a terrible mistake going to him, but he was a very loyal friend of Charles’s father and Charles knew he could rely on him to keep silent. And there was something else that upset Charles even more. He said that he had arranged things so that Sandy Clarke should have been suspected of both his and Miki’s murders. He had left clues and evidence of financial dealings which incriminated Clarke, the idea being to clear Charles’s name and allow him to escape in safety. But somehow the police had been so incompetent that they had apparently overlooked these things. Now everyone believed that Charles was alive, a killer on the run. This preyed on his mind a great deal. As he recovered physically-though disfigured-he became very depressed by the thought that posterity would remember him as a monster.
‘Then you came to speak to Charlotte that day, after you had interviewed Sandy Clarke. George saw the files you were carrying, and how upset they made Charlotte, even though afterwards she refused to say what it was about. So he followed you to the supermarket, stole the papers and brought them to Charles, who discovered that Clarke was the father of his expected grandchild. He was very angry. That was when he decided to kill Clarke and make him claim responsibility for Miki’s death. He succeeded brilliantly, of course, with George’s help, and his reputation was restored just in time for the opening of his last masterpiece.’
‘So where is he now?’ Kathy asked. Throughout Luz’s account George hadn’t stirred a muscle, hadn’t blinked and hadn’t shifted his eyes from Kathy’s face.
Luz reached for a magazine on the glass table. ‘This is the Architectural Review edition featuring Marchdale. It is a wonderful appreciation, the confirmation of Charles’s talent. It came out last Wednesday, the day before the opening. That evening he had supper with us. He was very content, and said that everything was now in order. The next day I phoned him from Marchdale to tell him how wonderfully the opening had gone. When I returned I found him downstairs in his room. He had taken an overdose.
‘I called George, and together we built a great pyre with timber from the woods. We burned his body and all his possessions, then scattered the ashes.’ She turned to the window and gestured. ‘He’s out there, Kathy, in the air and the water and the soil. You will find no trace of him.’
Kathy said nothing, lowering her eyes, aware of them watching her. Finally George spoke for the first time, softly. ‘She doesn’t believe you, Luz.’
Kathy looked up, first at him, then at Luz. ‘Actually, I do believe most of what you said.’
‘Most?’
‘The trouble is, Charles has done this so many times before-died and left no body. First in the English Channel, then in some unmarked grave, and now scattered across Buckinghamshire.’
Luz’s expression hardened. ‘It was necessary that there should be no trace left. You understand that. His reputation must be preserved.’
‘Hm.’ Kathy didn’t attempt to hide her disbelief. She felt grimy and exhausted.
‘But there is something,’ Luz said. She got to her feet and handed Kathy a small clear plastic pouch. Inside she saw a colour photo of a laughing girl. Turning it over she read the childish printed message, ‘To dearest Daddy, luv from Charlotte, XXX’.
‘It was in his wallet, and I didn’t have the heart to burn it. I suspect it was the most precious thing he had. I dare say it has his fingerprints on it. You can have it.’
‘Why?’
‘You can use it, perhaps. Tell your bosses that you found it in Lizancos’s house, to prove Charles was there and justify your actions. Tell them about what I have said tonight, too, if you like. Maybe they will forgive you.’
‘Why would you want to help me? You said you’d deny everything.’
‘Of course I will. But I want you and your people to know the truth and then leave us alone. I am betting that your bosses will want to bury it. It is all too late now, and too embarrassing. I have the feeling that, after tomorrow, the police will be thankful to never hear the name Charles Verge again.’
Kathy shrugged. ‘Yes. Makes sense.’
‘Good.’ Luz smiled at her, then turned and nodded to George, whose expression remained as morose as ever.
‘I really do feel very tired, Luz,’ Kathy said. ‘Can you call me a cab?’
‘It’s not necessary. George will take you home. We owe you that. I’m only sorry that we had to talk so late, but I think you understand now. Good luck tomorrow.’
‘Thanks.’ Kathy got to her feet and moved towards the stairs, Luz and George ahead of her. As she passed the glass table she stooped briefly, took the cigarette butt from the ashtray and dropped it into her pocket. As she started up the stairs behind them, George turned and took hold of her arm. He then gently slipped his hand into her pocket and produced the stub, holding it up for Luz. The other woman stared down, puzzled.
‘What is that?’
‘She took your fag-end, Luz. She wants to check your DNA.’ He turned to Kathy. ‘Right?’
Kathy said nothing, watching the expression go out of Luz’s face.
‘Oh.’ Luz’s voice sounded flat. ‘That’s too bad.’ She took a deep breath and began to descend once more. ‘We’d better go down to the lower floor. It seems it will be necessary for you to spend the night here, Kathy.’
With George close at her back, Kathy followed the other woman to a hallway near the foot of the staircase. Luz took a key from her pocket and opened a door, reached in to switch on a light, and led them into a small sitting room. There was no picture window outlook down here, but rather a scatter of small windows, like irregular portholes, on the external wall, which was formed of blocks of rough stone. From the outside, Kathy imagined, this storey would look like a rock plinth on which the light glass and steel pavilion above was raised. There was an alcove with an unmade bed, and another with a small kitchen. The furnishings were spartan, as if the room had recently been stripped and scoured.
Luz gestured to a chair. ‘Sit down, Kathy. George, I’d like you to wait outside in the hall while I have this conversation with Kathy. Stay close to the door in case I need you, okay?’ The Spanish accent had faded.
George nodded and left, closing the door gently behind him.
‘That’s the only way out, Kathy. George is armed, in case you hadn’t noticed. He is very loyal to me, and would kill you without hesitation if he felt it necessary. You understand?’
Kathy nodded and sat. Luz pulled another seat in front of her, so that they were face to face, intimately close within the bare room.
‘How long have you known?’
‘I saw what kind of operations Dr Lizancos does, Luz.’ Kathy felt her throat dry. ‘He keeps videos of his finest work. I have actually seen him cutting off your balls.’
‘Oh…’ Luz’s mouth turned down in a grimace. ‘I didn’t know that.’
She sat back and lit a cigarette, the flame trembling a little as she held it to the tip. ‘You find the idea grotesque, do you? What Lizancos did to me?’
‘I think it’s rather extreme to change your gender so as to evade the law.’
‘Actually, it was more the other way around.’
Kathy frowned. ‘You murdered in order to change your sex?’
‘Yes, that’s what it amounts to.’ She leaned closer to Kathy and her voice dropped to an urgent whisper, as if she didn’t want George to hear. ‘I want you to understand, Kathy. I thought from the very first time I met you, here in this house, that if anyone could understand, it would be you-a young, independent woman, making her own life.’
Kathy felt a shiver of distaste creep up her spine. The other woman was so intense, little flecks of spittle flying from her mouth as she spoke, her perfume too strong at close quarters, that Kathy felt an overpowering desire to back away, but she could only hear the words if she bent her head close.
‘You must understand that this is not some kind of desperate last-minute ploy, Kathy. I have felt that I was really a girl from my earliest years. My first memory is of lying in my bedroom with a woman nurse, and feeling certain that I would grow up to be like her. As I grew older and became aware of human sexuality, the idea didn’t fade away. It grew stronger, more certain. I didn’t want to imitate a woman-I was a woman, locked inside the wrong body.
‘I told no one, but I read everything I could about my condition. When I read Jan Morris’s book Conundrum it was an inspiration to me. I remember the year it came out, 1974, the same year I returned to England with my new American wife and began work on this house. Here was a man who had frankly, publicly, discussed his innermost thoughts, his decision to surgically change his body to that of a woman. He had confided in his wife and family, who
