Page 18 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

Finally, they make it to the roof, where another metal door greets them.

Vivienne’s body is alive with adrenaline as she pushes the handle down.

She steps outside, and the wind instantly lifts her hair straight up.

She walks forward tentatively, taking in the incredible view across London—the Thames sweeping in an elegant S , the comical Gherkin and the futuristic Shard in the distance.

A shiver of déjà vu dashes across her mind, gone before she can grab at it.

“From what I gleaned from the articles, he must have been on this side,” she says, walking over to one corner. A low railing runs around the edge, which could easily be stepped over without much effort. Vivienne pulls out her notebook and starts to scrawl out a floor plan of the area.

“There are cameras there and there,” she says, making small crosses on her map. “But not here.”

“I can’t imagine he was thinking about that,” Tristan says, hovering in the doorway, his fingers still clutching the handle.

“Are you OK?” Vivienne asks.

“Fine. I’m just not that keen on heights,” he mumbles.

Vivienne catches sight of something on the floor, tucked behind the railings near where she believes Matthew went over. Some sort of black material.

She steps toward it, then stops when she hears heavy footsteps coming from the door.

“What are you doing up here?” a voice bellows above the wind. A square-shaped man with a protruding forehead and one black eye strides toward them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vivienne cries, her hand to her chest, her face filled with horror. She drops her handbag to the floor, tipping it slightly so that her reading glasses and umbrella spill out.

“I think we got a bit lost,” she says. “Thank you so much for finding us.”

“Yes, dear, you are certainly lost,” he snaps, but already the edges of his words have smoothed a little.

“Please, could you direct us to the tube station?” she asks. “I just need to pick up my handbag.”

“This way,” he responds gruffly.

As the man turns away, with Tristan following, Vivienne stoops to pick up her things, plus the mystery item from behind the railings. She shoves it all in her bag and follows the others out the door.

Minutes later they’re unceremoniously deposited back onto the pavement outside.

“Just in time,” Vivienne says, glancing at her watch.

“Was that really necessary?” Tristan cries, following her to the memorial.

“Yes, I believe so,” she says, pleased to see that she’s shocked him.

They walk along in silence. Vivienne thinks she probably shouldn’t tell Tristan about her visit to Sloane Square tube station—the location of Stella’s death—the night before.

It was interesting. Vivienne ascertained that there were two staircases at the entrance, leading to the two ends of the platform.

Stella had fallen on the far-left side, while most of the passengers boarded on the other side.

Why, Vivienne wondered, had she been all alone at that end, which also happened to be the side without any CCTV coverage?

Within minutes, they’re standing in front of the restaurant.

Tristan holds the door open, and Vivienne has a surge of pleasure at the novelty of entering a social gathering with someone by her side.

For once, she doesn’t have to endure those initial flailing minutes of searching for a familiar face.

They are ushered through the foyer into the main restaurant area, where about fifty chairs have been lined up, facing a large picture of Matthew looking devastatingly handsome.

The front row has already been taken by a line of women, and there are a few well-dressed men seated around, but otherwise the turnout is surprisingly sparse.

Melvin waves over at them from his seat in the middle of a row toward the back, so they shuffle along to sit next to him.

Tristan

“Take a look at the weeping widows,” Melvin whispers, indicating the women in the front row. “Do you think they’re all Matthew’s girlfriends?”

Tristan glances over at the beautiful women—eight of them, all wearing short black dresses and high heels, prettily dabbing their eyes with tissues, staring up at Matthew’s picture. They send up a chorus of sniffles, sighs, and distraught feminine whispers.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he mutters, his right hand clenching and unclenching on his knee.

“It’s so tragic,” Vivienne whispers. “He had everything …”

You can’t walk on hot coals and not expect to be burned. The line pops into Tristan’s head.

“Twenty-nine was his number, then,” Gordon announces from the row behind, pressing his long fingers on the back of Tristan’s chair.

“Hello there, Gordon. Shall we talk about that later?” Vivienne snaps, and Gordon sits back, huffing like a disgruntled teen.

The sound of a door slamming shut makes Tristan turn, and he sees Janet standing at the back.

At least, he thinks it’s Janet. The woman is wearing a fitted black dress with a high neck over towering heels, topped off with a wide-brimmed black hat and veil falling across her face.

Tristan nudges Vivienne and nods toward Janet.

“Bit over the top…” she mumbles, and he stifles a laugh.

Vivienne lifts her hand to wave Janet over, but she’s already found a place toward the back.

Silence drifts across the room as a small, tanned man with a gold ring on his pinkie makes his way to the podium at the front and starts fiddling with the microphone.

Noticing the man’s pristine white shirt and perfectly fitted suit, Tristan’s cheeks burn.

Thanks to this morning’s exertions with Vivienne, his underarms are damp with sweat, and he has an unpleasant gray stain on the front of the shirt where he’d leaned on the railing in the stairwell.

Compared to this man, Tristan feels like a grubby little schoolboy.

He shakes his head; why had he allowed Vivienne to drag him up there?

“Thank you everyone for joining us on this very sad day,” the man says. “As I’m sure you all know, I’m Kenneth Wiseman. Matthew worked for me for the last five years.”

With thinly veiled jealousy, he talks about Matthew’s “effortless charm” when dealing with clients and colleagues alike. Then, with something verging on relish, he notes his own surprise that Matthew had been “hiding a deep depression.”

Deep depression, deep depression, deep depression.

The words drift into Tristan’s ears and settle onto his tongue.

He finds himself silently mouthing them, his lips drumming out the d over and over.

It’s like poetry, like a drumbeat. He can’t seem to shake it.

So he forces himself to look around the room, and his eyes settle on the “weeping widows” in the front row.

Eight women—50 percent blond, 37.5 percent brunette, and 12.

5 percent redhead. The maths pop into his head without any conscious effort.

It’s something he finds himself doing whenever he’s in a room full of people (which isn’t often), percentages of men and women, percentages wearing glasses, and so on.

The simplicity of the numbers, the irrefutable truth of them, always works to calm his racing thoughts.

“I believe the lovely Robyn would like to say a few words,” Matthew’s boss announces, and it strikes Tristan that his tone is more like a talk show host introducing the latest Hollywood starlet. One of the 50 percent blonds stands and totters toward the microphone.

“Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming,” she breathes, holding a tissue to her throat like a character from an old French movie. “I’m Robyn, Matthew’s girlfriend.”

At the word girlfriend , a ripple of discontent travels along the front row.

“I just wanted to say, he really was the most thoughtful, generous, and wonderful boyfriend. I know he would have made a fantastic husband one day.” A pause as she takes an exaggerated breath, then: “My heart is broken.”

Despite her apparent devastation, Robyn’s words are clear and have the ring of rehearsal about them.

Her eyes are perfectly made-up and look neither swollen nor bloodshot.

She demurely bows her head as she clip-clops back to the front row.

And then it’s over. Matthew’s boss invites everyone to stay for champagne and canapés, and the mourners pick up their coats and shuffle back down the rows of chairs.

The whole thing lasted no more than ten minutes.

“Right, then—champagne and canapés it is,” Vivienne says, standing up so that Tristan has no choice but to get to his feet and move down the aisle.

As they make their way back toward the bar area, they pass Janet sitting in the back row. Her elbows are propped on her knees, her head bent forward. Tristan glances at Vivienne; should they speak to her?

“Erm…Janet, are you all right?” Vivienne asks, hovering next to her seat while a tutting Gordon marches past.

“I just need a moment,” says the voice from under the veil.

“We’ll wait for you in the bar,” Melvin says, touching her shoulder and then gesturing for the others to follow him out.

Melvin leaves through the doors and heads to the high-top table near the bar, where Gordon has sat down.

As Melvin balances his large frame on one of the tall barstools, Tristan notices he looks different—slimmer, definitely; younger somehow; and wearing a three-piece tweed suit. Tristan is certainly no style expert, but he feels that the bow tie might be a step too far.

“I must say, you’re looking rather dapper,” Vivienne notes once she’s balanced her smaller frame on a stool.

“Is it OK?” Melvin asks, a hand on his trimmed-down middle.

“Very smart,” Gordon nods, sounding bored.

“Thank you. My colleague Christian has given me a bit of a makeover.” At the mention of the name Christian , Melvin’s manner changes slightly. His chest pushes forward, his face brightens as if a light has switched on inside him.

“And how’s Mary?” Vivienne asks.