The Dinner Guest Page 15

  Eventually I nodded. ‘Sorry. Yes, sorry. I was just confused. The stress of not being able to find the passports…’

  He nodded. ‘It’s OK, I understand. Now, turn off the light and come and join me in here.’

  I smiled at him now, recognising the wicked slant his grin had taken on, but went to leave the room. ‘I just need to check Titus is all good and packed, and bring up some things from downstairs. And you should dry your hair properly; you’ll make the pillows damp.’

  I left him in the room and went via the alternative bathroom, separate from our room, before I looked in on Titus. In the mirror my own face stared back at me. Still slightly flushed. Still pulsing a little with the small fire of anger that had ignited inside me.

  When I got back to the bedroom, Matthew was in bed reading. Instead of reaching for my phone – Instagram being my normal alternative to Matthew’s reading – I lay back into the covers, trying to calm my cluttered mind.

  ‘You going straight to sleep? We don’t have an early start; it’s not even 10.30pm. You can sleep in in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t you just … sorry, nothing.’ I rolled over, annoyed at myself for starting the sentence.

  ‘Don’t I just what?’ I heard Matthew close his book and set it aside. ‘Is this still about High Wycombe?’

  ‘No, the holiday. I was just going to say that I still find it, well, odd, that we’re going on holiday with Rachel.’

  A sigh greeted this. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but … well, do you begrudge Rachel her, I don’t know … her ascent?’

  I pulled myself up on my elbows and looked at him. ‘Her ascent? What does that mean?’

  Matthew looked a little pained, as if unsure how to broach the subject. ‘Well, she’s rising in the world, isn’t she? From council flat to Eaton Square.’

  ‘Her Churchill Gardens flat was privately rented.’

  Matthew tutted. ‘You know what I mean. It must be quite a step up from her previous jobs – working in a garden centre or being a dogsbody in an office. Being Meryl’s live-in assistant can hardly be a difficult job – she’s so independent, I’m convinced she did the whole thing as a favour…’

  ‘Which you have to admit is odd in itself,’ I interrupted. ‘And she’s not just live-in; I believe Rachel has been given the option to live in Meryl’s additional property on Belgrave Place, which is being done up just for her. I mean, is this just a way of giving her a house? She might as well just transfer thirty-three million into her bank account and be done with it.’

  Matthew looked shocked. ‘Why are you being so bitter about this? Are you jealous or something? And it’s not a house; it’s an apartment. And it wouldn’t be worth thirty million.’

  ‘I’m not saying I’m jealous. Of course I’m not fucking jealous…’

  ‘Then it must be just snobbery,’ Matthew said with a shrug, looking at me as if I’d let him down. ‘How dare that little Yorkshire lass want a bit of what we’ve all got. Is that it?’

  ‘Oh, spare me,’ I snapped back. ‘All I’m asking is for you to agree with me that it’s strange. She walked into a bookshop one day, bumped into us two and within a matter of months she’s settled in the home of my godmother and might be set to take control of a household in one of the most desirable addresses in the world. Doesn’t that make you pause, even if it’s only to marvel at how well she’s managed the whole thing?’

  Matthew blinked back. ‘Take control? How well she’s managed it? You’re making her sound like a dormant terror cell, not a member of a book club.’

  I stared at him defiantly for a few seconds, then sank back into the covers. ‘I just find it odd.’

  Silence fell between us for a bit, then Matthew lay back down next to me. ‘Please don’t say any of this when we’re on holiday,’ he said, his tone softer, as if trying to appeal to my more reasonable side. ‘We’re going to have a good time and I think she’d find a lot of this very hurtful.’

  I didn’t reply, just stared at the ceiling. After a while, I heard Matthew move over and turn the light out, plunging us into darkness. We didn’t speak again until morning, and when we did, we avoided the topic of Rachel.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Charlie

  Three days after the murder

  The police arrive at Braddon Manor within less than forty-eight hours of us coming down here, three days after the murder. It is inevitable, of course, though part of me does feel like our calm little oasis is being shattered by outside forces.

  I hear the crunch of gravel outside and put down a copy of a novel I’ve been reading then go over to the window. A smart Mercedes has pulled up outside the house and sure enough, Detective Inspector Okonjo and Detective Sergeant Stimson get out. They’re always having a conversation and I hear the male voice say, ‘Bloody hell, this place,’ and then DI Okonjo says something in response I can’t quite catch. ‘Probably kept for tax reasons,’ DS Stimson muses, and I pull back a bit as they walk past the library window and head for the front door. ‘Would have been easier if they’d just stayed in bloody London,’ he continues.

  I get up and walk out of the library and into the hallway, opening the door to them just as DI Stimson rings it.

  ‘Hello Mr Allerton-Jones,’ DI Okonjo says, managing to hide any surprise at me opening the door so quickly. ‘We hope you’re holding up OK. As I said on the phone, we’d like to come in and give you an update.’

  It’s all in the detail, I think to myself, as I stand back and let them through. Give me an update. Question me further would be more accurate. ‘You told us not to leave the country,’ I say as I lead the way through into the lounge. I notice DS Stimson is peering around at the paintings on the walls with a mixture of disgust and fascination.

  ‘Sorry?’ DI Okonjo says.

  Once we’re in the living room, I motion for them to sit down. ‘You asked us not to leave the UK, but you didn’t say anything about not leaving London. I heard you speaking outside.’

  DI Stimson has the grace to appear embarrassed.

  ‘Like I said, we’re here to give you an update.’

  I nod. ‘That’s … very kind of you, thank you.’ After my confident start, I’m now finding it difficult to gather words together, as if I’m not speaking in my native tongue. Before I can say anything else, however, the door opens and my mother walks into the room.

  ‘Hello Mrs Allerton,’ DI Okonjo says, getting in first before my mother can talk. ‘We just need to have a chat with your son about the investigation and the next steps now we’ve had a confession to the crime.’

  My mother nods in a business-like way. ‘Yes, that sounds very sensible,’ she says and goes to sit down on one of the single-seater chairs.

  ‘Actually, Mrs Allerton, we’d prefer to talk to your son alone, at present, if that would be OK?’

  For a moment, I have a flashback to when I was fourteen and my mother accompanied me to a doctor’s appointment. He’d gently suggested my mother step out of the room before asking me if I was sexually active and if I needed any STI advice. Twenty years later, I still sometimes feel like I’m turning to my parents for permission, guidance, advice. If they’re around me, or present in the same building, they naturally feel like the default authority on everything.

  ‘Oh, right, certainly,’ my mother says, glancing at me for a second before retreating back through the door and closing it softly.

  ‘Surprising,’ DS Stimson says.

  ‘What’s surprising?’ I ask, not liking the look on his face. It’s cold and belligerent.

  ‘Well, most people, when their husband, wife, or child is murdered, they keep, y’know, hassling us. On at our officers for updates all the time. They want to know where we’re up to in the investigation. I just thought it surprising that, not only do you not bother us at all, but you then leave London and decamp to this place.’ He gives the library a look of repulsion, as if we were sitting in a rat-infested cellar.

  ‘The difference,
Inspector – oh no, sorry, Sergeant – is that we know who the guilty party is, in this case. Rachel confessed at the scene. I’m sure I’d be ringing your number at every hour of the day and night if my husband had been killed by a mystery assailant still walking the streets of London, but in this instance that hardly seems necessary.’

  The two detectives share a look. I begin to wonder if I’ve been shooting myself in the foot over these past few days. Maybe I’ve been trying too hard to fade into the background, to take the glare of the limelight off Titus and me and leave them to get on with charging Rachel. I try to compose my face into a pained and concerned expression.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just … as you can imagine, there’s no guidebook on how we should cope with this situation. It’s all … it’s all been traumatic.’

  DI Okonjo nods. ‘Of course it has. We do understand. I just have a few questions for you, then we’ll leave you in peace for now.’

  For now sounds ominous, but I nod.

  ‘At the dinner, before Rachel arrived and the violent incident occurred, could you tell me what you, your husband, and Titus had been talking about?’ I must look confused, as she then adds, ‘It’s all good background info. I’m just filling in some gaps that we didn’t pick up in our first chat with you.’

  ‘Well, I’m not really sure. It was … about Matthew’s time in Scotland.’

  ‘Matthew’s time in Scotland,’ she repeats. ‘OK. What did he have to say about his visit home?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘How he was glad to be back in London, but he’d had a nice time visiting his childhood home, which is now lived in and managed by his cousin.’

  DS Stimson opens up a notepad and writes something down.

  ‘Mr Allerton-Jones, could you let us know at what point in the conversation Rachel entered the flat?’

  I frown at her. ‘Why is that relevant?’

  ‘Just to get a full picture,’ she says, almost casually.

  At that moment, the door to the library opens and my father walks in. My mother probably alerted him to the police presence.

  ‘I’m Michael Allerton,’ he says as he comes over and stands behind the chair I’m seated in. ‘I appreciate you’re both doing your jobs, but before this conversation continues with my son I will have to insist we phone the family lawyer and ask him to be present.’

  There’s a silence for a few seconds, then DI Okonjo says slowly, ‘Of course, that’s all fine, but this isn’t a formal recorded interview. Your son is just helping us get a full picture of what happened that day.’

  I feel my father place a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. He’s warning me not to say any more.

  ‘I would understand that more if you didn’t have a suspect, Detective. But you do. One who handed herself in at the scene of the crime, I believe. Therefore I’m not entirely sure what you’re doing here.’

  DI Okonjo smiles, as if used to dealing with less enlightened members of the public, ‘A crime like this is like a big canvas that needs painting, Mr Allerton. Of course, most of the painting has been done, but we just need the finishing coat – dotting the Is and crossing the Ts, if you forgive me for mixing my metaphors.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ my father says, sitting down next to me. ‘But I still think it would be best if we waited for our family lawyer. I’ve already called him; he’s on the way.’

  DI Okonjo pulls a slight face, as if she’s trying to hide her annoyance. ‘Do you know, it is interesting, like DS Stimson said a moment ago, how unusual this is. Normally a widow or widower would be desperate to tell us as much as possible so as we can secure a safe conviction. This is … unexpected.’

  I feel my irritation spike. ‘Well, you know what, I’m getting rather fucked off by everyone implying I’m not grieving correctly. I’m sorry if I’m not a neat tick on your list of boxes to get through, but I think we’ll do as my father suggests and wait for our lawyer to arrive.’

  DI Okonjo definitely looks less impressed now, but simply says, ‘As you wish,’ and gives a brisk nod. ‘Do you have an ETA? Should we come back another day?’

  My father shakes his head. ‘He’ll be here in under twenty minutes. In the meantime, I’d like to speak to my son. This won’t take long.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he stands and walks towards the door. I glance at the detectives, who don’t say anything, then I stand and head off in the same direction.

  Outside in the hallway, my father leads me along the corridor and down the small run of steps into the kitchen. My mother is in there, waiting by the Aga. ‘What’s happening?’ she asks as she sees us come in.

  ‘We’re waiting for Jacob,’ my father says, then turns to me. ‘Avoid saying no comment; only use it as a last resort. Try to keep things simple and stick to what you’ve already told them.’

  I walk over to the fridge and take out some apple juice. Its cool sweetness instantly revitalises me, making me feel more alert and less as if I’m swimming through fog. ‘It sounds like you’re well-versed in lying to the police,’ I say, flicking my eyes over to him.

  Sensing dangerous territory, my mum starts talking about plans for dinner. My father holds my gaze for just long enough to communicate his displeasure, then turns away.

  Jacob Wakefield arrives, as promised, in under twenty minutes. ‘Lead the way,’ he says in a brisk, business-like tone and my father, mother, and I walk back into the library. DS Stimson is examining one of the books on the far shelf, and jerks around like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t.

  ‘This is our family lawyer, Jacob Wakefield, OBE,’ my father announces grandly, offering our new guest a seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ DI Okonjo says. ‘As we said before, we’d like to talk to Charlie alone, though of course it’s fine for his lawyer to be present.’ She looks pointedly back at my father, meeting his stony stare with admirable ease. He eventually gives in and stalks back through the room and out the door, closely followed by my mother.

  ‘So, have you had any more thoughts on why Rachel would have wanted to murder your husband?’ DI Okonjo says, jumping straight back in as if we’d never had an interruption.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, simply. ‘I think she wanted to fuck him. And he turned her down.’

  I hear Jacob to my right take in a short breath through his nose after I’ve said this, and the eyes of both the detectives widen. ‘She wanted to start an extra-marital affair with Matthew?’ The term ‘extra-marital affair’ sounds strange and archaic and at odds with her East London accent.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘And she was unsuccessful in her attempts.’

  I nod.

  ‘And this has only just occurred to you?’ DI Okonjo says, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply again.

  ‘You see, when we asked you on the night itself, you said you didn’t know why she’d want to…’

  ‘I was in shock,’ I say, feeling panic rising within me. ‘My husband had just been slaughtered in front of me. I wasn’t in the right state of mind to unpick her motives. But after having taken the time to think about it, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s quite possible she had a crush on … no, an obsession. With him.’

  DS Stimson raises an eyebrow, ‘But … why would she try to have sex with a gay man? Surely she knew Matthew wouldn’t be attracted to her?’

  My hands start to tremble and I rub them on my knees to try to calm myself.

  ‘Detectives,’ Jacob cuts in, ‘my client isn’t required to explain the desires of your suspect. A suspect who has handed herself in and confessed to the crime.’

  ‘I understand,’ DI Okonjo says. ‘But the thing is, Rachel is refusing to discuss what happened or anything to do with the crime. In fact, she’s barely said a word since we took her into custody.’

  A strange, woozy mixture of relief and dread flows through me. I’m relieved Rachel hasn’t given a wildly different version of events or been creating li
es at length – lies I wouldn’t be able to keep up with. But on the other hand, if she isn’t talking at all, it’s no wonder the police are digging.

  ‘Are there any more questions for Charles, here?’ Jacob says, shuffling a little, as if poised to leave.

  ‘Yes,’ DI Okonjo says, doing the opposite with her body, moving herself back in her chair, making herself comfortable. ‘Could you explain what Rachel did or said prior to the murder of your husband that made you suspect she had romantic or sexual feelings towards him?’

  After a few seconds of hurried thinking, I reply as firmly as I can, ‘Yes. Our holiday to The Hamptons.’

  DI Okonjo’s eyes are piercing, her eyebrows slightly creased. ‘And this was a holiday you invited her on?’

  I shook my head. ‘I didn’t invite her. And by God I wish she’d never come.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Charlie

  Three months to go

  ‘Stop looking at her,’ Matthew said as he bent over my seat, looking for a book he’d added to my carry-on bag.

  ‘What?’ I said in response, certain I must have misheard him.

  ‘You keep looking at her,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Rachel,’ he mouthed.

  ‘I assure you I’m not,’ I hissed at him.

  ‘You are, with a face like thunder.’

  ‘Don’t you think it odd,’ I continued in a whisper, ‘how she won’t stop talking to Titus?’

  Matthew looked over at them. Sure enough, they seemed to be deep in conversation. He straightened up just as one of the cabin crew squeezed round him.

  ‘No, I think she’s just being friendly,’ Matthew replied. ‘And Titus is being kind because she’s new to all this and, like the nice boy he is, he wants to make her feel welcome.’