she meant, if he was implicated? – but his heavy-lidded disdain gave nothing away. With a sigh, he simply turned and padded, barefoot, along the hall. Taking that as a signal to follow, Jen stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind her.

  ‘Is Deborah here?’ She’d been wondering if this was going to be her opportunity to meet Gerard’s third wife. They’d married last year after a brief but very public romance, which came to light when the paparazzi caught him with his tongue down her throat on a Caribbean beach. At that time she had still been married to her first husband, a minor TV personality who ended up in the Priory, broken by the media’s delight in his humiliation. Jen suspected that Gerard had tipped off the photographers himself.