by B P Walter
I laughed. ‘Yes, I expect it would.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, giving my hand a tap. ‘I’ll talk to Sophia; she heads up PR and publicity and is also on the board. She’ll settle everything in HR for you.’
Everything was settled, just as easily as Meryl had made it sound. The next day I had a call from Ms Sophia Nero-Booth at Streamline to ask me to come in for an interview at the end of the week. By the following Monday, I had a job. The interview itself, though held in the inevitably swish head offices on Buckingham Palace Road, was far more relaxed than I ever could have hoped. Indeed, Sophia greeted me like an old friend, even though I doubted she’d have looked twice at me if Meryl hadn’t more-or-less instructed her to find me employment.
Those first few weeks at the start of December were, to my surprise, almost fun. I was good at organisational tasks and quickly got to grips with my daily responsibilities. By the end of the third week, however, I was starting to feel low again. The novelty of the job had worn off, and because I had a number of hours of down time each day (which I filled by reading novels in the ladies’ loos) and not enough work to keep me mentally stimulated, I ended up ruminating. About the past. The present. And how things were going to turn out in the future. I hadn’t really given myself a time limit in London, and suddenly the months were slipping away without me doing what I had properly come here to do. Perhaps it would have made more sense to keep a low profile, never to have sought out the Allerton-Joneses, to have avoided the long game for a quick moment of shock and adrenalin, and it would all have been over.
But that’s too kind, a voice said in my head. Much better to make him suffer.
So I kept myself together. Just. I decided to carry on biding my time, exploiting the connections I now had, and waiting to see what the New Year would bring.
On December 20th, Sophia came up to me at the coffee machine in the staff canteen. ‘Rachel, I’m so sorry, but I forgot to ask you if you’d like Christmas off? Do tell me if we’ve already spoken about this; my mind’s like a sinkhole at the moment.’
She always did this – making herself out to be scatty and hopeless, whilst also giving the impression of having everything under control in a smooth and seamless way. There was an art to it that I couldn’t help admire.
‘Would it be OK to take some days off? I might go and visit my father in the North.’
‘Of course, no problem at all. I’ll book you off until January 2nd, if that works with you?’
I nodded, grateful to be handed such generous annual leave after only just starting the job. Allen at the garden centre would have had an aneurism if I’d tried to take that many days off in December. ‘Thank you so much. Only if that’s not a problem…?’
Sophia waved her hands. ‘Not one bit. I’m going off to Denmark for two weeks with my husband, anyway, followed by an outdoors Twelfth Night ball on the ice in Sweden – I’d better pack my furs or I’ll freeze to death!’
Even though I didn’t think the idea of going to a ball held out of doors in arctic conditions sounded very fun, nothing about my Christmas plans could compete with this, so I didn’t bother to try. Instead, I just told her it sounded enchanting and thanked her again.
As it would turn out, I ended up enviously fantasising about Sophia enjoying an icy sparkling romantic holiday with her husband followed by a shimmering, exclusive ball on a frozen lake under the Northern Lights. Anything to escape the dull, drab, dreary and disappointingly snow-free Christmas I experienced. It was just me and my dad in his small terraced house, watching film after film on television, shovelling a Lidl roast dinner into our mouths without saying much to each other. At one point, he said to me, ‘Don’t you want to spend some time with your young friends? I saw that Kevin of yours up walking on the hills a few weeks back. Maybe give him a call? Do something nice and festive with him.’
I told him that calling my ex-partner out of the blue on Christmas Day – a man who is now married to a property-rich yoga instructor named Demelza and currently expecting their second child – would be the opposite of ‘nice and festive’.
It was later that evening, when the grey skies outside gave in to rain, that I had my moment of weakness. Dad had fallen asleep in front of Paddington 2 and I snuck upstairs, very quietly, trying not to wake him. I pulled the ladder down to the loft with the precision of a surgeon and trod carefully on each step, holding my breath as I hauled myself into the dusty darkness. Inside, I used the torch on my phone to light my way and crawled to the end where two boxes of photo albums were housed, providing refuge – as I discovered to my temporary fright – to two spiders the size of mice. Once I’d batted them away, I reached inside one of the boxes and pulled out a photo album.
I saw what I was looking for immediately. The photos Mum would routinely hide away, desperate to forget, then, when she couldn’t bear it any more, frantically scrabble around for them again in a panic, convinced the pain would go away if she looked at them one last time.
The pain didn’t go away when I looked at them. It burned even brighter. And, even though it made the tears fall from my eyes, it was worth it. Worth every painful second.
Chapter Nineteen
Charlie
The day after the murder
My father is here. I hear his car, no doubt driven by his almost comically obedient Scottish chauffeur, Malcolm, purr into its space outside the house followed by the unmistakable bold, purposeful tap of his shoes on the pavement.
My father’s the type of man who you don’t want to be caught out by. He’s never been cruel or unkind to me, but he can be sharp and makes it clear he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He can command a room with a steely charisma – something I’ve been lucky enough to inherit to a degree when it comes to pitch meetings with clients, but haven’t perfected as well in a social setting.
His work has always made me somewhat … awkward. I’m aware some people have a problem with it. Others just accept it as the way of the world. He owns a small consultancy business, working alongside two other partners, with a small staff working beneath them. They have offices in Millbank. Their work is very slow, complicated, and boring. That is the official version, anyway. The unofficial version is this: they are the men you go to when you need something to be done. When you need a certain member of the opposition party to be removed from their seat. Or if a member of the cabinet needs a conviction for drink driving to just conveniently … go away. But it gets darker than that.
Earlier this year, the CEO of a large supermarket chain was accused of improper behaviour towards a female colleague when visiting one of his stores. According to the newspapers, he touched her in a lift. Within a week, the accusations were dropped. I discovered my father’s involvement via 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 in his late forties.
‘And this is Peter Catton,’ my father continues, ‘who I’m sure you are familiar with by name.’
I can place him now. And I’ve realised why we’re all here together. I don’t like it. But at the same time, I can understand why it’s happening.
We all shake hands and sit down while my father goes out into the corridor to tell his housekeeper, Mrs Flint, that she may go home. Once we are all settled and in private, he starts to explain properly.
‘First, I need to make some things clear to my wife and Charles before we go any further.’ His eyes fix onto me like lasers. ‘Charles, I don’t think I need to tell you how astonishingly foolish it was to allow the police to interview you without a solicitor present. Jacob is here to go through with you the correct way to approach instances like this if and when they occur in the future, but I think he will agree with me when I say this: when in doubt, call him. If the police arrive at the door and request a word with you or Titus, call him. If they require you or Titus to go to the station for whatever reason, call him. Understood?’
I offer a small nod, if only to put an end to the icy gaze he has fixed upon me. ‘Good. Now, Peter is here in, er, shall we say, a sensitive capacity.’
I sense my mother shifting uncomfortably in her chair. It seems she disapproves of Mr Catton. And I don’t blame her.
‘Peter was accused earlier this year of a crime. He has maintained his innocence ever since, and, through some careful engineering, his case did not go to court. Meanwhile, a number of other people – some of whom you know in person – did end up going to prison. The difference here is that Peter was wise enough to contact me to see what could be done. He, along with another key individual who shall remain nameless, saw the bigger picture. He knew things did not need to be black and white, good and evil, all that weak watery stuff the justice system feeds the public. And thankfully, some of the connections he has, and some of the people I know, will potentially prove very useful when helping us sort out your, um, little difficulty.’
Peter nods in response to my father’s monologue and offers me a smile. It makes him look like a vampire. ‘Your father is right. If the two of us combine our resources – and mark my words, our resources are considerable, we’re pretty confident all of this will go exactly the way … well, the way we’d like it to go.’
I frown at him, slightly confused. ‘I take it my father has told you what has happened? Rachel, our … for want of a better word, friend has been arrested for killing my husband. She has confessed. It’s likely she’ll be charged imminently then go to prison.’ I now turn my gaze towards my father. ‘I’m rather puzzled as to why all this is necessary?’
To my surprise, my father directs a nod to my mother, who gives a polite cough. ‘That would be down to me,’ she says.
It’s my turn to stare at her now. ‘What do you mean?’
She sighs, then purses her lips, clearly deciding how to word her reply. Eventually she says, ‘I telephoned your father before he boarded his flight. About … about something I was concerned about.’
‘Concerned about what?’ I ask, looking from my mother, then back to my father, intensely aware of the presence of the two outsiders, watching this very personal, very private family situation unfold.
‘This is, in a way, the heart of the matter, and why we’re all here,’ my father says. ‘And we’ll get to it. But first, it is important you tell us everything that happened, everything you did on that day, everything Titus did on that day, and how it came about that your husband ended up on the floor with a knife in his chest.’
The last few words of his sentence shock me a little and I feel a touch of the dizziness, the disconcerting corrupti
on of my sense of balance, return for a few seconds. When I open my mouth to speak, I struggle to get the words out. ‘I … er … well … I just told you how it happened. Our friend from our book club, Rachel, stabbed Matthew at the dinner table. She just randomly came over. Said she needed to talk to us about something. It was all quite surreal, really.’
My father’s brow creases, his eyes drilling into me. ‘And her motive for this?’
I make a sort of half shrug. ‘I think … I think she might have been in love with Matthew. There were a few times recently, particularly during our holiday in The Hamptons, when she did things that … well, I got the feeling she wanted to start an affair with him, and he rejected her advances.’
Silence greets this for a good few seconds, then my father says, ‘And Titus?’
I feel something plummet within me. ‘What about him?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice level and convincing.
‘Where does he fit into all this?’
I think about this question. Think about the many ways I could answer it. Then I say, with all the confidence I can muster, ‘He doesn’t. He has nothing to do with it.’
My father’s frown strengthens, and when he speaks, his voice is even lower and quieter than before. ‘I think that may be the first time since you were a child that you’ve told me an outright lie.’
It’s as if he’s shot me. I turn to look at my mother, who has her eyes trained on the carpet in front of her, then look over at Jacob and Peter. Both look grave and, in the case of the former, a little embarrassed. Unable to stand it any longer – whatever this weird little intervention may be – I stand up. ‘I can’t do this,’ I say, knowing my voice sounds weak, like an emotional teenager. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Sit down,’ my father says sternly.
