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

by Tom Bale

  Jen said, ‘I could text him, if you wanted, in the hope of drawing him out?’

  Booth smiled. ‘Thank you, but the phone’s switched off. I bet he knows we can track the signal, even if he doesn’t use it.’

  ‘Can you?’ Jen asked in surprise. ‘If technology’s that clever, I wish you could find out who really destroyed Alex Wilson’s artwork.’

  Howard gave her a chilly smile. ‘That’s a subject for another time.’

  ‘I mean it. Did you ever find out why Wilson had all that stuff? I don’t think he is a retailer, or even associated with the arts at all. In fact. . .’ Jen hesitated, then decided to press on. ‘I suspect he works for a firm that carries out industrial espionage.’

  Booth nodded, as if humouring a lunatic. ‘I think we’re done here for now. We’ll need to take a full statement later, and somebody will be in touch about that.’

  ‘It’s not a crime to collect art,’ Howard said quietly.

  Jen’s temper flared. ‘But he wasn’t a collector! Do you know he’s moved out of that house – only a couple of days after it happened? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’

  ‘Breaching the terms of police bail is a serious issue,’ Howard said sternly. ‘I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that it hasn’t happened.’

  DI Booth looked bemused. ‘Even more serious is the possibility that Russell Pearce has developed a fixation on you. From experience, I’d say he won’t remain a fugitive for long, but until he’s found, you need to be vigilant. We’ll have a strong presence in the area for the next few days, and regular patrols for a while after that.’

  Howard nodded. ‘If he gets in touch, or you have any concerns, call me immediately, day or night.’

  I don’t think so, Jen thought, then realised she was being petulant. These detectives were clearly concerned that Pearce might try something – in which case, she needed to be just as worried.

  42

  Jen walked home from the police station, trying to keep a watchful eye on her surroundings while also heavily preoccupied.

  From her visit to Jonathan Oldroyd she had more circumstantial evidence that these people worked as a team, with a mission to bring chaos and destroy innocent lives. Then there was Russell Pearce, a man she’d dismissed too readily as a creep, never dreaming he might be capable of murder.

  And finally, her father-in-law, whose illustration of his own depravity had convinced her that he was capable of anything.

  To her mind, he’d as good as admitted he was responsible for her persecution, but ‘as good as’ wasn’t something she could take to the police. And his reference to the guest list at his wedding – the cabinet ministers and the rest of them – was all too easy to interpret as a warning: These are my people. They’ll always take my side, not yours.

  She’d warned him that she would find out if he was involved, but wasn’t that just bravado? She didn’t have a clue how to go about it.

  As she came into sight of her building, she caught movement by the entrance: someone sitting or crouching on the step. She felt her heart race, DI Booth’s warning still ringing in her ears.

  The figure rose, his face hidden by a splash of colour. Flowers?

  It was Nick, a bouquet in one hand, offering a tentative smile. She scowled, hurrying towards him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He flinched at her abrupt tone. ‘Just passing.’

  ‘I’ve been out all day.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I figured you’d be home eventually.’

  ‘Nick, how long have you been waiting?’

  He shrugged, and checked his Fitbit. ‘About an hour. Nice evening for it, enjoying the fresh air.’

  Jen wasn’t buying the casual act. She studied him carefully. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Funny question to ask me – you’re the one that’s acting weird.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, hanging round here like a lovesick schoolboy. What’s the idea? Have you been trying to scare me, so I’d run to you for help?’

  Nick took a couple of backward steps, as if buffeted by her accusations. His face was bright red.

  ‘Christ, Jen. Talking about help, maybe you ought to be seeing a shrink?’ He raised the flowers like a shield, perhaps because of the tears in his eyes. ‘I came round because you didn’t reply to my text, and last time we spoke you were really stressed out. And yeah, I wanted to help – is that a crime? I like you a lot, Jen. . . and I thought you liked me.’

  He meant it. She could see that from his manner. No way would a man like Nick weep in front of her if he wasn’t sincere.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘That was unfair of me. I do have some problems at the moment, but they’re private. I have to deal with them myself.’

  He stared at her in bewilderment as she tested the front door: locked, for once. ‘Why don’t I come in, and at least just. . . give you a bit of company?’

  ‘That’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Jen, you’re a free agent. It’s time to forget what other people think.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d heard my father-in-law this afternoon.’

  ‘What’s he got to do with it? You don’t wanna be going anywhere near that wanker.’

  ‘Look, I meant what I said about their double standards. They’re not beyond digging into your life, either. Trying to suggest you pose a danger to Charlie.’

  Wounded by the comment, his demeanour changed in an instant. ‘If I’m honest, Jen, I’m getting a bit sick of all this. Skiving off work. Treating me like shit. And all this flaky stuff about your ex, it’s like you can’t get him off your mind.’

  She was hurt, but decided they were probably quits when it came to spiteful remarks. Instead of retaliating, she found her key and opened the door. But Nick wasn’t finished.

  ‘There’s rumours at work that the cops were asking about you. Stolen keys or something? I didn’t say anything because I was waiting for you to tell me yourself. Is it true?’

  Jen let out a bitter laugh, which must have sounded deranged. Nick had the look of a little boy, taunted beyond patience. With a growl of frustration he threw down the bouquet, kicked it across the path and stomped away.

  She would have to make peace with him at some stage. She felt bad about the way she’d been deceiving him over the past week, but what did become clear as she tramped up the stairs was that she couldn’t truly believe he was conspiring against her. That, at least, had to count as a positive.

  Over a comfort meal of cheese on toast, she pondered the merits of speaking to Freddie again and decided she had little to lose. She didn’t know exactly when he would be bringing Charlie home – if it was before she finished work on Wednesday, she’d either have to ask Anna to help, or have Charlie dropped off at the Skyway.

  She waited until well past his bedtime, then messaged Freddie. But they were still out, he said, eating supper at their favourite taverna. Just you and Charlie, she wondered, or was Ella there as well?

  Skype me once he’s asleep, she messaged back. V important – about your dad x

  Hopefully that would do the trick, though equally he might check in with Gerard before he called, to get some background and presumably be coached on what to say. That, or he simply wouldn’t reply at all. . .

  But Freddie did get in touch, at midnight Greek time, and he called on her mobile, when she’d asked him to Skype. ‘Dodgy Wi-Fi,’ he explained.

  And easier to lie if I can’t see your face, she thought. ‘Has Charlie only just gone to bed?’

  ‘What? Uh, no, I had other. . . other things. . .’ As he tailed off, she recognised that tone of dreamy detachment.

  ‘You’re high.’

  ‘I’m on holiday.’

  ‘You agreed you wouldn’t take anything when you had Charlie. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Hey, did I say I was? Don’t put mouth in my words. . . I mean, don’t—’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Freddie.’

  He giggled. ‘You sure?’r />
  ‘Listen to me. How much do you know about your dad’s plan?’

  ‘Plan? What, like a pension plan?’

  ‘The plan to put me in prison. I was arrested, remember, for a crime I didn’t commit, and I think that was down to your father.’

  ‘N-no, that’s garbage.’

  ‘Are you saying you didn’t know?’

  ‘I’m saying, it’s garbage. If you’re in trouble, it’s nothing to do with Pa.’

  ‘He hates my guts, and he’s determined to get control of Charlie’s future – but for himself, not for you. His plan is to skip a generation and raise Charlie to be his successor.’

  ‘Nooo,’ Freddie whined. ‘Don’t say things like that. He was the one that said I should lend you the car. He’d hardly do that if he’s, like, Mr Evil, would he?’ A short laugh was interrupted by a belch. ‘And-and he said he didn’t see why you couldn’t come over and visit us sometimes, so that’s a friendly. . .’

  ‘What?’

  He’d let something slip: that was clear from the way he immediately rode back on it. ‘Ah, forget that. I’m, like, I’m probably talking bollocks, yeah? Why don’t I call you tomorr—’

  ‘I want to know, Freddie. What do you mean by “come over and visit”. In Crete?’

  He made his groan of despair sound like a symphony. ‘Aww, don’t go and spoil things.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s. . . the villa’s amazing, so chilled. Pa’s offering me a new start, says we can home school Charlie, bring in a tutor—’

  ‘Hold on, let me get this straight. Your father wants Charlie to live in Greece?’

  ‘And me,’ Freddie protested. ‘That’s why I don’t believe what you said. You’re just trying to. . . I dunno, turn the knife, or is it screw? What’s the thing you turn?’

  Incensed, Jen barely heard the confusion or self-pity. ‘Gerard wants Charlie to grow up in another country, and I don’t get a say?’

  ‘Britain’s fucked up, Jen. It’s got no future.’

  ‘That’s not what your dad’s been telling the world, since winning the referendum. And why would he want to live in Greece? He calls them a bunch of lazy welfare scroungers.’

  ‘But that’s the thing. It’s so dirt poor, yeah, everyone’s desperate – they’ll work for peanuts. He’s gonna have an army of servants, says we could live like kings! Don’t you think that sounds good, eh? Me as. . . as Prince Freddie!’

  His laughter sounded almost delirious. Jen saw now why Gerard had seemed so smug: he had it all worked out.

  ‘Listen to me, please,’ she implored him. ‘You’re not your father. You’re a kinder, better person than he is, and you don’t have to obey his every command. Think of Charlie. He needs both of us in his life. His mum and his dad.’

  ‘Hey, don’t get upset. There’s no need—’

  ‘Please, Freddie. Do the right thing and bring him home.’

  ‘Ah, Jen, Jen. . . I try so hard to think the best of you, remembering, like, how much fun you used to be, and then. . . you do this. You ruin everything.’

  A little burst of static which might have been a sniff or a sob, and he went on: ‘And that’s why Pa’s right, and you’re wrong, you know? Charlie’ll be much better off with us – with me and his grandpa. You’re a loser, Jen. You’ve got to accept it. You lost.’

  43

  Gerard had been writing an eight-hundred-word weekly column for the past twelve years. It rarely took him more than an hour to produce, and sometimes as little as ten minutes. A certain irony there, given how often he railed against various sections of society that he deemed to be lazy and overpaid: politicians, civil servants, doctors, teachers and, on occasion, bankers and City speculators. At other times – for fun, and to see if he could get away with it – he would insist that the traders who made and lost fortunes betting with other people’s money were performing a vital role in society: they were the rebels, the swashbuckling, anti-government outliers.

  In his view, it all came down to value for money – and value, in this context, definitely included entertainment value. This enabled him to take wildly opposing positions, sometimes in the space of a week or two. So he’d rage about high public spending as it related to an issue such as welfare payments to one-legged dyslexic refugees, then insist that ill-prepared councils should magic up the funds needed to keep the streets clear on the one or two days per decade that it snowed too badly for his SUV.

  By way of a safeguard, he felt sure that his typical reader had a brief attention span and, regrettably, a rather low IQ. Gerard had the populist’s skill of appearing to write from the viewpoint of the aspirational working class – the plumber, hairdresser, taxi driver – though in reality he went to great lengths to avoid such people.

  He liked to think they wouldn’t begrudge him the three hundred grand a year for reinforcing their prejudices in a way that made them smile. Nice work if you can get it, and good luck to you, mate! Double props for siphoning the cash through a network of private companies in order to shave off most of the tax liability. Those tossers in Westminster only go and bloody waste it, don’t they?

  The column came easiest when he was angry, so he usually worked himself into a state of righteous indignation. It was like the opposite of meditation (which everybody who read his stuff knew was a scam). Somewhat perversely, given the millions in the bank, the collection of luxury homes and cars, and a woman or three available whenever he desired an alternative to the current Mrs Lynch, he could still be roused to anger by a wide variety of issues: traffic signs, restaurant staff, TV announcers, speed bumps, washing instructions, power tools, Belgium. . . In fact, he could get apoplectic just listing the fuckers.

  Today’s was easy to pump out: a dig at the tendency of women to poke their noses into matters which don’t concern them, and then get all het up when they find something unpleasant. He wrote it with Jennifer Cornish’s face before his eyes, her voice ringing in his ears.

  By midday he’d caught up on emails, set out the bare bones of a deliciously scurrilous article for Breitbart and had a justified whinge at his agent about the lack of support from his French publishers. He buzzed the kitchen to let Siobhan know she could start preparing his lunch: cold meats, brie and a wedge of focaccia, washed down with a glass of Prosecco.

  Then his phone rang: Freddie. He’d been calling at least once a day with some peevish question or complaint about the villa. The internet’s too slow. . . I can’t figure out the electric blinds. . . I don’t like how the pool guy looks at me.

  ‘Pa, I need some money.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To pay the cabbie. I’m thirty quid short.’

  ‘You’re having me on?’ A second later the intercom buzzed – bip bip beeeep, the way Charlie always did it. Then creaks in the hallway as the housekeeper bustled past, so he knew he wasn’t imagining it.

  At the door, Charlie was greeting Siobhan with a hug. Gerard ruffled the boy’s hair and nodded vaguely at some request or other. ‘In a minute, Chip.’

  He was focused on Freddie, who was standing by as the driver unloaded his suitcases. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Hey.’ Freddie put his hand out for the cash, and Gerard got a clear look at the state he was in: tired and emotional, as they said in the trade. The taxi driver was an inhibiting presence, so Gerard kept his back to the street and ushered Charlie inside.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ he said flatly, and had to add, in response to the boy’s curious look, ‘A nice surprise.’

  ‘Daddy wanted to come home.’ He yawned. ‘We had to get up sooo early!’

  With the taxi moving away, Gerard turned and advanced on Freddie, who cringed and let go of the suitcase he’d just picked up.

  ‘What have you been taking?’ he hissed. ‘You look strung out, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I’m not. I didn’t sleep last night, not one minute.’ Freddie’s lip wobbled and his voice went high with tension. ‘I spoke to Jen, and it
better not be true.’

  ‘Of course it’s not true.’ Gerard took the other case, turned clumsily and bumped it against Freddie’s leg. He gave a yelp, and Charlie laughed, dodging the suitcase himself as Gerard tried to swing past.

  ‘Mind out, Chip. We need to get indoors.’

  ‘Can we go to the park?’

  ‘Not now, no.’

  Clutching his shin, Freddie said, ‘That fucking hurt.’

  ‘Don’t be a sissy, and don’t swear in front of the boy.’

  ‘Daddy said we could go to the park. I wanna play football.’

  Gerard scowled, and noticed Siobhan backing away from the chaos, aware that he was on a short fuse. ‘Make yourself useful,’ he snapped, ‘and take this little bruiser to the park.’

  A whine from Charlie: ‘I want to go with you, Grandpa.’

  ‘I can’t now. I need to talk to Freddie.’

  ‘But he promised, he promised if I was good on the plane. . .’

  Now he was bawling, and it struck Gerard how much the boy was coming to resemble his mother: the same eyes, the same shape to the face, and a certain girlish quality that suddenly repulsed him.

  ‘Shut up!’ Gerard shouted. ‘Either go to the park with Siobhan or don’t bloody go at all!’

  Charlie shrank back, cowering. Freddie murmured a rebuke, but it was Siobhan who saved the day. ‘I’m about to make some lunch. Will you come and help me?’

  She led him down the stairs to the basement kitchen. Gerard strode into the study and gestured at the chair on the other side of the desk, but Freddie defied him, wandering to the window and gazing down at the tiny patch of lawn.

  ‘How can you say it’s not true when I haven’t even told you what she said?’

  ‘Because she came here yesterday, spouting a lot of nonsense.’

  ‘You know she’s been arrested? She claims you set her up.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Gerard repeated. ‘She’s in a lot of trouble, hence all these wild accusations.’