All through the next half-hour, there was nothing. Three-fifty-nine. Four o’clock. The view remained unchanged, empty except for than the shadow of the branch edging closer to the door. Josh could feel his pulse quickening. With every second of Michael’s absence from the screen the prospect of proof was closer to hand. Perhaps Slater had taken the tapes but then never watched them. Perhaps, once the DCI had declared there was no case, they’d just sat in a storage cupboard for months before eventually being returned to the school.
But then, at the edge of the frame, another shadow began encroaching fast upon the shadow of the branch. Within a few seconds it had happened. The doors slid open and Michael, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, his fencing bag slung over his shoulder, entered the building and walked across the screen, clearing its frame in just four strides.
Josh paused the tape, Michael’s exiting right foot still frozen on the far left of the screen. He pressed the rewind button, sending him back across the entrance and out the doors. Then he pressed play again, watching as closely as he could. Michael repeated his entrance. Josh’s breath was shortening. Once Michael had cleared the frame he immediately rewound the tape and pressed play again, but this time with his finger hovering over the pause button too. In this way, switching between play and pause, Josh watched as Michael walked across the screen in slow motion. Which is when he knew there was no doubt. It was the jerk in his shoulder that betrayed him, the shortened stride as if his right leg was weighted. Michael was limping. There were only four of his strides in frame, but they were enough. Josh had walked beside that limp across the Heath many times. But only ever at the beginning of their jogs, when Michael’s right calf was still cramped.
He paused the tape again. Leaning in to the screen, he tried to make out Michael’s expression. But he couldn’t. His face was a grey blur. It didn’t matter. Josh knew. That was all that mattered. He finally knew. However Michael had got to the school that day, he hadn’t, as he’d claimed in his statement to Slater, walked there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“MICHAEL.”
Michael was at the edge of the clearing when he heard Josh call his name. It was a warm evening towards the end of April, two days after they’d seen each other at Samantha’s private view. Just minutes earlier, pausing on his way home from a fencing lesson, Michael had been standing alone at the clearing’s centre, looking up at a flight of house martins darting for insects in the fading light. The trees of the South Wood were coming into leaf all around him. The white candles of the horse chestnuts already shone bright against the darker shades of foliage and bark.
The only time Josh had ever called Michael by his full name was when he’d introduced him to other guests at that first party. Otherwise he’d always been “Mike” to Josh. At times, even “Mikey.” But never Michael.
He turned, slowly. Josh was standing at the far end of the clearing. He wore his Corporation of London uniform: a pair of dark combat trousers and a dark green polo shirt bearing the corporation’s crest on his chest. Michael was relieved to see he held nothing in his hands. He wondered how long Josh had been watching him.
“Josh,” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“You were in my house,” Josh said, not moving. “That day. You were in my house.”
Michael felt the air leave his lungs as if he’d been plunged underwater. He’d known as soon as he’d seen Josh standing there. As soon as he’d heard him say his name. But it was still a shock, to hear the words, to hear him state them so baldly. He thought for a moment about trying to pretend he didn’t know what Josh was talking about. But he knew it was no use. His expression would have already told Josh all he needed to know. So, instead, Michael completed the dismantling of their false minutes.
“And you weren’t,” he said.
Josh remained motionless. His hands were balled into fists. He said nothing, leaving Michael’s words to fall in the air between them. Michael was about to speak again when Josh started walking towards him. “Why?” he said, his jaw tense, the tendons showing on his neck. His voice was hoarse, a strained whisper. “Why? That’s all I want to know. Why did you do it, you fucking bastard?”
Michael backed away a couple of paces, his hands held out to appease Josh. “I didn’t,” he said. “I was there, but I didn’t do anything.”
Josh stopped advancing. “I should kill you,” he said. His eyes were welling. Michael could see the mix of rage and grief swelling through his body. “I should kill you now.”
“Josh, please,” Michael said. “You’ve got to listen to me. You’re right, I was in your house. I was there.” He paused. He had to say it. “I saw her fall.”
Josh’s face began to twitch with suppressed tears.
“But it was an accident.” Michael continued. “I swear. An accident.”
Josh was upon him before Michael had time to move. Somehow he breached the distance between them in a single stride and, grabbing at Michael’s T-shirt, pushed him backwards towards the fence. Michael gripped his wrists and wrenched them away, pushing Josh off him at the same time. “Josh!” he shouted, backing farther off, his fencing bag falling to the ground. “For Christ’s sake, just listen. Please!”
Josh was breathing heavily. He looked as if he might come at him again, but then, as quickly as he’d launched his attack, his body softened. “Just tell me why,” he said again, quietly.
So Michael did.
He described how he’d come round that day, looking for his screwdriver. He hated saying the word. It sounded so trivial, so insignificant, to have caused such pain. But that, he told Josh, was why he’d been there. Then Michael tried, as best he could, to explain about his concerns. He’d found the back door open. He’d wanted to make sure they hadn’t been burgled. And then he tried to tell him about Caroline too. But it was too much for Josh. Or too little.
“A ghost? A fucking ghost?” he shouted at Michael. “Is that what you’re fucking telling me? You killed my daughter because you thought you saw a ghost?”
“No!” Michael shouted back. He could feel his own anger rising. If Josh had been there, if he’d just stayed at home instead of going to screw Maddy. If he’d just been there, then none of this would have happened. “Not a ghost,” Michael said. “Just her. You have to understand. It was all so soon. I’d had those fucking letters…It was all—” He broke off and looked at Josh. As if to say, We’ve both done this, both of us. We are both to blame.
“Then what?” Josh said.
There was a bench to the side of the clearing. Michael went and sat on it. With his head in his hands, he told Josh how Lucy had appeared from nowhere, how he’d tried to catch her but he’d failed, and had watched her fall instead.
“And then,” Josh said, pacing in front of Michael, “you left. You fucking left.”
“Yes,” Michael said, staring at the ground. “I left. And I wish with all my life I hadn’t.” He paused, looking up at Josh. “But then so did you.” Josh turned and looked down at him. “You left, too,” Michael said. “You left. And if you hadn’t…”