The Missing Guest: A completely gripping psychological thriller from Diana Wilkinson for 2024

By Diana Wilkinson

A pulse-raising thriller from Diana Wilkinson, author of the Number One bestseller The Girl in Seat 2A

What happens when the safety of your home is no longer safe?

Every Friday night during lockdown, six friends meet onscreen to take part in a quiz.

But when it's Barton Hinton’s turn to host the event, he introduces a set of personal questions that clearly aren’t random and which set off a fatal chain of events.

When the police start to ask questions, the friends agree to hide the truth.

Is it possible that one of the six guests killed a fellow member?

Everyone has their secrets.

Some are worth dying for.

Some are worth killing for…

Praise for Diana Wilkinson

‘Clues upon clues upon clues kept me glued to the story. What a very clever book … not a read for the faint-hearted!’ Valerie Keogh

‘Wilkinson delivers with this gripping and original thriller’ Keri Beevis

‘With a unique plot and superb writing, Ms Wilkinson has nailed this one! I’d give it 10 stars if I could.’ J A Baker

‘A beautifully written thriller where even the clues are out to get you!’ Gemma Rogers

‘A fast paced, edge of the seat thriller that’s extremely well executed. I was gripped from the very first page!’ L. H. Stacey

Previously published as The Six Guests

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Nov 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805498001

Diana Wilkinson

Diana Wilkinson writes bestselling psychological thrillers. Formerly an international professional tennis player, she hails from Belfast, but now lives in Hertfordshire.

Book preview

2020

WEEK 1

1

FRIDAY 4 SEPTEMBER

Annabel, our Zoom host, appears in the centre of my screen, eight o’clock sharp. The complete works Shakespeare, neatly arrayed a fraction above head height, are clearly visible and look as if they’ve come from the shelf of an Oxford Don. Perhaps they’re one dimensional, wallpaper covering, no shadowed corners, covering up the girly chick-lit.

It’s all a stage-set, a theatrical production of West End proportions. I stifle a yawn. Christ, it dawns on me that I’m on camera, that she might have caught the boredom; my face is now bang centre, middle box at the top of the screen. My mouth snaps shut.

Whoosh. Fuzzy leaps across my lap, a furry white bullet whose claws miscue as she cascades down the other side of my swivel chair.

‘Shit. Careful. Come here you,’ I whisper, leaning to the left as her unsteady legs cling to my arm, and hoist her back up to safety before tucking her neatly under the keyboard shelf. A rhythmic purr vibrates against my thigh, as she slumps heavily into position.

‘Hi, Kristi. Just waiting for Barton and the others. Talk among yourselves, I’ll only be a mo.’ Annabel screams. I turn the volume down, click, click, click. She doesn’t really want us to talk among ourselves, she wants us to watch her, take in every detail from the finely threaded tinted eyebrows to the latest Net-a-Porter outfit. The shapely maroon manicured nails jiggle up and down as she tidies a non-existent mess.

There’s no one else to talk to anyway, but Annabel only feels confident if she’s attracted numbers, quantities of people, so she’ll not waste energy on the first arrival to the hangout. At the moment she takes up most of the computer screen, main picture, head honcho.

My phone suddenly pings for attention. Holding Fuzzy steady with my left hand, I tap open WhatsApp. It’s Logan double-checking we’re okay for drinks on Monday. I stroke Fuzzy, disbelieving that lockdown has thrown up both a comforting furry houseguest as well as a handsome online suitor.

As I turn my phone to mute, a third box pops up on the computer screen, as does Annabel again. She’s like a tightly sprung jack-in-the-box. But it’s not Barton, as she hoped, rather Rihanna who’s fluffed up in pink like a cuddly toy, lipstick and nails accessorising her ensemble. But it’s the barely concealed cleavage that fronts the screen, draws the eye. The complete works of Shakespeare have been overshadowed and our quiz host will be relieved that the three men are late to the party.

A fourth blurry picture follows; desk, ceiling and laptop images loll around, until Joel’s face appears at an angle. ‘Fuck,’ he says. We weren’t meant to hear but I’m a dab hand at lip-reading. I turn the volume back up. ‘Hi there,’ he says, crisp, clean and confident. That’s more Joel, more how he wants us to see him. He’s upright now, flaky ceiling paint confined to memory. His face comes closer to the screen, blocking out the sombre backdrop.

‘Hi, Joel,’ we chirp in harmony, like a group of innocent choristers. The newcomer seems pleased to have arrived, stepped over the threshold into an already buzzing party. His beer glass is half-empty. Perhaps it’s half-full but it’s hard to tell with Joel. The Peak District seems a long way off, but it’s only a few hours up the motorway from London, but he could be in Dubai, Sydney, for all we know. In fact, he could be anywhere. He tells us he’s in the Peak District, on a walking trip with a mate, but do we believe him? Do we need to believe him? Who cares? He’s not the quizmaster tonight. That’s Barton.

Barton likes to be late, keep us all waiting. The casual approach makes him more mysterious, enigmatic. That’s what he thinks but I’m not sure the participants would agree. But we all do remember he was the last arrival at Annabel and Clifton’s wedding, careering up the festooned garden arbour inches behind the slow-marching bride. How could we forget?

Although I was his plus one, Barton had managed to miss the plane the day before. Annabel’s never forgiven him for stealing her thunder as he waved and grinned at the gushing guests who took their eyes off the bride, if only for a few seconds. Yet her festering annoyance is oddly extreme for that one minor misdemeanour.

On a Zoom quiz night Annabel can pretend, showcase her grown-up magnanimity, but the large glass of bubbly (is it in a half pint glass tonight? I peer at the screen, feign interest in the literary tomes) is her crutch of make-believe. Who’s she kidding?

The fifth square is soon filled. Declan’s forehead appears before the rest of him. It’s lined, furrowed with intent and his dark hair has started to recede, an ebbing tide of gentle waves. I wouldn’t have noticed if the partial shot hadn’t showcased the upper third of his head in isolation. It’s weird only being able to catch the top of him, no eyes, no subtle crinkle lines doing their sales pitch, drawing us to invest with their projected honesty. He’s not a whole person at the moment.

On reflection, I don’t think Declan ever was a whole person. With any luck he’ll not use the ten-minute mandatory break (Annabel’s too mean to pay for blanket Zoom coverage and disappears for ten minutes while she resets the meeting with new join-up links) to WhatsApp our quiz group and fill us in on the last seven days of misery. He’s done this more than once. He likes us to sympathise, tell him that it’ll all turn out okay, that he’ll get another job. Furlough ended with the sack and although Declan says it was just another lockdown redundancy, we all suspect it might be down to drink. His unhealthy relationship with whisky goes way back.

Our Friday group is made up of the type of friends who say what you want to hear, play along with the charade, and speak anything but the truth. It’s easier. It’s also easier when Declan is in Bangor, Northern Ireland, staying with his mother. Although the screen tricks us to treat people like they’re in the same room, close by, we know they’re not.

‘Hi, all.’ His whole face comes into the square. A distinct red blob, of what looks like dried blood, sits proudly, a mini Vesuvius, at the corner of his lips. He’s either been in a fight, cut himself shaving or forgotten to wipe away a rogue blob of ketchup. The latter seems unlikely as he’s no slob.

‘Let’s not panic. Barton will be here any minute.’ Annabel’s voice has risen a few decibels and the champagne bottle has appeared, label facing us. Dom Perignon. It would make a good quiz question. What did we think each of the others would be drinking? Make and vintage, one point for each. I sip my Sauvignon Blanc. I’m a dry white wine person, with a decent knowledge of vineyards and preferences. Marlborough County, New Zealand, all the way for me.

‘Cheers,’ I add to help lower the quiz host’s anxiety. The five heads, imprisoned in square cells, raise glasses to the screen. A quiz gives us something to do, other than share inane chit-chat about the world’s new normal, face masks and supermarket understocking of hand sanitisers. It’s 8.10. Ooops. Barton is really testing the waters.

Suddenly, his face beams broadly across our screens, momentarily usurping Annabel’s place on the main frame. I leave the Zoom setting on Speaker option, giving everyone an equal chance to take centre stage, albeit briefly. Annabel’s hard to knock aside.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ he repeats. The team feign smiling acceptance of the proffered apologies. Like nodding dogs, we collectively move our heads and listen to the phoney excuses for his tardiness. Everyone pretends to believe Barton, although, speaking from experience, I know he’s a compulsive liar. People who keep repeating that they never lie and only ever offer up the truth, are definitely hiding something. Usually a whopper or two.

Annabel flicks back her hair, rechecks the champagne label is square to the camera and pops the end of a gold-plated pen into her mouth, twiddling it provocatively. Her pert, pink-tipped tongue appears every so often through strawberry pouting lips. Jeez. They look as if they’ve been Botoxed. I squint.

She swore she’d never inject herself with poison, but since our Friday meets, I’ve noticed quite a few changes. Well, changes since Barton’s sudden request to join the party. He asked to be invited, citing boredom, but Annabel thinks he’s playing a game to win her back.

Online shopping addiction has certainly adorned our hostess with expensive accessories, but her husband’s credit card hasn’t stretched to common sense. She still flirts hopelessly, a canary trapped in a gilded cage. I wonder if I’m the only person, apart from Annabel, who suspects ulterior motives for Barton’s sudden appearance.

My glance moves to the voluptuous Rihanna. Barton is like a greyhound forever after the unattainable rabbit. A cold shoulder, a sniff of aloofness and he’s out of the blocks chasing down his next conquest.

2

Barton Hinton took me under his wing when I joined the London Echo, the Capital’s latest newspaper to compete with the Fleet Street giants. He was Grayson Peacock’s golden boy. Grayson, the paper’s editor, isn’t unlike Barton with his loud voice and misogynistic attitudes.

‘One helluva reporter. If there’s any dirt to be found, Barton’s your man. Stay close, Kristi, and you’ll learn a few tricks of the trade.’ Grayson’s words stuck, like a needle in an old record groove. Problem was, I got too close.

Two things happened in my first week of employment. Firstly, Barton outed a local MP who was having an affair with a lap dancer from Camden. It hit the headlines, further puffed out my colleague’s ego and secondly, I got dragged to the pub in celebration.

Barton is a stereotypical bastard with a capital B; the sort girls fall for, but as easy to tie down as a bucking bronco in a Wild West rodeo. Sharp witted, with charm thick and smooth as double cream. Rippling muscles strain through tailored clothing but give testimony to the hours spent in the company gym. Dedication to his appearance is showcased by a year-round tan, courtesy of the beauty salon next door.

‘What’s your poison, honey?’ His arm slipped easily round my waist, high enough for etiquette, but low enough to make me shiver.

‘White wine, and don’t ever call me honey.’

Problem was, my contempt was soon doused, the angry fire extinguished by a healthy dose of caring and genius. Getting to know the other Barton, the side smothered by his public displays of machismo, was a different story. It was a dangerous trip to make, but one which I took in spiky heels and tight dresses because that’s how he likes his women.

It wasn’t the misogynistic treatment that set my heart racing, but the softer side of his personality coin. He cared about what he did; passion for success and telling the truth flowed through his veins. He was also kind and generous, when he was in the mood.

By the time I let my guard down, opened the gates to let him in, Barton was already moving on. When he told me the problem was his, not mine, it didn’t take me long to realise he was telling the truth. Playing the field is Barton’s sport. He chases down prey like a big game hunter, shoots them dead and steps across the body, leaving the remains for someone else to pick up.

Seeing him on screen every Friday night reignites the hurt, but Grayson warned me more than once, ‘Best not to mix business with pleasure.’ A pat on my shoulder, as to an errant daughter, should have warned me off sooner. But Barton has that ability, to suck people into his web, then break their hearts. He decides when and where.

‘Hi, guys. Sorry I’m late. Just wanted to go through the question sheets again. Not sure how long it’ll take but thought I’d try a few different topics this week.’ Typical.

Barton likes to prove he’s that bit superior. Not with his brain power, but with his ability to entertain, draw us in and impress by his personality. ‘Anyway, pens and paper ready?’

We collectively hold up pens, like soldiers proving their guns are ready to fire, prepared for battle. The instruments wiggle in the air. I wonder where Barton is quizzing from tonight. The room behind him looks like it does every week with clean bland cream walls, but the bedhead looks different. I suspect another Premier Inn but now isn’t the time to ask. I’ll maybe get a chance during the ten-minute interval break when Barton usually texts to stem his boredom.

Barton reels off the topics before he begins the questions. General knowledge, music (artists and lyrics), geography (he likes us to be impressed by his world travels, the questions usually linked to some far-flung exotic paradise he’s personally explored), sport (football, rugby, baseball, boxing and horse racing. Rihanna will doubtless disappear for a toilet break at this point, but Annabel, while bemoaning the male bias, will laugh her way through, joining in as ‘one of the lads’. She’ll forget, aided by the bubbly, that her Botoxed lips and brightly painted nails mark her out as anything but. Who’s she kidding?) and ‘the final round of the evening is a surprise one’ Barton concludes. ‘There’ll be six questions about each of us. I’ve done some research.’ Barton coughs, sips his gin and tonic, banging the ice cubes against the glass and swills the contents. He lounges back in his chair. The genius quizmaster.

There’s a collective intake of breath. I can see, in my mind’s eye, Barton’s devil horns. The laden weight of hurt still pulls me down, but I sip my wine, smile and play along. It’s been over a year since we split, directly after Annabel’s wedding, but at times it feels like yesterday.

‘Let’s see what we all know about each other. There’ll be bonus points on offer in the last round.’ His grin seems to be directed at someone, me maybe, but it’s hard to tell. The view is very one-dimensional, emotions hard to gauge.

Annabel tucks her blonde bob behind her ears, cheeks distinctly flushed. She’s already loaded with champagne. ‘But before we start, a little twist. You get the points for the final round next week. You’ve all got one week to research the answers, and…’ he pauses for effect, ‘you’re not allowed to ask the rest of the group for the answers, and most definitely you can’t ask the person who is directly linked to their specific question.’

It all sounds a bit convoluted, and disinterest is painted on the five faces, like sculpted heads in the Uffizi Gallery, that stare back. Shit. What is there to say about this new format, except that it sucks? Muffled words of assent filter out from five screens, imperceptible nods like personality tics.

Whatever. I’m curious as to what the questions might be.

Anyway, here goes.

‘Okay. First round. General Knowledge. All ready?’

We’re off. Horses out of the blocks, pens scribbling on blank sheets, chomping at the bit.

3

Monday 7 September

To: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

BONUS ROUND

As promised, extra round. Look forward to seeing how you all get on. See you again Friday, 8 o’clock. I think Rihanna’s quiz host next week.

Best

Barton

Question 1: Who was Joel’s first ever serious girlfriend and (bonus point) how long after their first date did they sleep together? (nearest answer gets the point)

Question 2: What’s Annabel’s tattoo of, and where exactly (for a bonus point) is it located?

Question 3: What dating site does Kristi use and what’s the name of her current mystery single lover? (bonus point)

Question 4: What was the name of Rihanna’s first pet and (bonus point) first fiancé? (although I don’t think there’s been more than one! Ha ha!)

Question 5: What secret society does Declan belong to and (bonus point) what does the induction ceremony entail?

Question 6: What’s my latest scoop and which TV production giant has commissioned the story?

What the fuck? Barton can’t be serious. These will take some serious googling. Not to mention snooping, digging and muck raking. My stool swivels, a mini merry-go-round, my head veering off in the opposite direction. The empty wine bottle by the sink screams accusation.

Working from home has its upsides. PJs at the breakfast bar, slippers toasting my pinkies. Coffees on tap, not the hot coloured water which stews in the newspaper offices’ stained cafetière, but robust seasoned pods from Colombia and Vietnam, India and Bolivia. I’m on my third macchiato of the morning, pod strength ten, with a stain of frothed milk on top. The shakes are usually welcome as they agitate the sluggishness. Habit keeps me going, shot after shot, until the sweats kick in and I’m finally awake.

But today, I set my cup down, nausea gurgling. Barton’s sick sense of humour is the spoon stirring my insides. Perhaps I need to dress in my office gear, reread his email in business armour and let my professional hat tell me how to respond.

Barton thinks he’s funny. He snoops on the office staff and digging has become a hobby where his brain works like a metal detector, unearthing rare, but dirty, golden nuggets. None of us are safe from the You’ve Been Framed moments. I’ve learnt the hard way, having to bite back knee-jerk replies to seemingly innocent questions. He’s a master interviewer, practising his technique on friends and colleagues. He then shares gossip with gay abandon, burying both the teller of secrets and the third party under a pile of guilt.

Lockdown has given Barton too much time on his hands, but social distancing suits him. Love ’em and leave ’em has become an easier mantra to follow. We all know that he hasn’t brushed sad hands up barriers of frosted windowpanes, waving through the restrictions, but has instead, on more than one occasion, sneaked into a lonely singleton’s flat.

‘What’s a guy to do? We’ve got needs.’ He finds this amusing, but anger simmers amongst the listeners. ‘I find it easier to avoid morning-after issues these days. I scuttle home early and am a dab hand at deleting follow-on messages. Not to mention, the chances of bumping into my conquests are pretty slim.’

But a lot is a cover-up. Although Barton sometimes phones me on the pretext of work, the next big headline, I know he wants to talk. Underneath all the bluster, he’s needy, insecure. Problem is, I’ve fallen for the puppy-dog misery around midnight on more than one occasion since we split up. But since lockdown, I’ve managed to resist.

‘Can I come round? Please?’ His drunken pleading is hard to ignore.

Okay. So, he’s adamant he doesn’t want a commitment, but I’ve found the loneliness of the last few months hard to deal with. It’s taken me a long time to realise that Barton is telling the truth in that he really doesn’t want to settle down, probably never will.

‘I’m like my Uncle Stuart. He never married and lives in Barbados, beach hut by the sea. A rum in one hand, a pretty native girl on his arm.’

Uncle Stuart is ninety-six and this seems to prove to Barton that the single, playboy life could be a long-term ambition. But I’m not sure who he’s trying to kid.

4

I skip through the questions, fighting back the irritation and embarrassment on rereading number 3. The fact that I’ve resorted to online dating is no one else’s business and the word single, written in bold, could be a typing error; but it’s unlikely.

I carry on down the list and hover at question 4. How the hell are we meant find out the name of Rihanna’s first pet without asking her? Maybe she’s posted twee pictures, she’s that sort of media poster, of a cute long-haired dachshund or more likely an early cat purchase, all fluff and no substance.

Rihanna, despite her shapely rounded breasts, flawless suntan and squeakily innocent-sounding voice, is someone I can only surmise about. Her appearance might be a cover-up for hidden depths, but it’s hard to be certain. She was invited to the group by Joel, and he salivates in her youthful company.

Although the six of our Friday Zoom group were all at Annabel’s wedding (was it really a year ago?), we didn’t really know each other at that point; still don’t. Annabel’s drunken brainwave, to set up a regular quiz night for her favourite bunch of besties, was to help us become better acquainted and stem the catatonic boredom of lockdown.

We certainly know a lot more about each other now. Yet, Rihanna, is bizarrely elusive. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, and she only meows for the men. And did anyone know she’d been engaged, or married even? The welcome salutation every Friday is, ‘Hi, fellow singletons.’ Annabel flaps her hand in disgusted humour and says, ‘Whatever. Let’s get started.’ A couple of hours a week, pretending that she belongs, a singleton enjoying the perks, livens Annabel up. Not sure I believe her happily married crap the rest of the time.

But Rihanna. There’s been no mention, ever, of a husband or fiancé. Online dating was the highlight of her social calendar, even before enforced isolation. While the rest of us were out in the real world looking for love, getting sloshed and trying to forget drunken one-night stands, Rihanna was researching potential soulmates from all around the world. But, as far as we knew, she’d never taken it any further.

Although, if Rihanna’s been engaged, it might be easier to track down the errant fiancé than finding out what she called a pet hamster or tortoise. Christ. She might even have won a goldfish at the fair.

Emails clog up my inbox, like queuing traffic at roadworks. No let-up. Beep, beep, beep, let me through. The red-light pause is soon followed by a green light that sends through a new set of junk.

I pick through the missives, like sifting stones from dried lentils. Monday mornings are tedious, not helped by my rigid rule to steer clear of work-related matters at the weekend. Although who misses the pre-lockdown stress? Not me, that’s for sure. No more paranoia of oversleeping, no slapdash botched make-up regime in the half-light leaving smudged mascara, like chimney soot, under puffy eyes. And what a relief to forgo the ankle-twisting race in my high heels to catch the 7.10 to Kings Cross.

The new work normal suits me. For now, at any rate. Mum’s worried that I’ll get lonely and sometimes I do, for sure, but who doesn’t? Even without lockdown, being single in your thirties is testing.

But on screen company, fake in a manufactured way, has its advantages especially where work is concerned. There’s not the same chance of insincerity being picked out by a careless expression, or a fake nuance sensed in a falseness of tone. The screen covers up a mountain of deceit, like carefully applied foundation on a heavily pitted complexion. We’re all becoming dab hands at playing the new normal at its own game. Only our head and shoulders need to behave.

It’s also good not to have Grayson sitting on my shoulder, like an agitated parrot, reminding me of deadlines. As if I could forget. The lingering stench from his halitosis has joined the stilettos in the corner. Of course, we all like familiar, the comfort of the usual, but I can’t think of one co-worker who’ll miss Grayson. It’s bad enough seeing him on our work TeamViewer meets. The new working regime is becoming scarily homely.

But it’s still early days, time will tell. At least