The Dinner Guest B Walter (readict books TXT) 📖

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