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

In the end, I had to stop looking for flats in Chelsea. There were some in the same borough, but I would be literally miles away, on the other side of Hyde Park, and I desperately didn’t want that. In the end, I found a flat in Westminster I could just about afford, so long as I lived like an actual pauper, surviving on discounted ready meals and tins of soup. It was on the Churchill Gardens Estate in Pimlico. It would take me about half an hour to walk from the flat to Carlyle Square. It wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly doable.

Could I really do it? I spent a few minutes debating this issue. Then I phoned up the agency listed on the flat details. After three rings a woman answered in a bored-sounding voice. ‘Hi,’ I said, trying to sound confident and committed to my decision, ‘My name’s Rachel and I’m interested in renting a flat on Churchill Gardens Road, Pimlico that you have advertised.’

Chapter Four Charlie

The day of the murder

The police officer who comes to find Titus and me supervises the removal of our clothes, which are then placed in clear plastic bags. We’re handed plastic tops and bottoms which crinkle and feel slightly uncomfortable against the skin. Then we’re taken to Belgravia Police Station. And the questioning begins.

Titus and I are separated, although everyone is very kind and reassuring. I’m told by a kindly woman in uniform that this is all just procedure and how they just need to have a chat about what happened. ‘Titus is only fifteen,’ I tell them. ‘I want to be with him.’ I’m told this should be possible, and I’m shown into a room with sofas, with Titus sitting against the far wall alone. Another police officer follows me in and waits with us. Are they making sure we don’t start getting our story straight? Strategising? Or is all this normal?

I’m on edge, and the true reality of the situation is settling in. I’m furious at myself for not talking to Titus properly before the police arrived, but my chance has now passed and before long a man of average height and build with brown hair and a flushed face comes in. ‘Charles Allerton-Jones?’ he asks, looking at me.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘We need to get a formal statement from you about what’s happened. I understand this must be very difficult and you must be shocked by this ordeal, but rest assured we’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of what’s happened. The woman who placed the 999 call is now in custody and has confessed to killing your husband. However, as I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s really important we get your side of the story, and your son’s, as quickly as we can.’

His words hit me like little pins, each one jabbing somewhere sensitive in my brain. Shocked. Confessed. Killing. At last, I look up at him properly and say, ‘I want to stay with Titus.’

DS Stimson looks over at the boy, who has his head down, staring at the floor.

‘We would prefer to speak to you alone, Mr Allerton-Jones. Titus will not be questioned without you being present or at least aware of what’s happening. Is there someone you can call to be with him?’

I nod. ‘My mother … but your colleague took my phone…’

‘You can use a phone out here,’ he says. He shows me out to the corridor. I give Titus what I hope is a comforting smile as I leave, but his eyes stay on the carpet.

I phone my mother, then my father, but to my fury neither of them picks up. I phone my mother again and leave a message telling her to come to Belgravia Police Station and that something awful has happened. When I end the voicemail, I feel bad for not clarifying that Titus and I are safe and unharmed, but still, I’m incensed I can’t get through to them straight away.

I’m then led into an interview room. Its aesthetic is drab and grey – more commonplace than the high-tech, space-age-style suites they show in TV dramas. DS Stimson varies his tone between firmly authoritative and compassionately sensitive. ‘Please, just start at the beginning.’

I take a deep breath, then look at him, unwavering, my eyes meeting his, and then lie through my teeth. ‘Rachel killed my husband. She interrupted our dinner, took a kitchen knife from the table, and stabbed him.’

Chapter Five Rachel

The day of the murder

My interview with the police doesn’t last long. After going through the process of being arrested, cautioned, given clothes, my things being taken from me, and then being shown to a cell, I sit waiting for a few hours. Then Detective Sergeant Darren Stimson begins his grilling. Or tries, anyway.

The interview room is cold, the air conditioning blasting away. It seems those who manage the station haven’t yet twigged that summer has taken a decidedly chilly turn. Even so, DS Stimson seems to be having something of a hot flush, with his jacket over his chair and the occasional loosening of his tie. Perhaps he has high blood pressure, or maybe a thyroid issue.

‘Rachel, it really would help if you could give us a full picture. It may influence the outcome of how this plays out in court. If only we knew why you did what you say you did. Talk me through the evening, step by step.’

He’s said this already. Step by step. I see no point in doing what he asks beyond what I’ve told them already. So I decide it’s my turn to start repeating myself.

‘As I’ve said, I murdered Matthew Allerton-Jones. I stabbed him. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’

That last bit’s true at least. Because I really don’t want to go into it all with them, not now.

‘I think we’ll take a break,’ DS Stimson says, seeming