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

by Tom Bale

  He didn’t wait for her response, because his plan required her to be gone before she had the chance to compare notes with Freddie. He bounded downstairs, feeling strangely energised, and found his son in the kitchen, peering into the shadows of a rarely used larder.

  ‘I think I know what happened.’ That got his attention: once again Freddie looked almost capable of violence. ‘Go and wait in my study. Siobhan mustn’t hear this – for your sake, as much as anything.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Gerard heard movement on the landing above them. He and Freddie went up and let the housekeeper say her farewells. As they returned to the study, he found himself concluding that ‘worst case’ was now the only scenario in town. He suppressed a yawn – caused by tension, but Freddie was unlikely to see it that way.

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘That he ran off with Jen.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘It might not be.’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’ When Gerard said nothing, he lifted his phone. ‘I’ll call her right now and we can find out.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because if she doesn’t have him, she’s liable to panic.’ He could see Freddie had guessed the answer; he just wanted his father to say it.

  ‘And she’ll call the cops. Which is exactly what we should be doing.’

  ‘We can’t, Freddie.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. Every second we waste—’

  ‘We’ll go to prison,’ Gerard said quietly. ‘Both of us.’

  ‘You know who’s taken Charlie?’

  Gerard went to shrug but opted for a nod. ‘I have a fairly good idea.’

  Freddie’s reaction was as decisive as it was unexpected. ‘In that case, you can tell the cops when they get here.’ He started tapping on the phone, hunching his shoulders as if putting up a barrier.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid.’ Gerard grabbed the first thing that came to hand – a heavy marble paperweight – and hurled it at his son. It struck Freddie on the jaw, and he tumbled out of his chair with a cry of pain. A spray of blood hit the carpet.

  Gerard dived for the phone, getting there just as Freddie scrabbled to retrieve it. They tussled for a moment, then Gerard shouldered his son aside and stood up, victorious. As he turned the phone off, Freddie cringed away from him, crying through a mouthful of blood. ‘Have you gone insane?’

  ‘No police.’ Gerard shoved the phone in his pocket and stood over Freddie, his demeanour as threatening as he could make it. ‘Charlie will be fine, I promise you. But we have to sort this out ourselves.’

  46

  Jen was still dealing with the shock when Yvonne Cartwright joined them. After listening to Tim’s update, she grasped Jen’s hands in hers. ‘I won’t pretend this is anything but bad news, and yes, it’s potentially a setback in our attempts to secure a good arrangement for Charlie. But you’ve also got to try and be positive, if you can.’

  Jen could only nod glumly. There had been times in her life when an inspirational pep talk had renewed her will to overcome obstacles, and she’d given such talks herself on occasion. The adventure tours had invariably included one or two participants who had to be coaxed to stay the course. But right now she wasn’t sure that any amount of encouragement could overcome the twin agonies of prison and losing Charlie.

  Yvonne was keen to stress the many variables that could determine the final outcome. ‘At our end, we’ll delay and obfuscate as much as we can. A short custodial sentence, if that’s the worse we’re looking at. . .?’

  A glance at Tim, who made a seesaw gesture with his hand. ‘I’d hope no more than six months served, at a maximum.’

  ‘There we are, then. Hopefully we can string out the negotiations beyond that time, and perhaps we’ll get a judge who’s sympathetic to your circumstances.’

  ‘The verdict itself is not a given,’ Tim reminded them. ‘Firstly, I think you’ll make a terrific witness, Jen. Aside from that, all sorts of things can go wrong for the prosecution – evidence disappearing or wrongly labelled, witnesses who fail to turn up or crumble under cross-examination. They carry the burden of proof, remember.’

  Yvonne patted her arm. ‘And how is Charlie? He’s with his dad this week, yes?’

  Jen nodded. She felt sick. ‘They’re in Crete.’

  ‘What?’ Yvonne almost shouted. ‘When did that get arranged?’

  ‘Last week. Freddie had been talking about a few days in Cornwall. When he sprang it on me, I’d just been arrested, my emotions were all over the place and stupidly I agreed.’ She shuddered, thinking of Gerard and his vile taunts. ‘He’s promised to bring Charlie back by tomorrow.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me about this.’ Yvonne exchanged a worried glance with her colleague. ‘I’ll speak to his solicitors and make sure he knows to stick to the agreement.’

  ‘But if they decide to stay in Greece. . .?’

  ‘I won’t lie to you. We’d be at one hell of a disadvantage.’

  ‘They played me for a fool,’ Jen murmured, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘And I’m afraid that’s not all.’

  She described the minor collision at the Marina, and the altercation that followed. She felt herself blushing as she admitted to the accusations she’d made: that the couple were part of a conspiracy that included Alex Wilson, and a man who had asked her out in a bar.

  She explained about Sam Dhillon’s connection to Wilson, and how it had led her to Jonathan Oldroyd. The more detail she gave, the more she expected disbelief, but Tim seemed to perk up as she recounted the infiltration at SilverSquare.

  ‘Much of that should be verifiable, especially if the police get involved. We might at least have circumstantial evidence of a connection between the various players, enough to damage Wilson’s credibility as a witness.’

  ‘Except cases involving forensic examination of computers can take an age to come to court,’ Yvonne pointed out, ‘and they’re a bugger to prosecute.’

  Tim shrugged. ‘This is all about creating doubt. It’s worth a try.’

  They mulled that over for a moment, before Jen returned to this morning’s incident. ‘What if this couple aren’t involved, and they go to the police?’

  ‘It could mean a failure to stop and give your details,’ Tim said. ‘That’s potentially six points on your licence, as well as a fine. But I suspect it’s the civil action they’re interested in. It certainly bears the hallmarks of a personal injury scam.’

  Yvonne was more worried that Jen had been caught on film. ‘If they put it on social media and somebody happens to identify you, it could make life very unpleasant. I dread to think how a judge might react to footage of you committing road rage.’

  They talked it through some more, Jen’s emotions a churned-up mess, and then Tim said he had to be at a meeting. Yvonne suggested they move to her office, where she made some notes of the conversation and once again urged Jen not to feel too despondent.

  ‘You look shattered. Are you working?’ When Jen shook her head, she said, ‘Then get yourself home and try to rest. Like I said, I’ll try to put the fear of God into Freddie’s solicitors. What time is his plane due in tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll have to check.’ She sniffed. ‘Hopefully not till the afternoon, if I’ve got to go to the police station at eleven.’

  They agreed to catch up later, then Yvonne gave her a hug and Jen hurried out, feeling like an emotional basket case. The bright sunshine, the noise and bustle and holiday cheerfulness all around her was painfully at odds with her own dark foreboding.

  Taking a ten-pound note from her pocket, she walked the length of North Street, searching for the homeless man who’d helped her on Saturday, but he was nowhere to be seen. Back at the car, she checked her phone, longing for a message from Charlie.

  There were no texts, but she had an email with an odd header, in capital letters: YOUR BOY. The sender was using a Hotmail address with an anonymous name: bestfriend808.


  A junk message, had to be. She dropped her phone on the passenger seat and started the engine.

  Then hesitated. After the past week, nothing could be dismissed so easily.

  She opened the email, which was brief enough to read in a single glance.

  Dear Jen,

  Please don’t worry. Charlie is safe with me.

  Your friend.

  47

  With a measure of calm in place, Gerard sat Freddie on a chair and examined the wound. There was a laceration on his chin, and another extending from his lip to his cheek, neither of them deep enough to require stitches. A large bruise was forming on his jaw, and he reported, in a quavering voice, that a couple of his teeth felt loose.

  ‘They’ll firm up again,’ Gerard told him. ‘I, uh, I shouldn’t have thrown that so hard.’ It was the closest he intended to come to an apology; keeping his manner brisk even while he escorted his son to the nearest bathroom to clean and dress the wounds.

  He encouraged Freddie to swallow three ibuprofen and several mouthfuls of good brandy. Whereas booze tended to make Gerard loud and belligerent, he knew that his son was a mellow and soft-hearted drunk.

  Mellow and malleable, he hoped.

  ‘Couple more of these, and then a lie down,’ he said, taking a swig from the bottle himself.

  ‘And what good’s that gonna do Charlie?’ Freddie let out a sudden anguished whine: ‘He’s all I’ve got!’

  ‘That’s quite offensive, Freddie. Why do you think I’m doing this, if not because I care about you and the boy?’

  Freddie grunted. ‘So tell me, what are you doing? And how are we gonna find Charlie?’

  ‘What’s happened today is linked to Jen, I’m convinced of that. Think about it: Charlie is a smart kid. Very smart. I don’t see him just wandering off with a stranger, do you?’

  Freddie shook his head morosely. ‘I hope not. But he’s also very trusting. If someone was friendly, and said the right things. . .’

  ‘As it happens, that fits my theory – because if it wasn’t Jen who came for him, it could be somebody working on her behalf.’

  ‘But why? And how would she even know he was here? She thinks I’m still in Greece.’

  Gerard pondered. ‘I may be able to check out her involvement, without tipping her off—’

  ‘How?’ Freddie snapped. Then he groaned. ‘You’re spying on her?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What, by the people who set her up to get arrested?’

  ‘Freddie, will you settle down. It helps no one to start flinging accusations around. All I’ll say is that I took some bold decisions to secure the future that you and Charlie deserve.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t ask you to, and all that’s happened is we’re in the shit and Charlie. . . Charlie is. . .’

  Overcome, he started blubbing like a two-year-old. Gerard wanted to order him to toughen up, but the situation called for something more diplomatic. Grasping his son’s shoulders, he said, ‘Go and rest for an hour. By then I should have some answers.’

  ‘And if you don’t?’ Freddie mumbled something about the police, which Gerard pretended to treat seriously.

  ‘If I don’t, I’ll take it up a level. That’s a promise.’

  As a precaution, he gathered up the landline phones. He was tempted to lock Freddie into the first-floor bedroom, but maybe that was a step too far. Instead, when he returned to his office on the ground floor, he left the door wide open so he’d hear the moment Freddie got up.

  Sipping at a small brandy, he devoted all his concentration to this one grave issue. Charlie wasn’t the kind of lad to run away, but if by some chance he had, his nerve would eventually fail him, at which point he’d know to head for the nearest police officer or responsible-looking adult.

  That was fine. If the cops turned up with a contrite little boy, Gerard would exude charm and gratitude, sign a few copies of his latest book and all would be well.

  The far more likely option was that he’d gone off with somebody, and whoever took him must have had some way of gaining Charlie’s trust. How?

  Because they were already known to him? Perhaps a friend – or boyfriend – of Jen’s?

  The timing puzzled him. It had to be an opportunist act, since no one had known he was coming here – Christ, Gerard himself hadn’t known till Freddie turned up on the doorstep. So. . .

  ‘The bastards were already watching me,’ he whispered.

  It was agreed that communication would be kept to a minimum. The operation had been running for over six months, and in that time they’d spoken on only a handful of occasions. But he’d already had to make a call the day before, in the aftermath of Jen’s sudden visit.

  He used a cheap, anonymous mobile phone, reserved for this bit of business and nothing else. Hugo Hamilton answered as though he was expecting the call, which raised another red flag in Gerard’s mind.

  ‘Your unwanted visitor yesterday?’ Hamilton drawled. ‘I’m afraid she may have made a connection between Alex Wilson and one of our other staff. Somehow she identified the hotel where he was staying and lured him out. Sam later talked to a chambermaid, and it seems that she tricked her way into the room.’

  ‘What the fuck. . .?’

  ‘Mm. Quite the daredevil, which is not something you mentioned in the brief.’

  ‘She’s a frigging ex-tour guide who now shows dimwits how to climb a plastic wall!’

  Hamilton made a dismissive noise in his throat. ‘Well, fortunately there was nothing of use to her in the room. But it means that Sam has been burned, so our hopes rest with the chap who’s been tasked with the slow seduction.’

  ‘Which has achieved bugger all, so far,’ Gerard fumed. ‘What about that other name I gave you, Russell Pearce? Why did the police want to talk to her about him?’

  ‘That, I haven’t been able to ascertain. But he’s nothing to do with us, I can assure you.’

  ‘For God’s sake, you ought to know how this man features in her life. Are your people still tracking her?’

  ‘Uh, periodically. We know she went to Kent on Sunday, possibly in search of the artist who made the—’

  Gerard exploded: ‘How much closer is she going to get? This is not what I fucking paid for!’

  ‘Calm down. She won’t have got anything useful. At this stage it’s simply not viable to be on her twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘Sheer bloody incompetence,’ Gerard muttered. ‘Right, I need you to find out where she is now. Can you do that, at least?’

  Hamilton called back shortly afterwards. ‘She’s been to her solicitors in Brighton. Is that what you wanted to know?’

  ‘And she doesn’t have Charlie with her?’

  ‘I thought he’s with your boy, in Greece?’

  ‘Nice try, Hugo. The trouble is, I recall a conversation we had, long before I required your services. In such a delicate line of work, you told me, your activity is all about giving one party the upper hand over another. But that also means, as a by-product, giving them the upper hand over you.’

  ‘What of it?’ Hugo’s tone of dry amusement sounded decidedly forced.

  ‘To counteract that, you proudly described how you make a point of digging into the secrets of the party who hired you, just in case the relationship goes sour.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I see no reason for that to happen here.’

  ‘So you’re not keeping a watch on me?’

  ‘What? No.’ A minuscule hesitation, but a pertinent one.

  ‘Look, enough of this hogwash. Charlie’s missing. Freddie brought him back here this morning. Within ten or fifteen minutes he’d sneaked out of the house and vanished.’

  Silence, and then a haughty sniff. ‘Gerard, my dear chap, we are not in the practice of abducting children.’

  ‘Do I have your word on that?’

  ‘Of course. Good grief. . .’ Then he asked, warily, ‘Have you notified the police?’

  ‘Not yet – and
in the circumstances I’m reluctant to do so, for obvious reasons. The problem is that Freddie’s going out of his mind. There’s only so much reassurance I can offer, and it isn’t going to satisfy him for long.’

  ‘No, I see. Leave it with me and I’ll make some enquiries.’

  Which, to Gerard, sounded like a tacit acknowledgement that he’d been right all along. Hugo had assigned people to keep an eye on him. Unsettled by the conversation, he gulped the last of the brandy and considered whether Hamilton was now a busted flush – or worse still, holding back on him.

  The next call was to an even older, shadier acquaintance – shadier in terms of his past career, rather than his current lofty position in the House of Lords.

  Gerard outlined the situation. His contact felt that Hugo’s people were ‘competent enough’ and trustworthy ‘up to a point’. Alarmed by these qualified terms, Gerard said he was anxious to establish exactly where he stood.

  ‘My impression is that his crew are white collar. I need someone who’ll get answers in any way necessary, and won’t baulk at difficult situations. I also have to know if Hugo is minded to betray me.’

  With a grunt of comprehension, he was told: ‘As it happens, I know just the chap to provide some “enhanced verification”. A former freelancer, bit of a rogue, but effective – almost too effective at times, if you get my drift?’

  ‘I think I do,’ Gerard said. ‘And that sounds perfect.’

  48

  It couldn’t be genuine. No way at all. But clearly it was from somebody who knew about her circumstances – most probably Alex Wilson or one of his colleagues. This was a bluff. Another angle of attack.

  What they wanted was for her to panic, Jen realised. She mustn’t give them the satisfaction. Charlie was with his dad – she had no reason to doubt that.