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

by Tom Bale

  ‘I was going to get a train back tonight.’

  ‘What’s the point? You might as well stay here.’

  She paused, glad that Freddie was moving towards the fridge; it gave her a second to get a fix on her reaction; find the correct shade of doubt. ‘I don’t know if I want to be sleeping in Gerard’s house, after what he’s done. I can’t imagine he wants me here, either.’

  ‘Well, that’s tough,’ Freddie snorted, just as she’d hoped he would. ‘It saves on the cost of a hotel, at least.’

  ‘I dunno, maybe.’ She gave it a second, and added, ‘I suppose, by staying in London, I’m that much closer to Charlie.’

  ‘Definitely. Please stay, Jen. It’s, like, the smallest way of making things up to you. But it’s a start, yeah?’

  She nodded. ‘All right.’

  The bitch. Thinking he would simply roll over and capitulate. . .

  Gerard made the call to Hamilton, resentful that he had to indulge any of Jen’s demands. ‘I’m hearing that the problem is someone called Dean.’

  ‘Hearing from Stemper?’ Hamilton queried. ‘Alex Wilson has just apprised me of their conversation. He says the spotlight was on this neighbour, Russell Pearce. Are you sure that he hasn’t taken the boy?’

  ‘Don’t try and deflect responsibility. What can you tell me about Dean?’

  ‘Not much. He’s quite a recent addition, and I have to concede, the reports from his colleagues aren’t particularly favourable. Keeps too much to himself, won’t always follow orders—’

  ‘What the hell were you playing at, having that kind of man sniffing around my life?’

  ‘Look, I don’t recruit from charm school. They’re all miscreants, up to a point. Dean, perhaps, rather more than most.’

  ‘How, exactly?’ Gerard growled.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to establish. You’ll be the first to know, I assure you.’

  ‘I’d better be. Now, the charges against Jen? I might need them dropped.’

  He registered a little gulp of surprise. ‘Not sure that’s feasible—’

  ‘If I say it has to happen, then it happens. Otherwise, the nice Mr Stemper will be paying another visit.’

  ‘Gerard, please. Is this really what you want?’

  ‘Of course it fucking isn’t! If your people hadn’t botched the job, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  He stressed that there was no firm decision yet. Despite what he’d said to Jen, Gerard intended to hold out until the last possible moment. If Stemper managed to recover Charlie – and deal with his kidnapper – then Jen would have little in the way of leverage against him. Her talk of a conspiracy would be easy to deny, and the charges against her could proceed.

  His next call was to Stemper. The voice that greeted him was more cultured than Gerard had imagined, difficult to place in terms of age, and with a smooth, hypnotic quality that he found oddly unsettling.

  Once he’d been brought up to date, Stemper said, ‘There are no other clues as to Dean’s whereabouts?’

  ‘Just “the North”, is all she claims to know. They met here in London earlier today, but I don’t think she’s aware of his current location.’

  ‘If you have Jen with you now, I could come over and find out for sure?’

  Gerard disguised his shock with a laugh. ‘Ha! I’d love that, but it probably wouldn’t be appropriate. There are other people here.’

  ‘Not too many witnesses, I hope?’

  ‘Oh no, don’t worry.’ He cleared his throat. ‘What about this man, Pearce?’

  ‘I’m following up on that. It does confuse the issue, somewhat.’

  He seemed about to add something, but chose to remain silent. Unsure what to make of his reticence, Gerard said, ‘I feel that, with the position I’m in now, my options are more limited, and possibly more. . . extreme, if you get my drift?’

  Stemper made sympathetic noises. ‘Either way, I’m sure I can assist.’

  In the kitchen Jen chewed down a banana that was about as digestible as cardboard, while Freddie struggled and swore over the settings for the ridiculously expensive coffee machine. It was like going back to their DIY days, Jen thought.

  ‘Instant’s fine,’ she said. ‘If not, don’t bother.’

  He finally got it working, only to discover a jar of instant coffee seconds later. He made himself a sandwich and they sat in silence for ten minutes, the tension not between them so much as all around them, sucking some of the oxygen out of the room.

  ‘I kind of wish I’d stayed in Greece,’ Freddie said at last.

  Jen knew what he meant: Charlie would still be with them. But she didn’t want to go there, so she said, ‘Did Ella come back with you, or is she waiting at your villa?’

  ‘Ella?’ His face twitched with surprise. Here it comes, she thought.

  ‘I saw a few things on Facebook. Isn’t she a bit young for you?’

  ‘She’s twenty-two – but she’s not my girlfriend.’

  ‘Freddie, there’s no need—’

  ‘I’m serious.’ He smiled at the expression on her face. ‘She came out for a couple of days with a producer I met in Brighton. Quite small-time, but he’s worked with good people. I invited him along in the hope that he might be a useful contact.’

  ‘So why wasn’t he in any of the pictures?’

  ‘He’s married. Told his wife he was in Glasgow, checking out a couple of bands. He and Ella had a huge bust-up when he thought she’d tagged him in something.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t think he’s interested in my music – not that it matters any more, compared to this. . .’

  Although she’d been wrong-footed, Jen actually felt a little sorry for him. She checked the time: ten to eight. She tried to visualise Charlie sleeping soundly in a comfortable bed, stood up and said, ‘Let’s see how your dad’s getting on.’

  Freddie nodded apprehensively. Halfway up the stairs, he said, ‘Don’t, uh, don’t get your hopes raised too high. Something like this might not be easy to undo.’

  ‘It should never have been done in the first place.’

  ‘I know that. I just mean. . .’ Without completing the sentence, Freddie knocked and opened the study door.

  Gerard was at his desk, phone in hand. He gave Jen a leering smile. ‘I’ve set things in motion, but it’s going to take time.’

  ‘So not before my appointment tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s highly unlikely.’

  ‘I’ll drive you down,’ Freddie confirmed, as if that made up for it. Then, to his father: ‘I’ve said Jen can stay the night.’

  ‘Have you now?’ Gerard gave a snort, before muttering under his breath, ‘Got your claws back in, have you?’

  Jen ignored the comment. ‘How does Hamilton intend to get the charges withdrawn?’

  ‘It’s up to him. I don’t need to know the details.’

  He was lying, Jen thought. That’s why he’d made them leave the room. Gerard wasn’t about to let her off the hook – just as Dean had predicted.

  ‘You know, I can understand your disappointment,’ she said, ‘especially about the part that Sam Dhillon was meant to play.’

  Gerard’s face creased with a theatrical display of incomprehension. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t.’ Wearily, she turned to Freddie. ‘Can you show me which room I’m having? I think I’ll go to bed.’

  ‘This early?’ Freddie sounded disappointed, but Jen just nodded.

  Gerard was still pretending to be baffled by her reaction. Jen had another last, despairing look around the room and then strode out.

  Stay strong, she told herself. He’s lying, and you’re going to prove it.

  56

  After his conversation with Alex Wilson, Stemper fed back what he’d learned so far, along with a recommendation that tracing Dean Geary should be the absolute priority. Shortly afterwards, he received a call direct from the client.

  He’d already conducted some
swift research into Gerard Lynch, and was expecting a more forceful individual. The man he spoke to sounded apprehensive, out of his depth. He didn’t have much to offer in the way of useful information, and Stemper quickly decided to keep his own thoughts to himself for now.

  From Hugo Hamilton he obtained, grudgingly, an address for Dean Geary, which turned out to be a poky one-bedroom flat in a new-build development in Uxbridge. It also turned out to be empty. Stemper got inside without too much difficulty, though there were a couple of makeshift booby traps and a hidden camera to deal with.

  Predictably, there was nothing in the flat that gave any clue as to his target’s whereabouts, nor was there any significant information about his past life. Alex Wilson, however, had divulged that Dean appeared to have just one friend in the world, a man named Nolan who had once, allegedly, been a member of the special forces, but now worked as a security guard at an industrial complex in the Thames valley.

  That sounded promising to Stemper.

  He made use of his own resources to come up with an address: a terraced house in a shabby district of Reading. Wilson had been sceptical about the career in the special forces – his view was that Nolan, much like Dean himself, was something of a fantasist – but Stemper couldn’t afford to make that assumption.

  Instead he took his time to research, prepare, observe. Having determined that Nolan was home, and seemed to be alone, he went in at a little after two in the morning.

  The lock on the back door was simple to overcome. Stemper paused in the kitchen to assess his surroundings. The fittings were poor quality, and the house reeked of beer and onions. He crept up the stairs and into the larger of the two bedrooms. Snoring like a buzz saw, Nolan was a bloated form underneath a thin, bare duvet. A Samsung cardboard box acted as a bedside table, and was home to a crushed can of Foster’s and a ten-inch hunting knife.

  Stemper approached the bed with a hypodermic needle in one hand and a ball gag in the other. He plunged the needle into the man’s arm, and when Nolan went to cry out, Stemper shoved the gag into his mouth and rammed his head down on the pillow.

  Nolan flailed and whined and choked, his limbs jerking in panic, but by the time Stemper had fastened the strap that held the gag in place, the drugs were taking effect and Nolan was little more than a mound of sour-smelling blubber.

  He hauled off the thin, grubby duvet and rolled the man onto his back, holding his breath as Nolan let rip a long, stuttering fart. He gazed down at the wide eyes and bulging cheeks, the face bright red and running with sweat. Nolan glared back, a look of pure fury that morphed, as he studied his attacker more carefully, into one of absolute terror.

  Stemper wore latex gloves, so there was no risk in picking up the man’s knife. ‘Very accommodating,’ he said. ‘Saves me using my own.’

  Nolan screeched at him, the only sound he could make. His enormous gut quivered as he fought to move. Stemper held up the syringe.

  ‘Ketamine and diazepam. There shouldn’t be any permanent effects, though I can’t say the same for this.’ He stroked the tip of the knife against the whorl of hair around one of the man’s nipples. ‘You’re going to answer some questions, quietly and politely, and then I’ll leave, understood?’

  Nolan managed a twitch of a nod. Even before the gag came free he was trying to speak. ‘Wasn’t me, it wasn’t, I promise.’

  ‘What wasn’t you?’

  A little flicker of confusion. ‘The mess-up in Coventry – Mike Murray?’

  Stemper shook his head. ‘I’m here about Dean.’

  Nolan looked relieved, but only for a second. Then he groaned, realising he was in no less trouble. ‘What?’

  ‘I want everything you know about him.’

  ‘Oh, man. The guy’s a bit of a tosser, but he’s still a mate. You’re asking me to betray him, and I know what you’ll do when you find him.’

  ‘In that case, you can probably guess what I’ll do if you don’t tell me.’ Stemper pressed the flat of the blade on Nolan’s chest, the tip pointing at the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. ‘Your friend Dean has abducted a child. I want to know: where will he go and what will he do?’

  57

  At three in the morning Jen woke with the horrific, paralysing certainty that everything she’d been told was a lie. When Dean had rung his mother, she should have demanded to speak to the woman herself, and then insisted on waking Charlie so she could hear his voice and know beyond doubt he was being cared for.

  For more than two hours she lay in torment. Calling the police now, in the middle of the night, to give them what could only ever be a confusing, disjointed account of the past week would invariably make things worse, and lead to a long confinement just when she needed to travel to the rendezvous with Charlie.

  She’d made her choice; now she had to live with it. Be patient, and trust that her faith in Dean wasn’t misplaced.

  By morning she felt wrung out, both physically and emotionally, but in daylight some of the worst fears receded, and she was cheered by the prospect of action. A busy day ahead, starting with a vital challenge.

  She had to get inside Gerard’s study.

  She was out of bed before seven. She knew Gerard was an early riser, but hadn’t heard any sign that he was up and about. Dressing quickly, she crept from her room on the second floor and descended the stairs, gingerly testing each tread before setting her weight down.

  The ground floor was silent, all the doors shut. Jen felt sick at the thought that the study might be locked. She gripped the handle and eased it down, then pushed, expecting resistance, but the door swung open to reveal an empty room.

  A memory of last Monday flashed a warning: how Alex Wilson’s camera had caught her intruding. But she was past worrying about a hidden camera. Dropping to her hands and knees, she peered under the desk and searched for the device she’d left here yesterday evening.

  It was a small black box, not dissimilar to a USB stick. With Freddie close by when she entered the study, she’d had no chance to do anything except set it down by her feet and gently push it under the desk. When she returned after their snack, she’d managed to nudge it with her foot, so that it was concealed by the cables that hung down from Gerard’s computer.

  The fear of its discovery had haunted what sleep she’d had. In one nightmare Gerard had burst into her room, screaming about the betrayal of his family while he stomped the device into tiny fragments. . .

  But the box was still there. She picked it up and stuffed it into her pocket. Dean had assured her that it would capture all conversation within a twenty-foot radius, but she wouldn’t know until she gave it for him to analyse, or upload, or whatever it was he had to do.

  She reached the doorway and heard a noise from the kitchen on the lower ground floor: the back door was opening. Jen knew she’d never get upstairs without being seen or heard, but there was a cloakroom just across the hall.

  Another precious second passed while she closed the study door with the handle rather than pulling it shut, then she darted into the cloakroom and ran the tap. She rinsed her hands, dried them and came out to find Gerard by the stairs, eyeing her with suspicion.

  ‘Morning, Gerard. You don’t mind if I put the kettle on, do you? Quick coffee and I’ll be out of here.’

  He grunted in response, and stood aside to let her pass. Once in the kitchen, she saw a pile of newspapers, an ashtray and a cup on the table on the terrace outside.

  He’d been out here the whole time, sitting just below the study window. Holy shit, she thought, and hauled in a breath. Calm. Be calm.

  She could feel his scrutiny, hot and hostile, as she filled the kettle. ‘You look very chirpy,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t feel it.’ She thought she must be radiating tension, but perhaps there was also a little more confidence now. ‘I’ll be chirpy when I hear the charges are withdrawn.’

  ‘I told you, it takes time. Heard any more from Dean?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How
are you contacting him? Do you have a phone number?’

  ‘Just email.’

  He snorted. ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s true. I assume it’s because he knows that phones can be traced.’

  ‘And yet he’s not a kidnapper, according to you?’

  Jen faced him, and said, ‘He’s worried about what your thugs will do if they find him. That strikes me as a good reason to lie low.’

  Gerard harrumphed, then stalked away without denying the accusation that he had people hunting for Dean.

  After making coffee, she hurried back to her room and took a shower. With Gerard’s taunt about Dean playing on her mind, she sent an email: How is Charlie? Can I speak to him this morning?

  Freddie knocked soon after. He’d dressed in black jeans and a Radiohead T-shirt. ‘What time do you need to get away?’

  ‘Soon as we can go.’ She was desperate to begin the sequence of journeys that would see her reunited with Charlie. It was infuriating that she had to return to Brighton first, but she feared the consequences of missing her appointment at the police station. For all she knew, they could put her behind bars if she failed to turn up. ‘I could do with going home before I see the police, but I’m fine to get the train.’

  ‘No, I want to take you.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘And I’m not acting as his spy, if you’re worried about that?’

  ‘Not really.’ She took a couple of steps closer. The swelling around his mouth had gone down, though there was still an unsightly bruise along his jawline. ‘You look exhausted.’

  ‘Didn’t get a lot of sleep,’ he admitted. ‘I wish I knew that Charlie was okay.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine. I’ve emailed Dean to find out the latest.’

  There was still no reply when they left the house. Fretting over whether to try again, Jen barely registered the fact that Gerard hadn’t come out to say farewell.

  They were borrowing his Mercedes GLS, which Freddie drove as though he were at Silverstone. The racing style wasn’t particularly appropriate for rush-hour traffic in the centre of London, but Jen distracted herself from the fear of an imminent crash by carefully composing another email to Dean. Seesawing between a friendly tone and one that demanded an immediate response, she settled finally on a brief and bland enquiry, then looked up to find they were almost at the M23.