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

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