The Dinner Guest

by B P Walter

  ‘I thought you’d have wanted to meet me with the rest of the team,’ he said, sitting down and accepting a glass of wine. ‘Not that I’m complaining. It’s not often I get to have a drink one-to-one with a British aristocrat.’

  I laughed and batted away his comment as though it was unnecessary flattery, like such things didn’t really matter. I’ve learned that’s what people expect, and it usually works. They let their guard down a bit after that. ‘Malcom, you’ve met the actual President twice already. I’m sure that’s a lot more impressive.’

  He leant forwards at that point and I caught the scent of his aftershave. Like a cool, crisp autumn evening. ‘Elena, I’m not into appearing impressive. I’ve done that my whole life. I just want to keep the right guy in The White House for as long as possible. And making a sizable donation should send a loud enough message.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘I think your move into journalism and think-pieces might be doing that already.’

  He let out a short, sharp laugh, ‘Well, that’s another reason why I’m really pushing the content side of the platform. Longform journalism shouldn’t be confined to the papers and news sites. We get millions of eyeballs every day. Let’s start educating those eyeballs.’

  Here we go, I thought. He’s about to mention her. Any second now.

  ‘Which brings me around to your daughter,’ he said, ‘and what a fine writer she is too.’

  I’d become aware of my daughter’s contributions to FreeTalk, Malcom Driver’s social-media platform-turned-right-of-centre-blogging-site, shortly before he reached out to us to make a donation. Pippa had started writing some gossipy girl-about-town newspaper column during her first year at Oxford and had been poached by FreeTalk to write for them with a stronger emphasis on her political stances. Her series of articles and essays were published under the headline ‘Pippa Ashton: The Way I See It’. Why anyone should care about the way my nineteen-year-old daughter sees the big issues of our times was a mystery to me. Although, that said, I couldn’t deny the fact that her writing commanded attention, helped along by the deliberately over-the-top headings, like Are Universities Becoming a Threat to Democracy? and Why Loopy Vegans Need to Shut the F*** Up About Fox Hunting, and, in a three-thousand-word ‘long read’ which ended up going viral, Why I’m No Longer Talking to Poor People About Privilege. All of these caused me some anguish – not necessarily because I disagreed with the points she raised, but because of the way they were presented, as if their sole purpose was to offend people and cause outrage. That wasn’t a nuanced debate in my book. That was, to coin a phrase I’d once heard Elliot Gould say in a Steven Soderbergh movie, ‘graffiti with punctuation’. But if Malcom Driver was impressed by my daughter, so much the better for the campaign, I thought, as I smiled at him over my glass. I was about to try to move the conversation on, but he remained stuck on Pippa.

  ‘And I hear she’s getting married, isn’t she? To some dashing young man – the one her Instagram is covered in. Titus, isn’t it? It looks like he likes a bit of a party, but they seem a charming couple. Although she’ll be quite a young bride at nineteen. That’s young these days, right?’ His face stayed perfectly neutral as he said it, but I could tell he was interested to hear my thoughts on this. And I had a lot of thoughts. Like, why the hell Pippa was being so stupid about marrying that bland, empty-headed boy. Like, how she should wait until she was at least some way into her twenties before entering into something as serious as marriage. Not to mention my unease about her temporarily living under the same roof as Charles Allerton, a man who will hate me for eternity.

  ‘Hello…? Elena, are you OK?’ Malcom was looking at me, his head turned a little.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, realising my thoughts had carried me off momentarily, ‘I’m … yes … Pippa is certainly making her mark on the world.’ My phone then buzzed in my pocket – on silent, but the vibration was loud enough to make Malcom raise his eyebrows. I cursed inwardly, but Malcom nodded at my phone, saying, ‘Please, do answer. I’m in no rush here.’

  I glanced at the screen. Trip was calling. I felt my heart sink a little. Trip was a twenty-eight-year-old bartender I’d been seeing for the past nine months. Two months ago I moved him into my house in Kalorama. It was just easier having him at home, there when I wanted him, and he was normally happy to tuck himself away on his laptop in another room when I didn’t. He desperately wanted to be a screenwriter, hammering out House of Cards-style political thrillers, even though the closest he’d ever come to that world was pouring drinks for the odd senator. I was about to cancel the call when I noticed he’d texted a few times. Two words stood out quite clearly from all the rest as if propelled from the screen. Rachel Holden.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m … I’m going to have to…’

  ‘Please, go ahead,’ Malcom nodded, making it clear it wasn’t a problem.

  I accepted the call. ‘Ah, there you are, I was about to hang up,’ Trip said, sounding slightly excitable. ‘Did you see my texts? I thought I should—’

  ‘What is this about?’ I cut him off. ‘Tell me quickly.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit odd. It’s about this package that arrived for you. It’s strange because when I opened it I saw—’

  ‘You opened a package addressed to me?’ I repeated, my moment of outrage momentarily causing me to forget I just wanted him to get to the point quickly.

  ‘Yes, but … well, I thought it was for me, because there was a load of other stuff delivered today that was and…’

  ‘Just tell me what it is, Trip,’ I said, irritation building.

  ‘It’s a letter,’ he said. ‘And a CD.’

  ‘A CD?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sounding slightly nervous. ‘I haven’t played it. But … well … I did read the letter. It’s weird. Like, I remember you telling me about this Rachel woman who killed your … friend. Well, from what the letter says… Fuck, it’s weird. I think you should just come and read it for yourself. Or I can photograph it and send it to you, but I think you’re going to want the CD so…’

  ‘Don’t play it. Don’t do anything with it. Just leave it.’ I cut the call.

  The bar and hotel lobby surrounding me suddenly seemed blurred and glistening, like my depth of field had been altered, as if looking through a camera lens. I had the strangest feeling of the world shifting just a notch out of balance, sliding everything the wrong way.

  I needed to make a decision. I knew what I should do. I should stay and try to get Malcom to commit to a rough figure of funds before I left him. But at the same time, I knew I wouldn’t be anywhere close to my best charming self.

  I walked slowly back to where he was sitting, trying to decide how to play this before I reached him. But it turned out I didn’t need to. Malcom looked up from his phone when I arrived saying he actually had a work emergency he had to deal with and he would send me his offer by email. He assured me it would be substantial. I thanked him, then got my driver outside to take me straight home, all the time my brain whirring over and over.

  In the house, Trip launched into his apologies instantly.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ I said, holding up a hand to stop him talking.

  He looked sheepish and chastened. He was in his ‘loungewear’, which was basically pyjamas, and for a moment I felt like I was his mother and he my teenage son, being reprimanded for doing something naughty at school. I told him to tell me where the package was and he pointed to the grey marble kitchen countertop. I walked over, picked it up, then told him to leave me alone.

  The letter was written on what looked like cheap A4 printer paper. I got the feeling that the author’s handwriting wasn’t normally neat, but extra effort had been put in to make it readable. And there was something else present too. The letters had been carved onto the paper with a lot of pressure, causing the page to be thoroughly indented on the back. Was that a sign of how studiously it had been written? Determination, perhaps? Or maybe fury?

  I scanned
it quickly, then sat down in one of the chairs in the living room and forced myself to read it through calmly again, taking my time over every word.

  Dear Elena,

  * * *

  How odd it is for me to be writing to you, considering we never properly met. I think you might have nodded and smiled to me at your parents’ anniversary party. But all that was years ago now. Back when you and Matthew were shagging.

  * * *

  Sorry, I realise that’s quite blunt, but there’s no point me being polite. I realise you’ve probably hated me for years for killing the man you loved. Or maybe you didn’t love him. Maybe it was just sex, or a distraction from whatever else you used to fill your time with. I don’t care, really. But trust me, you’re better off without him.

  * * *

  It’s odd to think how connected we are – now more than ever, with your daughter and my nephew about to walk up the aisle. You see, the problem is, I’m not really sure they’re the best match. They’re so young. And does she really want to marry a boy who’s becoming known for hosting loud, debauched boat-parties? Or does she expect him to lay off the drink, drugs, and orgies when the wedding ring is firmly on his finger? If she does, I think she’s in need of some motherly advice from you, sharpish.

  * * *

  So that’s why I’m writing. I’m not happy with the way my nephew’s life is going. And I doubt you’re happy about your daughter marrying him. That’s why I’m writing to you now, after all this time. You see, what you think happened didn’t really happen. It’s too long to write in this letter, but I’ve included a disc containing a recording I made a few months after my trial. It’s a conversation between me and Charles Allerton. As you’ll discover, the whole thing’s a bit of a bombshell. And I trust you’ll use it well.

  * * *

  Kind regards,

  * * *

  Rachel Holden.

  After my second reading, I paused on that final sentence. I trust you’ll use it well. What did she mean? I got up and walked over to the sound-system and put the disc into the slot. I listened to the whole thing, sitting there alone in the living room, my pulse quickening, my head spinning. Then, after it was finished, I sat for a few minutes more, doing nothing.

  Once I felt capable of standing, I got up and headed towards the stairs, ignoring the questions from Trip as I went. As soon as I was seated at my desk in the study, I opened my laptop, navigated to the British Airways website and booked a flight to Heathrow. Then I unlocked my phone, scrolled down to a contact I’d hardly ever used and typed out a short message.

  Hi Charlie. I’m on my way back to England. I think it’s time we had a chat.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was written in 2019 when the world was still normal and edited in 2020 when the world changed so completely, so perhaps more than ever it’s important I give thanks to those who helped keep the process on course and provided support and encouragement when things seemed disconcerting and the future uncertain. I would like to thank my wonderful agent Joanna Swainson and the whole team at Hardman & Swainson for their support throughout the writing of this book. Huge thanks to Bethan Morgan, Charlotte Ledger, Melanie Price, and everyone at One More Chapter and HarperCollins for their enthusiasm for this book and for being such a warm and welcoming home for my writing.

  Endless thanks to my parents, sisters Molly and Amy, granny, and uncle for their continued support and for helping to make sure the very difficult year of 2020 was still filled with joy. Thanks to all my friends who have been so wonderful, with special thanks to Rebecca Bedding, Thomas Bedding, Meg Wallace, Corinne Gurr, Emma Ruttley, George Doel, Lucy Clayton, Alice Johnston, Frankie Lowe, Rachael Bull, Timothy Blore, Martha Greengrass, Olivia Judd, Chloe Lay, and Pippa Rugman. In the book world – from authors to booksellers and many others – I’d like to thank Cally Taylor, Bea Carvalho, Kate Skipper, Kate McHale, Phoebe Morgan, Rowan Coleman, Sophie Hannah, and Charlotte Duckworth.

  A massive thank you to all my colleagues at Waterstones and everyone in the Ecommerce team. I hope our Glasshouse Street Nando’s trips can one day happen again.

  Thanks to Steve Bowyer and Tom Mitchell for their generous advice on the police procedure elements in The Dinner Guest.

  And last but definitely not least, I’d like to thank all the booksellers who have helped my books reach the hands of readers over these past two years. Their job is so important to the fabric of our reading landscape, and I’d like to give special mentions to the booksellers of Waterstones branches in Southampton, Brentwood, King’s Road Chelsea, Romford, and Chelmsford.

  Thank you for reading…

  We hope you enjoyed The Dinner Guest!

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  Do leave a review if so on all your preferred platforms to help spread the word!

  You can preorder B P Walter’s next psychological thriller right here!

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  And catch up on his previous books by clicking on the covers below…

  A Version of the Truth is an addictive and twisty thriller following two women separated by three decades and a devastating secret that has been simmering beneath the surface ever since. Now it’s time to discover the truth…

  Get your copy right here!

  Hold Your Breath is a nail-biting thriller delving into the secret-strewn past of a woman who’s always known her family isn’t like any other, ensconced in their remote cottage in the woods. But when the police revisit a suspicious death, she must examine her most painful memories – and this time, there’s nowhere to hide…

  Get your copy right here!

  Be sure to follow B P Walter on Twitter @barnabywalter, on Facebook @BPWalterAuthor and on Instagram @bpwalterauthor for all the latest updates.

  You will also love…

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  You will love The House of Killers by Samantha Lee Howe, a trail-blazing new spy thriller series starring an agent with an agenda, a killer with a conscience, and a showdown that will bring a country to its knees…

  Get your copy here!

  You will adore Secrets of a Serial Killer by Rosie Walker, an utterly addictive psychological thriller following a notorious murderer who has been terrorising the streets of Lancaster for decades, far longer than should ever have been possible for a single killer…

  Get your copy here!

  You will also love the chilling Flowers for the Dead by C. K. Williams, which traces one woman’s quest to face the trauma of her past and bring her attacker to justice when she receives a parcel containing a purple wildflower, a copper thimble, and a letter from her small hometown in the Yorkshire Dales, drawing her back into the mystery…

  Get your copy here!

  Happy reading!

  About the Author

  B P Walter was born and raised in Essex. After spending his childhood and teenage years reading compulsively, he worked in bookshops then went to the University of Southampton to study Film and English followed by an MA in Film & Cultural Management. He is an alumni of the Faber Academy and currently works in social media coordination for Waterstones in London.

  Also by B P Walter

  A Version of the Truth

  Hold Your Breath

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