‘That’s just insane . . .’ said Miles, trailing off. He didn’t want to provoke a madman.
‘What were you going to say, Miles? That’s insane? Paranoid? You think I’m crazy? You’re talking to the wrong man. I’ve spent five years doing just that for you, haven’t I? Digging up dirt, smearing people, having people “dissuaded” from doing things. Do you really think your father was any less ruthless?’
‘If you were so keen on staying hidden, why did you come back to find me?’ asked Miles slowly. He had shifted his position to look back down the path behind him, wondering if he could make a run for it. He had to distract Michael, keep him talking.
‘Because you had to pay for what you did!’ said Michael, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘So I changed my name, went to state uni, law school, joined Weinstein Fink on Wall Street, a small outfit. Tough, alley-cat lawyers. The truth was, I’d almost forgotten about you, Miles, until one day I heard Ash Corp. was looking for a business affairs manager. Dick Donovan, your father’s right-hand man, had put a discreet word out around all the hard-nosed, streetwise firms like Weinstein Fink that Miles Ashford wanted a fixer, and suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about you.’
‘So you came to meet me,’ said Miles, remembering their first meeting in an anonymous hotel room in midtown. What had Donovan, his father’s business adviser, told him? ‘Come and meet an impressive young lawyer I’ve found. He’s sharp, ruthless. Just what we’re looking for . . .’
‘I just wanted to see what you had become. It was a risk, of course,’ said Michael with a hard, brittle laugh.‘But I knew I looked different, my fixed nose, the long studenty hair had gone. My new glasses. I have to wear these because of you, Miles. You ruptured my right cornea in that “bit of a tussle”, as you put it. A man like you, I’m not surprised you’ve found a way of justifying it to yourself, but it was a vicious, cowardly attack. “Frenzied”, that’s what the doctors said.’
Miles took a second to study Michael. He had never been able to recall the exact contours and features of the boat boy’s face. Even examining Michael’s face now, he could barely remember it. But then, he’d only seen him twice, in the dark, twenty years ago. Why would he recognise him?
‘But if you hated me so much, why did you take the job?’
Michael snorted. ‘As soon as I saw you again, I knew what sort of man you had become. Weak, arrogant, in need of other people to cover up your mistakes, just like you did that night on the island. I wanted to stop you, Miles – and get my just reward for what you did. And because of the power and influence you gave me, I now have five million dollars sitting in a bank account in the Cayman Islands, all slowly siphoned off from Ash Corp.’
Miles creased his brow. ‘Take the money and just fuck off then. You’ve made your point.’
‘Oh, this isn’t over, Miles,’ said Michael.‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Michael’s eyes were like dark, angry hollows. Miles fo
rced himself to remain calm.
‘Put the gun down, Michael. Do you really think you can just shoot me and get away with it?’
The lawyer smirked. ‘I know how to get away with anything, Miles, you know that. I’m the master of the disappearing act; I’ve done it over and over again for you. But this time it’s going to be messy. This time I’m going to leave a bloody trail leading right to your precious friends. Alex, Sasha and Grace will take the blame.’
‘They don’t deserve that, Michael.’
His brows arched in surprise. ‘Don’t they? They were happy enough to leave me to die on the beach. Happy enough to put it out of their minds as if it simply didn’t matter. Happy to go on with their lives hoping I had just been a bad dream.’
‘They thought you were dead,’ he said defensively.
Michael leapt forward, grabbing Miles’ hair and jamming the cold barrel of the gun into his eye.
‘Oh, I am dead, Miles,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been dead for twenty years. And now you’re going to join me in hell.’
‘Can you go any faster?’ shouted Philip, desperately trying to hang on to the side of the boat. The weather was filthy and waves were splashing over the bows so that he was ankle deep in water. At first the captain had refused to bring him across to Angel Cay from the White Sands resort, but he had relented when Philip had given him a thousand dollars in cash.
‘Boat only does thirty knots,’ said the old sailor.
‘This is an emergency,’ Philip pleaded, fumbling another note out from his pocket. The captain reached over, took the money, then turned back to his wheel.
Twelve long minutes later, the boat finally thumped up against Angel Cay’s jetty and Philip vaulted up and hit the ground running towards the house. His rugby training was a long time behind him, and at forty-seven his legs felt like lead as they pounded through the sand. But adrenalin and fear pushed him on through the rain, the wind whipping his jacket away from his body. Sasha had said she had thought something was wrong on the island, but now Philip knew there was. As soon as he’d hung up from Sasha, he’d called Nassau’s Central Detective Unit and asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Carlton, only to be told that there was no officer of that name.
‘At the station?’ asked Philip.
‘In any of our divisions, sir,’ said the officer on the line. ‘The Bahamas is not a big place.’
Confused, Philip had said he understood Carlton was in charge of investigating the discovery of a body on Angel Cay. He was put through to the Great Exumas police station in George Town only to be asked, ‘Is this a hoax?’ Nobody had heard of a dead body on Angel Cay. There was no police investigation and as far as they knew, no foreign surveyors on the island.
Philip was panting when he reached the house. He pushed through the front door and almost ran into Grace Ashford and Alex Doyle.
‘Who the hell are you?’ said Alex.
For a moment Philip couldn’t speak, he was breathing so hard. He bent over, hands on his knees.