The story was long. Michael did not hold back as he had with Romy. And Leo did not try to interrupt. Sitting across the table from Michael, he seemed too stunned for speech.

When Michael finally stopped talking, there was an eerie silence in the kitchen, as if neither of them was actually breathing. He wished his son would say something. He had no hope of exoneration, of course, but he wanted to get this over with, to take the heavy blows of disgust and condemnation – the outrage – squarely on the chin. He was ready.

Leo got up in total silence, his face almost blank.

‘Leo?’

His son moved towards the door. ‘Can’t talk to you, Dad. Not now.’

And with that he was gone.

Michael followed him, saw the door slam. He leant against the hall wall and began to cry tears of hopelessness. This, he knew, was his life now. Not just in his own head, but in his son’s too – both his sons, when Rex found out – he was a pariah. He had no real friends. Romy was gone. And Leo would not be back.

But as Michael clumped his solitary way along the corridor to his bedroom, he was aware of the smallest, almost imperceptible lightening in his soul. For the first time in decades he had been completely honest. He was well aware, though, that that was not the end of it. There was something else he needed to do. And until he did that – the potential ramifications of which made him almost nauseous – he knew he would not be able to find even a modicum of peace.

58

Finch strode beside his stepdaughter as they climbed the hill behind his Derbyshire house. It was freezing, the easterly wind bitter. But the sun had shaken off the low clouds in the early afternoon, making Grace jump up from the lunch table and declare they all needed a walk.

Sam had grinned, but adamantly refused. ‘You two go. I’ll sit by the stove and trash my mind with the Sundays.’

‘Snooze off, more like,’ Grace said.

At which Sam had laughed easily and nodded. ‘Hope so. But if you’re nice to me, I might clear up first.’

So Finch had Grace to himself. Which was exactly what he wanted.

His stepdaughter, after opening up to Sam and then beginning her therapy, had got worse before she’d got better: the enlightened company she worked for had given her a month’s sick leave, more if she needed it. So Finch went round to see her most weekdays. He’d sit with her, often in silence, make her lunch that she didn’t eat, try to encourage her out, which she refused to do. She kept insisting he need not be there, but she didn’t seem to mind his company.