The Dinner Guest by B Walter (best short books to read txt) 📕

a newspaper article. Just one line. The accused had sought the advice of Allerton & Quinn Consultancy services of Westminster, London. Around the same time, I saw a reference to my father as ‘a shadowy Thomas Cromwell figure for the Brexit era’. I quickly clicked off the article.

Last year, I was particularly haunted by something I saw when we were all watching TV in the lounge at Easter. There was a BBC News report about Operation Sundown, an investigation – triggered by an episode of the current affairs programme Insight – into prominent politicians’ and businessmen’s alleged involvement in an abusive sex ring. This was a complex case that seemed to be connected to an instance of historic sexual assault towards a young woman at Oxford University in the 1990s. Her accusations helped trigger the discovery of the sex ring, and led to a wave of arrests, some of which didn’t hold and resulted in cases collapsing. Others had held firmer, with a concerted effort by the CPS to bring them to court. That whole situation had been very awkward for us, since we were family friends with at least two of the accused men and were acquainted with the others. During the news report, it was announced that four of the five men would each receive fourteen years in prison. The fifth man, arguably the most high-profile, was handed just three years – sentence suspended. The evidence showing the extent of his involvement was, apparently, mislaid.

I saw across the room, as my father sat watching the news, a slight smile nudging the corners of his mouth when this information was read out in the calm, neutral voice of the BBC journalist. And that was when I knew that it was him. He had been behind the disproportionate difference in the sentences. He had woven his magic and, I’m sure, would be amply rewarded for it. Back then, I’m not sure I ever felt guilty, knowing where a portion of our income came from. I’m not sure. You see, when you’re brought up being told certain things are the way of the world, it becomes very hard to question them when you’ve just accepted them for so long. And I’m not sure it bothers me much now, as my father strides in, the picture of confidence and quiet power, his white-blond hair swept back neatly, his coat and suit fitting perfectly around his tall, thin frame. In fact, his appearance makes me feel relieved. He’s the type of man who doesn’t falter in a crisis.

‘I think we should go to St George’s Square,’ he says in a level, authoritative voice. He’s looking around the hallway of my mother’s house as if someone has tipped him off that the walls might be bugged. Perhaps they have been. My mother, for once, doesn’t ask questions, just nods and takes down her coat and starts to pull it on. I, however, have some major concerns.

‘I don’t think we should. The police…’

‘Have requested that you don’t leave the country. Is that correct?’

I nod.

‘They shouldn’t have a problem then with you travelling into Pimlico. You’re not leaving London; you’re not even leaving the City of Westminster.’

‘But … Titus,’ I say, lowering my voice, flicking my eyes up to the ceiling above. Titus had shut himself in his room and, according to my mother, was sleeping.

‘He’ll be fine,’ my mother says. ‘I put a sleeping pill in the cocoa I took up to him.’

My eyes flash with outrage. ‘You did what?’

‘It was the kindest thing, under the circumstances,’ my mother says firmly, as if drugging children is something she does on a daily basis. ‘He’ll wake up as normal in the morning, then we’re all going to Braddon. Be good to get out of London.’

I frown. There’s something about this I really don’t like. It’s like cogs are turning around me in a machine too vast and intimidating to understand.

‘Please can we discuss this in the car? I don’t want to keep my guests waiting.’

I turn around to look at my father properly. ‘Guests? What guests?’

‘You’ll see,’ he replies, opening the front door and stepping out into the street.

My father has Malcolm drive us the short journey to his house, delayed only by a police cordon around a section of Warwick Square. ‘Do you think it’s a stabbing?’ my mother remarks to the car in general, only sounding mildly interested. Seconds later she clearly realises what she has just said, and flashes me a horrified look. ‘Oh my goodness, Charles, I’m so sorry, I didn’t … I didn’t think.’ I don’t bother telling her it’s fine, I just shake my head vaguely, and before long we are outside the house I grew up in – a sizable Thomas Cubitt-designed townhouse near one of the entrances to the square’s large publicly accessible garden. It feels menacing and strange, and the light on in its front-room window, curtains drawn, feels like a warning to keep away rather than a comfortable welcome home. My father doesn’t tell me who’s in there, and I don’t ask again. I’ve learned that it isn’t wise to press my father. He has his own order of things. His own method.

The secret of who is inside is revealed moments later when my father leads us into the house and directly to the sitting room. Sitting around the fire, though it is not lit, are two middle-aged men. One of them, the slightly older of the two, I recognise instantly.

‘Charles, you of course know Jacob already,’ my father says, gesturing to the older of the two, our family lawyer, who gets up to shake my hand.

‘I am so very sorry for your loss,’ Jacob says, holding my hands together. ‘Very sorry.’

I continue to nod, vaguely, unsure what’s going on. It’s the second man who’s captured my attention. He has a small, thin, insect-like frame. A pair of glasses resting on his nose. Thick, red hair, still holding its colour when he must be