The Invitation

Before turning to crime, A.M. CASTLE was a national newspaper feature writer. Her first psychological thriller for HQ Digital, The Perfect Widow, is an Amazon number one bestseller in Noir Crime, and a top-selling audiobook. She also writes cosy crimes as Alice Castle. She lives in south London with her two daughters and two cats and, when not dreaming up new ways to kill people herself, is usually glued to a whodunit on TV.

Also by A.M. Castle

The Perfect Widow

The Invitation

A.M. CASTLE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperCollinsPublishers

1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road

Dublin 4, Ireland

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

Copyright © A.M. Castle

A.M. Castle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008364731

Version: 2021-03-03

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by A.M. Castle

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1: Vicky

Chapter 2: Gita

Chapter 3: Tom

Chapter 4: Vicky

Chapter 5: Rachel

Chapter 6: Geoff

Chapter 7: Jane

Chapter 8: Vicky

Chapter 9: Jane

Chapter 10: Geoff

Chapter 11: Gita

Chapter 12: Vicky

Chapter 13: Rachel

Chapter 14: Gita

Chapter 15: Vicky

Chapter 16: Gita

Chapter 17: Vicky

Chapter 18: Rachel

Chapter 19: Tom

Chapter 20: Gita

Chapter 21: Vicky

Chapter 22: Tasha

Chapter 23: Tom

Chapter 24: Gita

Chapter 25: Rachel

Chapter 26: Gita

Chapter 27: Tom

Chapter 28: Vicky

Chapter 29: Gita

Chapter 30: Rachel

Chapter 31: Tom

Chapter 32: Jane

Chapter 33: Geoff

Chapter 34: Rachel

Chapter 35: Vicky

Chapter 36: Tasha

Chapter 37: Jane

Chapter 38: Gita

Chapter 39: Vicky

Chapter 40: Rachel

Part Two

Chapter 41: Geoff

Chapter 42: Gita

Chapter 43: Vicky

Chapter 44: Jane

Chapter 45: Gita

Chapter 46: Tom

Chapter 47: Gita

Chapter 48: Tom

Chapter 49: Vicky

Chapter 50: Gita

Chapter 51: Vicky

Chapter 52: Jane

Chapter 53: Tom

Chapter 54: Gita

Chapter 55: Geoff

Chapter 56: Jane

Chapter 57: Vicky

Chapter 58: Gita

Chapter 59: Vicky

Chapter 60: Jane

Chapter 61: Vicky

Chapter 62: Gita

Chapter 63: Tom

Chapter 64: Gita

Chapter 65: Tom

Chapter 66: Tom

Chapter 67: Jane

Chapter 68: Geoff

Chapter 69: Vicky

Chapter 70: Gita

Epilogue: Vicky

Extract

Acknowledgements

A letter from A.M. Castle

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To Ella and Connie, with love

Prologue

Tregowan Castle, Mount Tregowan, 1st November, Midnight

The glare, when the lights suddenly go back on, is worse than the total blackness moments before. The guests blink as four huge chandeliers blaze down on them. The table, dead centre in the vaulted baronial dining hall, is covered with the detritus of their long, indulgent reunion meal: crystal glasses, fine china, empty bottles of Champagne and Barolo. From the looks of things, it’s been quite an evening.

A bewildered murmuring starts. Everyone is in identical Halloween costumes, though some have ditched their orange wigs. Then someone gets up to see what caused the power cut, almost tripping on the long black and red velvet cape. But, before they’ve even reached the light switch, they begin to back away, colliding with chairs and table, pointing wordlessly. The others follow the direction of that single, shaking finger.

Someone is face down in one of the sumptuous gold dinner plates, wig askew, shoulders hunched. Who could possibly have slept through all this? they ask each other.

No one, it turns out. The blinding light catches something. A shiny metal skewer, sticking straight up from the back of that still neck.

As a second horrified silence falls, a red bead wells up where the skewer has entered the body. It traces the nape, languid as a lover, and trickles off the table. On the floor a pool, rich and red as the Barolo, is rapidly gathering.

Then the screaming starts.

Excerpt from Yes! Magazine, November Issue

It’s two short months since Lady Tregowan, better known as heiress and socialite Rachel Cadogan, threw her magnificent castle open to us.

Forty-four-year-old Rachel, who tied the knot with Lord Tregowan in a glittering New York ceremony at her family’s Cadogan Museum, home of her internationally renowned art foundation, had additional receptions for several hundred guests in London and Paris.

‘I’m eager now just to enjoy my new life with Ross and my adorable stepchildren, Penny (46) and Roderick (43), over simple family evenings like this one,’ she explained graciously.

Resplendent in the Tregowan pearls and a full-length Oscar de la Renta evening gown, Rachel was standing in front of the mantelpiece in Tregowan Castle’s Great Hall, emblazoned with the family’s crest.

‘It’s a sabre rising from the castle itself, with the motto underneath, “My Revenge is Swift.” How fun is that?’ smiled the radiant newlywed.

Chapter 1

Vicky

Central London, 5th September

Don’t get me wrong, I love Gita, and our lunches. But I sometimes wonder how much there is to talk about, every single month. Especially as we can never discuss the real issue: her marriage. Christ, if I’d been stuck with Tom and his wandering eye, he would have been six feet under long ago. But Gita always pretends everything is great. I find it a strain; I suppose she’d say I’m a typical plain-spoken Northerner.

That’s one of the reasons it’s been three times as long as usual since we’ve made this journey into Soho. My fault; I was in charge this time and I, erm, let things slip.

Now, on this crowded Saturday tube, filled with tourists beginning to wonder why they picked this rainy capital in autumn, I wish I’d carried on postponing. Never mind. Nearly there now.

It’s chilly. I pull up the zip on my jacket, sympathising with the Japanese guy in shorts. He’s going to suffer when he gets above ground. But I don’t let on. I may give away my roots every time I open my mouth, but I have a proper Londoner’s transport face.

My job is numbers, and thank God they don’t talk back. Opposites attract, I suppose. Gita has a constant need to ‘communicate’ as she puts it. Take her Instagram. It’s a waterfall of beautiful family pics. Her sheaf of blue-black hair and those Mata Hari eyes. Tom, still far too handsome for his own good. And their three girls, showing off top-notch genes from both sides. It’s more carefully stage-managed than an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. I don’t know when she even sees them to take the snaps; she’s working at the newspaper all hours of the day.

Still, she loves that job. ‘Can you see me as an accountant or a lawyer, the way Mum and Dad wanted? I was so lucky I could say no.’ She’s always reckoned her parents’ scandalous divorce saved her. ‘If it hadn’t been for the fuss, I’d have been under their thumb forever. But what could they say, afterwards?’

One evening we’d both had too many, and I finally had the balls to come out with it. Why, after her dad scarpered, did she ever decide to marry someone like Tom? ‘Love,’ she hiccupped. ‘And,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘at least I know Tom and I will last. Unlike my parents.’ My double take must have been comical, but she was looking the other way. It’s amazing what you can convince yourself of – if you try hard enough. Usually it’s him I want to kill but sometimes it’s her. Deluding herself is bad enough; inflicting it on me and everyone else is hard to take.

No wonder it’s been so long since we met. Poor Gita. She’s had to crush it on all fronts, to prove herself to everyone. Newspapers instead of a profession, and then Tom on top. And, despite his electrical engineering degree, he ‘only’ went into the police force. Fast track, fair dos, but still not the kind of job a family like Gita’s would ever rate. No wonder she’s got a million perfect photos to try and prove how brilliantly everything is going.

Truth is, nothing much has turned out the way either of us expected. We were going to have it all: careers, men and kids. No problemo. Ha!

Oh well. We’re fine. I’m fine, I am. Really. Well, I miss my lad, Raf, I can’t deny it. Like that sore place on the back of your ankle, from high heels. Sometimes you hardly notice it. But then it’ll rub itself raw and it’s all you can think about. Like now, when I see a kid the same age as Raf opposite me in the tube carriage, sitting plugged into his phone, bobbing his head to some phantom beat. I gaze out of the window for a moment, though the only view is of darkness whisking past us.

Somewhere out there are secret tunnels beyond the tube tracks, places where people hid during the Blitz, and where they stuffed our art treasures until victory was won … I know everything there is to know about my adopted city. Our friend Rachel Cadogan’s family collection was stashed down here, along with the Elgin Marbles and half the National Gallery. Everyone’s heard of the Cadogan Foundation, even the likes of me. It’s been world famous forever, long before Rachel decided to slum it with us at uni.

Where was I? I’m seeing Raf next weekend anyway. It’s my turn, though at twenty he’s too old to be passed between me and Bob like a parcel. And he has a bad habit of postponing. Wonder where he got that from.

When I emerge at Leicester Square, the crisp, blue skies cheer me up. I dodge the homeless, feeling the usual guilt. I make a monthly charity donation to shut my conscience up. Better than pressing cash into outstretched palms. Too much temptation – I should know. We all have our secret vices, don’t we? Gita has her blinkers. And yes, I have a weakness of my own … But I shan’t dwell on that now.

I peer into furniture shops instead, wishing I was good at that design stuff, promising myself a trip that will never materialise. Maybe Raf would stick around, if I made the place more homey? In Shaftesbury Avenue, I inhale as I pass Lisle Street, breathing in five-spice, admiring the red paper lanterns around the Chinatown sign.

I check my watch and speed up. When I arrive, I pull open the Club door before the man has a chance to get it, and shift from foot to foot as the fourteen-year-old with the iPad checks the seating plan. In the end, I read it upside down and point to us on the diagram. ‘They’re already here,’ she trills and sashays away in front of me.

They. I’m just processing the word when I see Gita waving, her pretty face alight with smiles, long dark bob swishy as a shampoo ad. She’s never understood what a stunner she is. But wait, who’s that sitting next to her, a beam of sunlight almost making a halo out of bright blonde hair?

My God, it’s her. Actually her. Did I conjure her up, thinking of her art, hoarded in those dark tunnels? I kick myself. This lunch just got a whole lot harder.

All right, we’ve seen each other at the big events, over the years. Gita’s parties; Christmas and New Year, christenings, birthdays and whatnot. And sometimes Gita has had an invite to some enormous Cadogan Foundation thrash, and I’ve tagged along as a plus-one. I’ve glimpsed that famous face, hobnobbing with the great and good. But I can’t remember the last time we sat down for a casual meal. It might even have been over the chipped Formica of the uni canteen. Gita’s seen much more of her – but then, she has no reason not to.

I suppress a shiver, stick on my best smile, and step forward to greet her. The one, the only, the amazing – Rachel Cadogan.

Chapter 2

Gita

Central London, 5th September

Vicky doesn’t do it on purpose. Well, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. But when she isn’t happy, she somehow lets everyone know, without a word being spoken. And then she refuses to discuss it.

Today, even the way she stands and looks at us both, with her back very, very straight and her smile so rigid, makes it plain that something is up.

Communication. I always come back to that. It’s crucial. I know she’s still smarting at her long separation from Raf. She’s probably been longing to discuss it. She’s no doubt heard he’s round at ours a lot at the moment. Maybe she’s angry? But we’re his godparents. And he’s been chatting to Tom about the police force, fitness, potential careers. Surely she’d be glad about that? With Rachel here, it’s impossible to broach the subject. Vicky would never admit to that sort of pain in front of anyone else.

I feel terrible. Seeing Rachel again after all this time should have been such a brilliant surprise. But Vicky has been so … off recently. Perhaps I should have known better. She flicks her eyes from Rachel to me, and then submits to Rachel’s hug, still as unbending as a lamppost.

A couple of minutes in, and, thank God, Vicky is beginning to rise to the occasion. Things are suddenly going with the swing that I first envisaged. It’s down to Rachel, of course.

She always assumes people will be thrilled to see her. And then they are. She’s the one to watch, the punchline of the joke, the Viagra in the pensioner … no, where is my mind even going? But it’s true that Rachel makes people sit up and take notice. Maybe it’s apt after all.

‘It’s been, what? So long, love. Too long. I can’t believe it, you look so …’ Vicky says.

And Rachel does look so. Indefinable things have gone on, and she looks amazing, miraculous. Neither young nor old, but suspended between the two. She shrugs and hits back the compliments faster than Novak Djokovic. I wish she’d spill the beans. I’ll need to start getting a few tweakments soon. Policemen may be getting younger every day, but so are policewomen – and Tom works with way too many of them for my liking. It’s not a question of trust, exactly. Men can just … have their heads turned. It’s up to me to keep young and beautiful, as they say. I’ll have to ask Rachel another time. There’s something she does want to show off about, though. The massive new ring weighing down the third finger of her left hand.

‘Christ, Rach. I didn’t think I’d need my shades in September.’ Vicky takes Rachel’s hand as though she’s going to check for occlusions like a Hatton Garden jeweller. It’s a safe bet that there aren’t any. No one can say Rachel has lived a flawless life. But this ring is bound to be perfect – the real thing.

Vicky’s second question is typically blunt, but I admit I was wondering myself. ‘Did you buy it, or did he?’

‘Oh he did, darling, of course,’ Rachel says, though all three of us know she can lie for Britain, or anywhere else she touches down, if the occasion demands it.

‘So who is he, where did you meet him and, most importantly, why didn’t I meet him first?’ Vicky’s smile doesn’t quite go with her eyes.

Is she still smarting over Bob? But they were never right for each other; they never really communicated. Vicky’s focus has always been on making it big, while Bob was all about the pro bono cases. She used to say he was the only lawyer she knew who made a loss. She should be over it by now. Of course she’s not. Bless her, she holds grudges like it’s an Olympic sport. But today I want to concentrate on Rachel.

‘Come on, we want to hear all about this proposal,’ I say, even though I’m kicking myself. I spiked a story that Rachel was engaged only last week, on the grounds I’d have been the first to know. I’m going to look a prize idiot in the office.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you right away,’ Rachel says, searching my face. ‘It’s been a whirlwind. But now I’m going to tell you everything.’ She leans forward with a gust of perfume, a glimpse of still-firm décolletage and a discreet clank of her Tiffany bangles.

And she’s off.

It’s quite a tale. Klosters, Bequia, Monaco, Meghan, Amal and Reese. ‘Christ, you never bump into anyone in Tesco Metro, do you, Rach?’ says Vicky. But Rachel doesn’t get it; for her this is normal life.

When the waitress first starts hovering, Rachel waves her away, though Vicky has her mouth open, ready to order. The next time the girl appears, I make sure to grab her myself and then turn swiftly to Vicky. Once she has a bottle of red coming her way, her shoulders finally relax.

Both of us raise our eyebrows when Rachel goes for the lobster starter and then a complicated squid ink risotto. Allow twenty minutes cooking time, it says on the menu, which means half an hour at the very least. But I smile reassuringly. Vicky probably (hopefully) won’t remember the way Rachel always toys with her food, shifting it from three o’clock to nine o’clock and back again, as though that’s the point of mealtimes. One of six brought up on benefits, Vicky still clears her plate as though food is going out of fashion. Worse still, Rachel confided to me before Vicky arrived that she’s just had a gastric bypass. ‘Only a precaution,’ she explained.

‘But you’re skin and bone! And isn’t it really dangerous?’ I was agog. ‘I thought it was an absolute last resort. For people with, you know,’ I sketched a ghostly paunch.

Rachel just laughed. ‘You’re so funny, Gita.’ Apparently, money not only talks, it also gives you the second opinion you require.

Thank God, the bread comes quickly. Then the wine. Vicky ignores the fresh sourdough and the dainty dipping saucers of truffle oil, chopped rosemary and salt, and goes straight for the red, wrapping her hands around the glass as though it’s her long-lost child.

I turn and ask Rachel about her new man. ‘So his name’s Ross and he’s wonderful. But what does he do?’ For a second, I could kick myself. Silly question, Gita. Rachel’s other friends, the rich ones, don’t ‘do’ anything, they just … are. Drifting across the oceans, in search of pleasure. Or, as Vicky might well say, a purpose in life. But Rachel dives in happily.

‘Oh, you have to come and see. He’s got the most amazing place. Or it very soon will be, when I’ve finished with it. He avoided it for years.’ She breaks off, looks around and lowers her voice. ‘Family tragedy,’ she explains in a stage whisper. ‘His first wife died in a horrible road accident. So awful – his daughter was in the car. So he left his son to run everything – or run it down, more like. But now we’re taking it on together. I’m going to turn the place around.’

I feel a fleeting sympathy for this unknown son. He won’t know what’s hit him. But Vicky waves her glass at Rachel. ‘Cheers to that, love. Where is it?’ She drains her glass and waves to the waiter for a fresh bottle.

‘Cornwall. You may have heard of it? Mount Tregowan.’

There’s a brief moment when you can almost hear pennies dropping. I’m first. ‘Not that Mount Tregowan? The castle on the island?’

Then Vicky chimes in. ‘Where they shot the smuggling miniseries? With that guy with the six-pack? Isn’t it owned by some lord or other?’

Rachel’s laugh is delighted. ‘Yes, yes and yes! That’s Ross’s place. Ours now. So you’ll come? I’m thinking of the end of October – you know how I love Halloween.’

Vicky and I look at each other. ‘Who could forget?’ she says. But I’m so excited, I just leap straight in. ‘Of course we’re coming!’ I say.

‘Well – if that actor’s still there,’ says Vicky. But now she’s beginning to grin. What an invitation! We both need this break. Tom and I, well, some time together would be good. And it’ll give me a chance to keep an eye on Vicky, too, see how she’s doing with her little … problem. It will be great, having our trio together again. Like old times. I love my lunches with Vicky, and I always try and grab Rachel when she’s in town, but getting the two of them in a room is like herding kittens. And we always had the most fun when we were together.

Things weren’t the same, when Rachel left uni in the middle of our last year. Vicky’s other friend, Jane, started coming round much more. Nice enough but always looking as though she’d seen a ghost. No one could hold a candle to Rachel, of course. But Vicky needed the support. And now Jane has buried herself out in the country with her lawyer husband, Geoff. Bit pompous, but harmless enough. I suddenly wonder. ‘Will you be inviting Jane?’

‘Oh, why the hell not?’ says Rachel expansively. Then she holds forth for the rest of our lunch about how amazing and fabulous her life suddenly is, thanks to this new man – like her life wasn’t amazing and fabulous yesterday, and won’t be tomorrow.

I can sense Vicky shifting next to me from time to time. It’s always been more difficult for her to accept the usual Rachel tsunami of wonderfulness. And, as the years have rolled by, Rachel’s life has not diminished one jot in sheer glamour, while ours have inevitably been constrained. Work, men, children – however wonderful, they do take a toll. Vicky must be finding it hard to keep it zipped.