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

by Tom Bale

  But she called Freddie just the same, needing to put her mind at rest, and groaned when it went straight to voicemail. She left a message, asking him to call her right away, and for good measure sent him a text as well, then sat and waited. What were the chances of a prompt reply?

  Not great, as it turned out. After a few minutes she sent a second text and a message on WhatsApp, then drove home with frequent apprehensive glances at the phone on the seat beside her.

  It was almost one in the afternoon when she reached Henley Gardens. Jolted by the sight of a police car, she realised she hadn’t given a thought to Russell Pearce for hours. It was a reminder to stay on her guard, so she was cautious on her approach to the building, and listened carefully for movement on the stairs. She heard a shuffling, wheezing tread, and identified it as Bridie Martin. Jen caught up with her neighbour as she reached the top floor. The old woman was out of breath but excited.

  ‘I’ve just had to give a statement,’ she declared. ‘That feller on the corner, murdered his wife?’

  Jen swallowed. ‘Yes. Isn’t it terrible?’

  ‘Well, he was round here Sunday afternoon. I caught him snooping, and he only had the brass neck to claim he was a policeman. He was trying to find out more about you and your, er, bit of trouble. Burglary, he said.’ She sniffed. ‘Of course, I saw through him right away, and sent him packing. Didn’t know then what a lucky escape I’d had.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d been here?’

  Bridie looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ve not really seen you, have I? Besides, I wasn’t to know he was a maniac.’ A shudder. ‘I’m sleeping with a big knife by the bed at the moment, and you ought to do the same.’

  Jen agreed that they would keep an eye on each other until Pearce had been caught. As she opened her front door, she thought – Russell knows about me, he knows about the divorce – and then: It couldn’t be. . . could it?

  No. Russell Pearce had more important things to worry about than sending malicious emails. He was a fugitive, his face all over the newspapers and TV. But Bridie had made a good point: maybe they’d both had a lucky escape.

  There was still nothing from Freddie. She rang again, got voicemail and left a message: ‘Call me as soon as you can.’

  She took a shower and then, still restless, set about making a smoothie from some fruit that was past its best. The minutes slowly passed. She resorted to wading through Facebook, particularly Ella’s profile, and then the rest of the girl’s social media, hoping for something to confirm that Charlie was safe with his father in Greece. But apart from a few comments added to her friends’ posts, Ella hadn’t been very active. Too busy enjoying herself, perhaps.

  There was one other option. She phoned Gerard on his landline, hoping he might have a number for the villa. No reply. She had a mobile number for him listed on her phone, which she hadn’t used for a couple of years, but tried it anyway. Nothing.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ she cried. Then she trawled through her Gmail account and located his email address. Wrote a brief message: Gerard, I’ve been trying to contact Freddie and he’s not replying. Do you know how I can reach him? Please call me.

  She knew she shouldn’t be getting agitated, but after everything that had happened over the past week, it took only the most minuscule of doubts. . . And now there was little she could do but sit and worry, or pace up and down and worry, or maybe go out for a run – and worry.

  She went out for a run.

  When he received the email, Gerard turned Freddie’s phone back on and watched the messages stacking up. Jen was trying frantically to get in touch, which was quite some coincidence. Was she calling to gloat? I’ve got him back! Charlie’s mine again, suckers!

  Gerard fought the urge to respond. He couldn’t bear the idea of Jen getting one over on him. His instinct in such circumstances was always to go on the attack: a show of overwhelming force out of all proportion to the act that had incited his response. He’d done it to a few woolly-headed female journalists over the years – once with some vicious comments about rape that might have ended his career, had he not been able to rely on most of Fleet Street to play it down.

  He brooded for a while, then thought of a way to test the water. Using Freddie’s phone, he composed a message: Hey, Jen. Charlie and I are hiking in the Patsos Gorge. Signal not great here but we’re having lots of fun. C sends his love x

  He tried to add one of those damn emojis that he’d raged about in more than one column, but the tiny images defeated him. How the hell did you even work out what each one meant?

  He was close to hurling the phone across the room when he heard movement. He sent the text, then dropped the phone on his desk just as Freddie shuffled in. With his tousled hair and his cheeks lined from the mattress, he looked like a forlorn little boy, an image that briefly plucked at Gerard’s heart. If only they could go back to when Freddie was Charlie’s age, he thought; have their time over and do a few things differently. . .

  ‘I’m hoping this is just a bad dream.’ Freddie’s voice was distorted by the swelling around his mouth; he sounded like he’d had a root canal treatment. ‘Who were you texting?’

  ‘Jen.’ Gerard saw no advantage in lying about it. ‘I want to see what she knows.’

  ‘Did she contact you – I mean me?’

  Gerard decided to ignore the question. ‘I’ve got somebody on the case now. He’s come recommended from a chap who was once very senior in the security services.’

  ‘And what about the people who were employed to frame Jen? Is that their background?’ Without waiting for an answer, he added, ‘What if one of them took Charlie?’

  ‘I don’t see why they would.’

  Freddie sneered. ‘The same reasons you claim anyone does anything. Money and kicks.’

  ‘It’s unlikely. They’re being well remunerated.’

  ‘So what? If these guys specialise in fucking up people’s lives, is it really a stretch to think it’s a job that attracts psychos?’

  Not much Gerard could say to that; Freddie was more perceptive than he had credited. ‘I have a lot of faith in this new man to get results. I know it’s difficult, but we have to be patient—’

  ‘This is my son!’ Freddie shouted. ‘And your beloved “Chip”, the grandson you’re meant to adore!’

  ‘How dare you!’ Gerard matched his anger. ‘All of this was for his benefit, not mine. But one wrong move now and it’ll come to light – the conspiracy against Jen – and if that happens, we’re ruined. I meant what I said about prison. And you’re not immune, believe me.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘It won’t look that way,’ he muttered.

  Freddie gave a start. ‘Why, are you going to frame me as well?’

  ‘Just think on this: if I’m disgraced, I lose my income. And if I lose my income, I’ll make damn sure you lose yours.’

  That, he thought, should be sufficient in terms of a threat. Softening his tone, he said, ‘More importantly, we’ll both lose Charlie forever.’

  ‘But we’ve already lost him. Bloody hell, Pa—’

  ‘No. I won’t give in to that sort of negativity. No one has any reason to hurt him. It’s just a matter of time until we find out where he is.’

  The phone buzzed. Freddie eyed it, perhaps trying to gauge whether he could make a lunge across the desk.

  ‘You need to cool down,’ Gerard warned him. ‘Start thinking rationally.’

  He picked up the phone. A text from Jen: Can you call me, please? I have to speak to Charlie. It’s urgent.

  This was what he’d feared – replying had only encouraged her. But it had to be a bluff, didn’t it? Or a way of opening negotiations.

  ‘What is it?’ Freddie asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Jen hadn’t run very far when the text came through. She skidded to a halt on the corner of Sussex Square and read the message quickly, then studied it in more detail.

  Freddie and Ch
arlie were out exploring Crete: all well and good. But surely the tone was a little too nonchalant? Wouldn’t Freddie have guessed there must be something wrong, or at least wanted to know why she was bombarding him with messages?

  Something wasn’t right here.

  She looked around at the quiet street; a couple of cars and a van rolling past. The outside world made her feel more vulnerable than it had a week ago. She didn’t like it.

  She jogged back to the flat, running through the possibilities, and decided on a dual course of action. First, a text to Freddie: Can you call me, please? I have to speak to Charlie. It’s urgent.

  If he really was hiking through a wilderness, it might be a while till she heard anything. So her next move was an email to this mysterious bestfriend808: My son is with his father. This silly tactic isn’t going to work.

  To her astonishment, the reply was almost immediate:

  Jen, I’m disappointed in you. Haven’t you worked out that you can’t trust Freddie or his father? They’re together right now in London.

  This was a lot harder to dismiss than the first email, the tone so casually knowledgeable that it couldn’t help but strike a chord. It had an authenticity that Freddie’s text was lacking.

  But she wasn’t quite ready to reply; instead she called Freddie. Voicemail, again. Furious, she sent a text: Either I speak to Charlie now or I’ll go to the police.

  49

  Gerard saw the phone light up and immediately declined the call. Freddie wanted to know why she was trying so hard to reach him. ‘Do you think she’s heard we’re back here?’

  ‘How would she?’

  ‘You tell me. You’re the one spying on her.’

  Gerard shook his head. ‘You drank too much of that brandy.’

  ‘Well, come on. Explain why you’re so happy to place all our hope in this one guy we don’t even know.’ Freddie gave a choking sob. ‘If Charlie’s missing, we need help from the police, the TV, social media. . .’ He shut his eyes, swaying a little in his seat. ‘I feel shit. Need some water.’

  Gerard went to his aid but Freddie jerked his shoulder away: Don’t touch me. He got up and tottered out of the room; exaggerating his symptoms, Gerard could see, just like when he was a boy. Pitiful.

  It took a few seconds for Freddie to realise that Gerard was just behind him. ‘So you don’t trust me to go anywhere?’

  ‘I’m worried about that impulsive streak of yours.’

  ‘You are one mean-spirited bastard, do you know that? You’ve never had any respect for me.’

  ‘Freddie, it’s less than three months since that episode with the cocaine and those not-quite-eighteen-year-old girls. I still shudder to think of the favours I had to call in to keep the lid on it.’

  In the kitchen, Freddie slurped some water and dribbled the rest of it down his chin. He took more painkillers, then started rooting in the cupboards. ‘I need some food. I feel guilty, being hungry at a time like this, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘Your motto: “I can’t help it!”’ Gerard mocked his son’s whining voice. ‘Have a sandwich – don’t stuff your face with chocolate.’

  ‘You haven’t got any. You’re as bad as Jen, with all her healthy regimes.’

  ‘It’s in the fridge. And don’t liken me to that woman.’ Disgusted, Gerard took Freddie’s phone from his pocket and saw there was yet another text.

  This one chilled him: Either I speak to Charlie now or I’ll go to the police.

  ‘Shit,’ Gerard muttered. ‘I need you to talk to Jen.’

  ‘Make your mind up. You said—’

  ‘This is different.’ He sighed. ‘It’s possible she wasn’t involved in Charlie’s disappearance.’

  ‘I bloody told you that! You never listen.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t like the fact she’s badgering you. We need to know why – but without giving anything away to her.’ Gerard raised an eyebrow. ‘Think you can manage that?’

  Jen nearly dropped her phone when she saw Freddie’s name in the display. She fumbled to connect and lifted it to her ear. ‘Thank God. Where are you?’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? We’re out for a walk – trekking, I mean, so I might lose the signal at any time.’

  ‘Okay.’ There was something odd about his voice; he wasn’t forming his words clearly. ‘Can I talk to Charlie?’

  Freddie made a doubtful humming noise. ‘I’m not sure. He’s really moody today, I dunno why. I think it’s cos he’s coming home tomorrow.’

  A little dig there, but Jen let it pass. ‘Please see if he will. It’s important.’

  Freddie grunted, but didn’t ask why. She heard him call Charlie, and then nothing. He must have the phone clamped to his chest.

  Jen frowned. Why would he try to prevent her from hearing anything?

  Then he said, ‘Sorry, Jen. He just won’t. But you’ll see him tomorrow, it’s not the end of the world.’ His voice had thickened with emotion, sounding even stranger than before. And there was a kind of vibration in the background, which subliminally felt wrong for the location she was picturing: rocks and trees, and the chirp of crickets. . .

  ‘Hold the phone out for a second.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I want to call to him. Even if he tells me to get lost.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jen,’ he grumbled. ‘He’s more likely to say nothing.’ But she sensed the phone being moved away from his body, and she strained to hear a muffled comment, or even just the sound of Charlie breathing.

  ‘That’s traffic, the rumbling sound. . .’

  ‘Jen, I’ll be home tomorrow—’

  ‘It’s city traffic, for God’s sake! You’re lying to me.’ And then, virtually screaming: ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  She made out a brief scuffle, an exclamation from Freddie and then, before the call was disconnected, what might have been the growl of an older, deeper voice.

  Gerard.

  Had she just heard Gerard?

  ‘You fool!’ With Jen’s cry still reverberating from the speaker, Gerard snatched the phone and cut the call, and when that wasn’t enough to satisfy his rage, he threw it at the wall and saw the cover and battery come flying apart.

  ‘Pa!’ Freddie took a step towards the phone but Gerard shoved him into a chair.

  ‘Good old Freddie Fuckitup!’ he roared. ‘Everything you do, all the silly ambitions – it doesn’t matter how much I help out, I give you advice and connections and money galore, and still you make a hash of it, every fucking time!’

  After that outburst, silence. Freddie sat with his head bowed, gently massaging his jaw, while Gerard reassembled the phone. He had no desire for further contact with Jen, but he needed to monitor what other messages she might send.

  He envisaged her going to the cops, in which case he’d have to stow Freddie somewhere safe, then dream up a damn good explanation for Jen’s allegations. But his hope was that Hugo’s team had left her feeling too frightened to risk being taken for a lunatic.

  If she did keep quiet, even for just a matter of hours – maybe a day or two at most – there was a good chance that normality would be restored, and the original plan brought back on track. Prison for Jen, and a new life in Greece for Charlie and his grandpa, and maybe for this miserable waster sitting here. . .

  Gerard’s sigh prompted a sorrowful look from Freddie. ‘So what now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘And I’m your prisoner?’

  ‘If you want to be that melodramatic. Where else would you go? Charlie might come back at any moment.’

  ‘No, he won’t. And you’re doing nothing to find him.’

  ‘My contact understood the urgency of the situation. And I’m sure the chap he’s recommended will be on to it at once.’

  Jen knew there was no point trying to speak to Freddie again, or Gerard for that matter. Right now she wouldn’t believe a word they told her.

  She had to act.

  First she sent an email to bestfriend808: P
rove you have Charlie. She resisted the urge to add all sorts of curses and threats; this was enough.

  Then a quick change of clothes: smart jeans and a white tailored shirt, an outfit designed to look respectable – and therefore bolster her credibility – should she need to go to the police.

  She’d left the flat and was racing down the stairs when her phone buzzed – but it turned out to be a notification from one of the pressure groups she supported, warning of the damage to bee colonies from neonicotinoids. An issue she felt strongly about, but not the message she wanted right now.

  The phone remained silent as she drove to the station. Her heart rate started to settle. She’d called his bluff. This was no more than some miserable little troll, trying to mess with her head.

  She was turning into the car park when a reply came in. She swung the Audi into a space, grabbed the phone and saw that the message came with an attachment.

  For a second she froze. All manner of hideous images flashed through her mind. Could she bear to look?

  She opened the message, scanning the text for ugly or violent language; saw no obvious threats and went to the attachment. Deep breath.

  It was a photograph, taken in what was clearly a McDonald’s, but beyond that there were no clues as to the location. Charlie had the remains of a Happy Meal on the table in front of him, along with a model of a bright red Porsche 911. The packaging for the toy lay next to the tray of food.

  Charlie faced the camera, wearing a slightly uncertain smile. He didn’t look truly happy, but nor did he seem particularly scared or upset. Even so, the sight of him caused Jen to groan with pain at their separation. Charlie looked to be unharmed, but was he really in the custody of a stranger?

  She wondered if the photo was a fake. There was no way of telling when it had been taken, but Charlie’s face was lightly tanned, and he was wearing one of the T-shirts she’d packed for Greece. That pointed to it being recent, and genuine, as opposed to something lifted from social media.

  She returned to the message: Charlie is thrilled with his new car. He’s happy that I’m looking after him on your behalf. You need to know the truth about the plot to discredit you. Be at the Jubilee Bridge, on the steps next to Embankment station, at 5 p.m.