Page 102 of A Game of Lies

What are you doing? Are you threatening me? Get off me!

Ffion plays the third clip again, turning the volume up high. As Henry flails at his imaginary spider, his shouts are deafening in the small space. ‘Get off me!’

Ffion feels exhausted and exhilarated all at once, as though she’s run a marathon. They weren’t hearing Miles being murdered at all. They were hearing a reconstruction. Miles was already dead, his attacker long gone, off to put the finishing touches to his alibi.

She navigates to footage she’s already watched, of Henry in the confession pod, at what they’d all thought was the time of the murder. No wonder he’d stayed there so long, she thinks, revolted by the self-deprecating look on his face. Every few seconds, his eyes flick to one side. Because he’s lying? She pauses the footage. She remembers seeing him make an earlier visit to the confession pod, and she clicks back to eleven a.m. and then forward, minute by minute, until she sees the door to the pod open. The first time she’d seen this, she assumed Henry was about to launch into another introspective monologue, but now she sees that he doesn’t sit down at all. He steps in for just a moment, and his eyes flick back to that spot on the wall.

Ffion has a feeling she knows exactly what he’s looking at, and, once she’s confirmed it, she can present the others with the final piece in the puzzle they were beginning to think was unsolveable. She sets off up Pen y Ddraig, leaving the studio door wide open.

THIRTY-NINE

HENRY | DAY SEVEN OFEXPOSURE

The secret to being undercover, Henry has found, is to be as boring as possible. No shade on accountants, but you don’t seek them out at parties, do you? Not unless you want advice on your tax return. Over his fifteen years working as an investigative journalist, Henry (whose name is actually Clive) has used his accountant cover story more often than any of his others. He has travelled across the world in pursuit of the truth, sometimes for anonymous tell-alls in the Sunday papers; sometimes at the behest of some big corporation, acting on whistleblower intelligence.

The funny thing about secrets is that one invariably leads to another. Sent to investigate allegations of modern slavery in a cigarette factory, Henry stumbled upon a drugs ring. A few months later, as he was writing an exposé on counterfeit watches, he discovered that the CEO had a predilection for dogging. It had no bearing on the article, but it fuelled Henry’s lucrative sideline in opportunistic blackmail. It no longer surprises Henry when he comes across these dirty little second lives. Everyone has a secret. Everyone is playing their own game.

He met Miles at an award ceremony, where a documentary to which Henry had contributed was up for a gong. Henry, who was usually discreet about his involvement, had a few drinks too many and boasted to Miles of his unrivalled research skills. ‘I can find out anything about anyone.’

‘Is that right?’ A slow smile spread across Miles’s face. ‘How would you feel about collaborating on a concept I’ve been working on?’

They developedExposureover the next twelve months, before Miles advertised for contestants. He gave Henry a list of shortlisted applicants and charged him with digging up the dirt. ‘Hopefully at least six of these have something to hide.’

Henry was blasé about it. ‘Everyone has something to hide.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Sure about that?’ Henry had done a little research of his own; he knew about Miles’s fondness for recreational drugs. He held Miles’s gaze until the producer looked away.

There was dirt aplenty among the applicants, as it turned out. Miles rejected any who seemed as though they wouldn’t care enough about protecting their privacy. ‘It isn’t just about how big the secret is,’ he reminded Henry. ‘It’s about how much they want to keep it. It’s about the consequences of that secret getting out.’

Slowly, Miles chose his favourites, while trying to maintain the right balance of contestants. ‘This one’ll have to go,’ he said, plucking a photo from the line of images on the table in front of them. ‘He’s too old.’

‘He’s the same age as Pam.’

‘Yes, but she’s there for comedy value – I mean, look at her. This guy’s too basic.’ Miles flipped over the photo to read the back, reminding himself of the man’s dirty little secret. ‘Imagine how relieved he’ll be when the show airs and he realises he escaped a #MeToo take-down.’

‘Bloody feminists,’ Henry said, with uncharacteristic bitterness.

‘You too, huh?’ Miles fist-bumped him. ‘Solidarity, mate. They’re all keen enough when you’re paying for drinks, right? Then suddenly it’s allbut consent isn’t consent unless it’s signed in triplicate.’

‘Exactly!’ Henry shuddered. ‘Christ, I’ve had a few like that over the years.’ He picked up the photo of the rejected applicant and dropped it in the bin. ‘Consider yourself saved by the brotherhood, mate.’

They were both satisfied with the final line-up of six contestants. Each had a different type of secret, and each seemed likely to react differently to the threat of exposure. AlthoughExposurewas reality television and supposedly unscripted, Miles had clear storylines in mind, setting out storyboards well in advance of filming. There would be the Declaration of Friendship and the subsequent Betrayal. The obligatory shot of a hot girl (Aliyah) in a bikini. Every scene was anticipated, the contestants’ behaviour steered to suit Miles’s narrative.

‘So we’re agreed on Jason as the first exposure?’ Henry said, as they planned the order of events.

Miles nodded. ‘Bigamy’s huge. As soon as we come off air, I’ll get that anonymous tip-off into the papers with the location of the first wife.’

Unable to trust a member of Miles’s production team not to leakExposure’s dynamite twist, Miles trained Henry on the editing software. In the weeks leading up to filming, Henry and Miles set up templates and graphics, ensuring Miles would be able to drop in the footage he wanted on the day.

‘You’re a fast learner,’ Miles said approvingly, when he came back from his morning run and saw the framework Henry had created for the first exposure. There would be a close-up of someone crying (someone always cried) then a cutaway to Roxy, then a pre-recorded shot of an axe hitting wood, before cutting back to the contestants. ‘I’m almost disappointed you can’t stay and help me put it together once we’re live.’

‘Why can’t I?’ Henry said.

Miles’s face broke into a slow smile. ‘Because you’re going into camp.’ He held up a hand before Henry could say anything. ‘Think about it: even if I control the exposures so that only one contestant stays in the show till the end, I’ve still got to pay out a hundred grand. Meanwhile, you’re earning a few thousand.’ He grinned. ‘But if you go intoExposureas a contestant, knowing all their secrets, you can make sure things go the way we want, and I can make sure you win. Even if someone goes into the confession pod and doesn’t crack, you can expose them later and they’ll be gone. I won’t have to pay out the full hundred grand, and you’ll take home … let’s say forty thousand quid.’

Henry was reeling, but forty grand was forty grand. He was used to changing his appearance; he could dye his fair hair brown, wear blue contacts. ‘Eighty grand,’ he said.

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