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

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 lies 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.’

I assumed an unconvinced expression and Matthew rolled his eyes and went back to his seat.

My mood didn’t improve much when we landed. As we walked out into the afternoon New York heat, I noticed Rachel slip on some stylish shades, no doubt bought by her employer, or by the sizable paycheque she was receiving for basically just organising a few hair appointments. ‘Meryl’s only seventy, only a little older than you,’ I murmured to my mother as we waited in the airport for our luggage to be brought to us. Rachel and Meryl had nipped to the bathrooms, leaving Matthew talking to my father about tailoring; Titus was on one of the chairs engrossed in a novel, and my mother was deciding which magazines to discard. ‘What has Meryl’s age got to do with anything?’ my mother asked, distracted, now reaching for her phone and turning it on.

‘Why does she need someone to help her when she’s on holiday? I mean, it’s not as if we have to do anything for ourselves; we’re taken everywhere and every bag or drink or meal is brought to us. Why does she need someone to do it for her?’

My mother frowned at me. ‘That sounds a little insensitive, Charles. People need others at different points in their lives. Hasn’t it occurred to you that Meryl might be lonely?’ When I didn’t reply she turned and looked around at the sun-drenched first-class arrival zone. ‘Shouldn’t you be Instagramming or something?’ she said, as if suspicious at how little I’d been using my phone recently.

‘I’m not in the mood,’ I said, noticing Meryl and Rachel coming out from the bathrooms and over towards us. I quickly moved over to join Matthew and my father in their less than thrilling conversation about the decline of the businesses on Jermyn Street in recent years.

We were staying in a large house in the Water Mill area of The Hamptons – a property we’d booked a couple of years running now, since it suited everyone with its proximity to nearby restaurants, beaches, and shops whilst remaining pleasantly quiet and secluded. The building formed a square around the pool, with each side of the house functioning almost as a separate villa in itself. Matthew and I took one side, my parents the other, Meryl and Rachel had