The Dinner Guest

by B P Walter

  Years would go by before I would scroll through my old hard drive, about to be discarded, and stumble upon my photos from 2005. When I would realise what I had actually photographed, that day in the woods. How I had shot a clear view of Johnny and Collette’s cabin. The figure in the hot tub on the deck. And the man standing over him. The man in a cream cable-knit jumper.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Charlie

  Less than a week to go

  Matthew continued to tell me his horrible story as I sat on the sofa with balled-up fists. How Rachel had joined him, the Gibsons, and their friends. How he hadn’t really spoken to her, how she’d blended into the group of university friends the Gibsons had brought. He barely remembered seeing her. Now, he realised that she must have gone over there with a similar aim to his: to check on her sibling, make sure they weren’t relapsing into old habits, and hope for their safe return home. After he’d said all this, it was enough for me to put two and two together.

  ‘This is why she’s been trying to get close to Titus. This is why she’s been so weird. So keen to worm her way into our family, into our lives. And you, with your weird encouragement of her. So fucking naïve. And Christ, she struck gold, didn’t she, living off Meryl’s money over on Eaton Place.’

  ‘Eaton Square,’ he corrected.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck!’ I was shouting now. ‘How long have you known? How much danger has Titus been in while you’ve been keeping all your secrets close to your chest?’

  ‘I only found out today. She confronted me. That’s why we had to leave the party so quickly. I couldn’t be anywhere near her. I can’t be anywhere near her. That’s why I’m telling you all this … because of what she might do.’

  I ran a stressful hand through my hair. ‘What can she do? What did she say to you?’

  Matthew looked very close to tears now, and as he reached a slightly shaking hand for his drink on the mantelpiece, I saw some tears slip from his eyes. ‘She has a photograph. A photograph of me. Standing on the veranda. And Johnny’s sitting in the hot tub. And I’m standing there, holding Titus. Watching him.’

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to take in oxygen slowly. ‘And what is she going to do with this photograph? Try to go to the police? Blackmail us?’

  I looked up at him shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. I was too sick to say anything. I just knew I had to get away from her.’

  ‘And she’s worked out the truth, has she?’

  I saw a flicker of something in his face. He looked down, then back up to me, but there was an odd lack of focus in his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She thinks I could have saved him.’

  I got up. I’d had enough. I couldn’t have taken any more even if I’d wanted to. I was both exhausted yet so pumped with adrenalin I felt I could run a mile.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  He followed me to the hallway as I stepped into my shoes. ‘Please. Can we talk about this?’ He was properly crying now. And part of me wanted to comfort him. Wanted to gather him into my arms. Allow him to cry into my shoulder. But another part of me was on fire with a much darker, less forgiving emotion. It’s how I always feel if I’m betrayed, deceived, left out of a loop. And this was one big fucking loop he’d left me out of. I took one last glance at the flushed, tear-stained face of my husband. Then I stepped out of the house, letting the door slam behind me.

  I walked out onto the main road and along its steady curve up to Sloane Square. I didn’t have any real destination in mind. No real direction. I just knew I had to walk. I only came to a stop once I reached Eaton Square. I didn’t know Meryl’s house number off by heart, but I slowed when I got to the part of the long, neat street where I thought she lived. Rachel was in one of these houses right now, assuming they’d already returned from the party. I could knock on the doors until I found her. Demand to know her side of the story. But I knew this was foolish. So I turned away and carried on walking. I passed garden squares. Houses with darkened windows. Busy late-night bars, loud with drunken merriment. Armed police officers outside embassies. I passed my mother’s house on Wilton Crescent. I didn’t think, I didn’t dwell, I purposefully shut everything out as best I could, letting my feet take me away through the warm night. When I was in the midst of my stride, I thought I’d be able to walk far beyond Westminster, through the East End and out into Essex, perhaps even as far as Braddon, where I could shelter, alone in the large house, leaving my problems in London behind me. But in truth, I barely got much beyond my own postcode before I looped back round onto The Mall. I wandered in the direction of home, past Victoria, taking a brief detour onto Eccleston Square to pass my first adult home, fresh out of university. It felt like a lifetime ago now, like I was passing the former home of another person I vaguely knew, rather than myself.

  With every step, one word circled my brain, pecking at me like a hostile bird: truth. Why was I so obsessed with it? Why did it matter so much? Why couldn’t I let sleeping dogs lie? Matthew’s deception had surely been to protect both me and Titus from a truth neither of us could do anything about. And, in the grand scheme of things, what he’d done hadn’t been murder. Not really. The man probably deserved to die. Matthew wasn’t beyond redemption or forgiveness, surely?

  An image flickered in my mind. Dim and undefined at first, then suddenly it flared, bright and searing. The look on Matthew’s face when I’d asked about Rachel.

  And she’s worked out the truth, has she?

  There was something there. Something about that particular moment that sent shivers crawling over me.

  I was outside a Sainsbury’s on Elizabeth Street when it finally clicked. It was as if my world had exploded and a weight had been lifted off my shoulders at the same time. Because everything now made sense. And I knew absolutely why Matthew felt he could never tell me everything.

  I arrived back at Carlyle Square at about twelve-thirty in the morning. The downstairs was all dark, but I could see as I got to the landing that the lights were on in both Titus’s bedroom and mine. Ours. Matthew was sitting on the bed. He’d evidently been crying hard; I could see the red blotches under his eyes even in the dim light of the bedside lamp. There was something about his stillness that pricked the raging, burning anger inside me all over again. I’d calmed myself down as I’d approached the house, practised slow and steady breathing on the long walk back down the King’s Road. And I tried now to make sure I retained this sense of calm as I closed the door gently behind me.

  ‘I thought you might have gone to spend the night at Wilton Crescent,’ he said, looking at the floor. ‘What with your mother staying at the Ashtons’s.’

  I took off my blazer, folded it over, and hung it on the back of the chair near the window. I kept my moves slow and steady, though still felt the tremble of my hands as the material left my grasp.

  ‘I thought about it,’ I said, ‘but in the end I just went for a walk. I went over to Eccleston Square. Just for a look around. But then I just came home.’

  He glanced my way at this, confused. ‘Your old place?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Why? I thought someone else now lives there.’

  ‘I don’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to go back to how things were before.’

  A few beats of silence echoed crushingly between us. Then he said, ‘Before you met me?’

  I let the silence go on some seconds more. I chose not to acknowledge his question. After a few more seconds, he started to say how sorry he was, but I’d had enough. ‘Please just stop,’ I said, simply.

  He looked at me as if I’d slapped him. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to him so coldly before in my life. It’s weird but, looking back, I think it might have been that moment, that tiny moment in the midst of this terrible time, that broke something vital within us. Like when an athlete tears an important ligament or breaks a tiny important bone, and although they can carry on walking and running or jumping or swimming, nothing is ever the sa
me again. The pain continues to hamper, to hinder, to stop them hitting the heights that had come so naturally before.

  When the silence became unbearable, I finally spoke. ‘I’ve worked it out. I know what you did.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Charlie

  Three days after the murder

  My father walks into the library and sits down in one of the chairs. He nods at the seats opposite him, clearly suggesting my mother and I should get off the floor and sit down properly. We do as we’re told. ‘So you’ve told us the truth, at last,’ he says, in a level tone.

  I look at him and say cautiously, ‘You knew?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t have good research resources,’ my father replies, calmly. ‘I found out today.’

  ‘Charles, you kept this to yourself?’ my mother says, turning to look at me. She looks a little lost, then a frown starts to line her brow. ‘Has Rachel been stalking you, all this time? Planning this? But why would she want to kill Matthew?’

  I don’t know how much my father knows already, but something within me knows it would be futile to dodge their questions any longer. I take a deep breath and, keeping my gaze on the coffee table in front of me, I tell them. I tell them what Matthew told me, just over a week ago, when we returned from the Ashtons’s party. I tell them how Johnny Holden orchestrated an attack on Matthew and ruined Collette’s life. How she gave birth to Titus in Norway, and how the eventual death of Johnny resulted in Matthew becoming a murderer. My parents listen in silence. Then my mother speaks.

  ‘You’ve known this all this time and you didn’t say anything?’

  I look up at her and try to show in my eyes how difficult, how painful, this all is for me. ‘I had to keep Matthew’s secret. Telling anyone else would have put them – you – in an impossible situation.’

  She lets out a tired, disappointed sigh. ‘Yes, but when he was killed, this would have been a perfect thing to tell the police,’ she says. ‘It makes her motive clear.’

  I hold out my hands, imploringly. ‘How would I have explained not going to the police myself when I knew Matthew had murdered – or at least had a part to play in the death of – Rachel’s brother? I stayed silent for days. I didn’t go to the police and tell them anything when I found out, and besides, making it sound like it was to do with Rachel’s crush on Matthew takes the attention away from Titus and makes it look like Rachel’s just simply a psychotic jealous scorned lover.’

  I look over to my father, hoping he will at least show he understands the predicament I’m in. He fixes me with a hard stare, then speaks in his low, firm voice. ‘You’ve been so incredibly stupid, Charles. The police will find this out. As we speak they’ll be scouring Rachel’s background and they’ll make the connection, if they don’t get it out of her first.’

  Suddenly, my mother holds up her hand and says, ‘Stop, Michael. This is all going to be OK. It will all work out the same in the end. They’ll uncover the reasons, Rachel will go to prison for murder, and Charlie and Titus will be safe. Even if she decided to backtrack on her confession, this is still a pretty damning motive. As long as Titus holds his nerve.’

  As she says this, I see my father looking between us both, looking even more grave and concerned than he did moments before. ‘Part of me thinks it would be best if we didn’t talk about this, but your mother has told me what Titus said to her the night before Matthew’s murder. And I agree with your mother that Titus needs to be protected. He’s got a great future ahead of him, I’m sure. It would be a tragedy if the police find out the real truth about this.’

  I stay silent for a while after my father has said this. Then I stand up. I don’t plan on leaving. I’ve done enough walking away from my troubles. I just go to the window, look out at the dying light of the late afternoon, then return to sit back down and face my parents. ‘I’ll be forever grateful that you’re both ready to rally round a boy who isn’t even your biological grandson. It means a lot to me. That you’ve both been there for him throughout his life. And through all this. But I really have to ask: why are you so sure Titus killed Matthew?’

  My mother and father stare back at me in amazement. ‘But … I thought we all understood that that’s … what happened, surely?’ Cassandra says. Then her face changes. And she looks at me with a mixture of pity and horror.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Charlie

  The week of the murder

  The morning after our night of hell, I woke to find Titus standing over me. I was on the sofa in the lounge, having been unable to spend the night next to Matthew after our discussion. I’d bypassed our guest bedroom and instead opted for the lounge – something to do with putting sufficient distance between us. Titus was fully dressed in a white Ralph Lauren shirt and light-blue shorts.

  ‘What are you doing down here?’ he asked, his expression unreadable. ‘Did you and Dad argue? I heard the front door go a couple of times.’

  I pulled myself up so I was leaning on the arm of the sofa, the material slightly rough against my bare arms. I hadn’t wanted to return back upstairs to the same room as Matthew to get my pyjamas, so I’d shed my evening clothes and slept in my underwear, using a cashmere throw as a makeshift duvet. ‘Yeah, we did,’ I replied.

  ‘About me?’

  I looked back up at his face, seeing the hardness, the resolute toughness that had become more frequent over this past year.

  ‘Sort of,’ I said, being deliberately vague. If only he knew to what extent the whole thing was about him, and how he’d nearly died one cold night in Norway, he wouldn’t look so unbreakable. ‘Are you going out?’ I asked, looking again at his attire.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, brushing his fringe out of his face. ‘I’m going over to Melanie’s in Kensington for the day. Maybe the night too.’

  This was something I hadn’t expected. ‘What? Melanie…? You mean … the eighteen year old?’

  He nodded, and I could see in his eyes the slightest glint of satisfaction. He knew this news would disconcert me. Catch me off-guard.

  ‘Yeah. Although she’s nearly nineteen now.’

  I noticed now the leather Mulberry travel holdall by his feet. ‘You’re … going to her place … to stay?’

  He sighed in an over-the-top exasperated way. ‘Calm down. Only for a night or two. I’m not leaving home.’

  ‘But,’ I spluttered, ‘after yesterday? You and Pippa? And now you’re going to see Melanie?’

  He shrugged, a tiny grin edging at the corners of his mouth. ‘Yeah, well, Pippa and I aren’t exactly an item. So I’m still a free agent where that stuff’s concerned.’

  I looked at him in astonishment. Then I thought, should it astonish me? I’d been in love with Rupert for most of my teens, but I certainly hadn’t remained celibate throughout the intervening years before we’d become a proper item. But this was different. This was Titus. He was supposed to be young, innocent, a child, not some confident London Lothario sewing his wild oats left, right and centre. I thought about telling Matthew, bringing him down here, having it out with Titus, both of us a united front. And then, an instant after having this thought, I found I just didn’t care. Fine. Let him do what he wanted. Let him try to shock us. If Titus’s aim was to cause a stir and freak us out, he wasn’t going to get it.

  I let myself thud back onto the sofa and lay back down. ‘OK. Whatever,’ I said. ‘Text us your plans when you know them.’

  I could tell by the way he stayed there motionless that I’d surprised him.

  ‘So … you’re fine with me going to Melanie’s?’

  I shrugged my shoulders and pulled the cashmere over me as if I was going to go back to sleep. ‘Sure. Just use a condom this time, OK?’ I closed my eyes and turned away from him.

  Still he didn’t move. Then, after what felt like an age, he finally said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on here but it’s driving me up the fucking wall.’ Then I heard him grab his bag and stomp out of the lou
nge. The slam of the front door followed quickly after.

  I got up off the sofa and, fishing my phone out of my trousers from the floor, walked slowly upstairs, unsure if I was going to find my husband in bed asleep or ready to start up the conversation we’d been having the night before. In actual fact, neither was the case. The bed was empty and made, although not quite as neatly as how Jane did it. I showered whilst my phone was on charge and came back to see a string of messages from Matthew. Three were sent around midnight last night when I was out on my long walk, and the fourth was sent at 6.40am this morning. It read:

  We both need some thinking time. I’ve gone up to Scotland to stay in the castle for a few days. I left a message for Titus but if he asks tell him he can call me. I love you.

  I put the phone down without replying.

  The night before had ended with Matthew confessing everything to me. The true story about what had happened to Johnny Holden that night on the veranda in Norway. How Matthew had been … modest about the level of his involvement in his death.

  After I told him I knew he had murdered Johnny, Matthew sort of collapsed. I watched, not going over to the bed to comfort him. Just watched calmly, waiting for him to pick himself up and stop shaking enough to talk. His worst nightmares were becoming real before his eyes and I couldn’t bring myself to display the compassion he so desperately wanted in that moment. I did, however, avoid shouting and raging. I stayed calm. I asked him to explain. Although, of course, there wasn’t really much to explain after I’d worked it out. Just for him to correct a small detail: that he hadn’t stood by to watch as Johnny had sunk slowly under the water and drowned of his own accord. Instead, he’d helped Johnny on his way, laying a hand on his shoulder to tip him off the ledge into the hot tub and under the water’s surface.