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 gla.s.s 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 b.a.l.l.s.'

'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 s.e.x?'

'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 s.e.xuality, 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 supported him, and had walked out into the world without shame, a free woman.

'But I didn't have the courage to follow her example. I kept my feelings secret, and the more successful I became, the more I shrank from the idea of going public. I had a young man come to work for me once, a brilliant draughtsman, sensitive designer. He had much the same problem as me, and one day, it being the liberated eighties, he came to work in a frock. The others goggled, then pretended not to notice. They smirked and sn.i.g.g.e.red behind his back, of course, but he stuck to his guns. He seemed quite self-possessed when he saw the faces of the trade reps and building inspectors and clients turn red when he walked into a room. Then the day came when he had to go out onto a building site. The men had heard about him, and they weren't so polite. That night he hanged himself.'

Kathy's back was stiff from crouching forward to catch Luz's words; she straightened, stretched, and wondered how long this pitiful story was going to last. 'I don't see how this accounts for murdering your wife,' she said.

'It's important you understand the background. I was trapped in a situation I couldn't change, and I hated myself for it. I began to detest Charles Verge. I despised him for his paranoia and egomania. I didn't want to be him. So I invented this other person who I wanted to be: Luz Diaz, the Spanish artist. It turned out to be the most satisfying design project I'd ever done; I created her life story, constructed her career, fabricated catalogues for her brilliant exhibitions long ago. It gave me a secret thrill to mention her to people: "Oh, and I b.u.mped into that Spanish painter the other day in New York. You know, Luz Diaz, who did that big abstract in our flat. She was very sad, her mother died recently, so we had a drink together at the Hyatt and she cheered up a little." It was a harmless fantasy, I thought, except that it became addictive. More and more I yearned to be Luz. And after my marriage to Gail collapsed I finally rented Luz an apartment in Barcelona and began to act her part, living her life for whole days at a time.

'Then, about two years ago, I met Dr Lizancos at a lunch in Barcelona. He had been a boyhood friend of my father, and one of the other people at the table mentioned to me that he was an expert in reconstructive surgery- cosmetic, but also, more discreetly, transs.e.xual surgery.

After the lunch I asked Dr Lizancos if I could have an appointment with him. That was how I began to believe that I might turn Luz Diaz into a reality.

'I was married to Miki by that stage, of course, and the hope that my new wife might cure me of my obsession had not materialised. I decided to go ahead with Dr Lizancos's program of drugs in preparation for future surgery. I envisaged that I would retire from the practice and disappear to Spain, to live Luz Diaz's life, with Miki as my companion. It was a tremendous burden, this secret, especially when the drugs began to take effect. My s.e.x drive diminished, I lost weight, and the whole shape and texture of my body began to alter. Miki began to make comments about how I had changed. Finally I told her everything, about Luz Diaz and Dr Lizancos, about my plans.

'I expected her to be shocked, of course, but I hadn't antic.i.p.ated the full force of her reaction. She was contemptuous. She thought my lifelong dilemma was utterly absurd; she regarded my fantasy about Luz Diaz as disgusting; she said my plans were impossible, that I could no more become a woman through surgery than she could become a mermaid.

'It took me some time to realise that, not only would Miki never join me in my new life, but that she would do everything she could to ridicule and destroy it. I imagined her regaling our London friends with tales about her ludicrous ex-husband, doing interviews for newspapers and TV shows, writing her memoirs, My Life with the Freak, turning me into a national and international joke. And I also saw her destroying my reputation as an architect, taking over the practice, taking credit for my work, and especially for Marchdale.

'When I realised all that, I began to see that another plan would be necessary to achieve my flight from Charles Verge. I made her promise to say nothing until I was ready to make an announcement to my family and closest friends, and meanwhile I began to arrange the destruction not only of Miki, but of the Verge Practice, when I finally departed.'

It occurred to Kathy that he might have changed his s.e.x and his appearance, but the self-absorption, the egomania, were unchanged. 'How did Sandy Clarke deserve to be your victim too?'

Luz waved a dismissive hand. 'Sandy was a mediocre talent who made an extraordinarily good living from riding on my coat-tails for twenty-five years. He was also s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g my wife. It was time for payback. I knew that if Miki died in suspicious circ.u.mstances and I disappeared, I would be blamed. I had to provide an alternative explanation both for the murder and for the money funnelled out of the practice to fund my new life. But what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l were the police playing at? I left the ground thick with clues, and the b.u.mbling plod missed them all. Didn't they find Sandy's gla.s.ses in the bedroom, his pen in the bed, for G.o.d's sake?'

'Sandy removed those when he discovered the body.'

'Oh.' Luz looked annoyed. 'What about the bed linen?

Miki boasted to me that morning when I got back from the States that Sandy had slept in her d.a.m.n bed. Didn't he leave any traces?'

'She'd already changed and washed the sheets,' Kathy said, but didn't mention the pillowcase that had had such ramifications.

'Well, what about his driving glove? I took that from his car when he picked me up at the airport that morning, and left it in my car at the beach. Didn't you trace that back to him?'

'It had never been worn. It was a.s.sumed to be yours.'

'And the missing money? Didn't the accountants pick that up?'

'Only now.'

'h.e.l.l.' Luz shook her head. 'I didn't imagine it would be so difficult. I didn't intend for Sandy to die, not until I found out what he did to Charlotte. Perhaps I should have stuck to designing buildings, not murders. But I've always believed that any design problem, no matter how intractable, has a solution, if one only has the imagination and nerve.' She caught Kathy looking at her, the question in her eyes, and am I next? Luz turned away, and in that equivocation Kathy thought she saw the fate in store for her.

'You'd better bed down here, while I work out what to do now,' Luz said. 'There's blankets and linen in the drawers over there.'

'If you threaten the children, Stewart and Miranda, Brock will never rest until he's taken care of you.'

'Of course we shan't touch them. That was a rather clumsy initiative of George's. He was concerned that your boss was going to persist and needed warning off. I promise you, there's nothing to be concerned about in that area.'

Kathy nodded. 'And the same goes for me. I've got an important meeting first thing tomorrow, and if I don't show up all h.e.l.l will break loose.'

It sounded feeble even as she said it, and she saw that Luz was unimpressed.

'Don't worry, we'll work things out.' She got up to call George in, but Kathy stopped her, wanting to keep her talking.

'I'd like to know what Lizancos did to you, exactly.'

'Everything he could think of. I was the last opportunity for an old man to display his talent, his last masterpiece. He thinks of himself as an artist too, you see, his medium being flesh and bone, and once he'd begun I didn't have much say in the matter.'

Kathy remembered the first time she'd seen Luz in this house, and the rubber gloves. 'Your fingerprints?'

'Yes, he had a go at those too. It was something he'd always wanted to try, he said, to transplant toe pads to fingertips. I'm still having trouble with them. He'd have transplanted my whole hands if I'd let him-they're too large, of course. The most difficult thing has been something he couldn't alter, my voice. I took voice lessons in Barcelona, but I've been terrified that some rhythms of speech, some characteristic sounds, would be there for Charlotte or Madelaine to pick up. But they didn't.' Luz smiled, proud of herself.

'And in the end, did it work? Are you a woman?'

The smile faltered, then was forced back. 'Of course.

I told you, I always have been.'

Kathy wasn't convinced. It was a rehea.r.s.ed answer, she felt, a response to Miki's challenge that what he was attempting to do was impossible.

Luz went to the door and spoke to George, who came in and checked the windows, taking keys from the security locks. 'Triple glazed, toughened gla.s.s,' he told Kathy.

'Sleep well,' Luz said, and she and George left. Kathy heard the lock click, then made a hurried inspection of the room. There seemed no way out. She found cutlery in a kitchen drawer, and although the larger knives had been removed, there was a selection of smaller ones. She chose a couple, wrapped herself in a blanket and put out the light.

30.

Kathy stirred with the first glimmer of grey dawn through the little windows. She could hear nothing, no dawn chorus through the heavy glazing, only the soft hum of the refrigerator and ducted airconditioning, and was filled with a sense of dread about the day ahead.

At one point she thought she heard the faint murmur of a vehicle starting up, then nothing but more long silence.

Noticing a small intercom grille beside the door, she went over to it and pressed her thumb on the b.u.t.ton. After a while the speaker crackled and George's voice said, 'Morning.'

'What's going on, George? It's seven-thirty. I need to go.'

'Patience. There's food in the fridge and cupboards.

Make yourself some breakfast.'

'I don't want breakfast, I want . . .' But the line had gone dead.

She found some orange juice, and ate a piece of bread and marmalade, discovering that, despite a lingering nausea in the back of her throat, she was hungry.

Eight o'clock came and went, and Kathy experienced an odd sense of detachment, imagining the reactions when she failed to keep her appointment with Commander Sharpe.

She tried the intercom again.

'h.e.l.lo? Luz, George?'

'Patience,' George's voice repeated. 'Watch TV. Read a book.'

She made a cup of coffee, and pictured the scene in Sharpe's office, the angry call to Brock, the consternation in Queen Anne's Gate. Presumably, Brock had been told about her trouble in Barcelona. What was he thinking now, that she'd done a bunk? The police conference was starting today, she remembered, and she imagined Sharpe and the other top bra.s.s in full uniform discussing her case between sessions. The first of the working parties would be presenting their paper that afternoon. Hers was due the next day.

She switched on breakfast TV and watched, like a prisoner spying through a keyhole, the normal world outside, remote and unattainable.

Half an hour later she stopped pacing and tried the intercom again. 'George, I want to speak to Luz. Put her on, please.'

'Sorry, she's busy. We're in the middle of delicate negotiations. She says you're to stay calm and not worry.

She'll work things out, but it may take some time. And there's no point buzzing me all the time. Save it for an emergency. You've got plenty of grub down there and stacks of channels. Put your feet up, watch a movie.' He clicked off.

What negotiations? Were they bargaining for her life?

She paced around the flat again, searching for something, an access cover, a floor duct, anything that might give her an outlet to the world outside. Nothing. The only possibility for breaking out seemed to be to find something to smash through the gla.s.s of a window. She felt for the tea-knife in her pocket and stared at the stone wall, wondering how many years it would take her to dig her way out.

By ten Brock was in a cold sweat. He'd had no contact with Kathy since Friday night, sixty hours earlier. She had seemed disappointed that the Verge investigation had been shut down, but not unduly so. Then they had parted and he had thought no more about it until he got the phone message on Sunday afternoon that one of his officers had gone berserk in Barcelona, and would he kindly get his a.r.s.e back to London. He had had no sleep since. He had gone himself to meet her plane at Heathrow, but a cloudburst had jammed traffic on the M4 and by the time he had arrived the pa.s.sengers were already dispersing. British Airways confirmed that she had been on the flight, and he had a.s.sumed she was making her way back to her flat in Finchley. He drove there, and spent half the night sitting outside the building, phoning people until his batteries ran down. Her phone wasn't answering, and no one else he could think of-Bren, Leon, Suzanne, Linda Moffat-had heard from her. At three a.m. he went home, thinking she might be waiting for him there. She wasn't, and he raised the alarm.

When Sharpe phoned at three minutes past nine to find out why the h.e.l.l DS Kolla hadn't turned up for her appointment, Brock informed him that she was now listed as missing. 'Missing?' Sharpe had growled. 'Missing in the head, or what? Christ, Brock, this was supposed to be your star. What're the rest of your cowboys like?'

When he'd rung off, Brock had sent Bren to Finchley to gain entry to Kathy's flat, to see if there were any clues as to her whereabouts there. Apart from an altercation with a neighbour who thought he was a burglar, Bren had nothing to report. There was no sign that Kathy had returned to the flat, and nothing apart from a scribbled note of plane times to connect to the events of the weekend.

If only she'd got engaged to Leon, Kathy thought, and he'd bought her a very large diamond engagement ring, she might have been able to cut her way through the gla.s.s. She lifted the small iron she'd found in a cupboard and extended her arm. In her left hand she was gripping a steel leg that she'd managed to detach from a chair. She swung the iron at the gla.s.s. There was a solid bang that jarred her arm and reverberated through the structure of the building; a star formed in the gla.s.s. She tried again, and the star spread. With the third blow the gla.s.s shattered. But this was only the first of three layers.

She heard feet on the stairs and ran towards the door, dropping the iron and lifting the chair leg to shoulder height. She pressed herself flat against the wall alongside the door and waited. The door burst open and she swung her weapon, but there was no one there.

A voice outside in the hallway said, with a weary sigh, 'What do you think this is, James bleeding Bond? Come on, luv, I've been around too long. Back off.'

Feeling somewhat sheepish, Kathy stepped away from the door and George appeared, a small automatic in his hand, aimed in the general direction of her midriff. 'Ooh . . .' he frowned at what she was holding. 'That's an early Eames prototype that is. Worth a bomb. Hope you haven't done any permanent damage. Luz'll kill you.'

'I was thinking that might be the general idea,' Kathy said, her heart thumping from the adrenaline.

He clucked scoldingly. 'I told you to be patient.'

'Where is she, George?'

'Do you want me to cuff you to the bench?'

'No.'

'Well behave then. Watch telly, have some food. You look like you could use it. There's some choice stuff in the fridge. I bought it myself.'

'Why are you getting mixed up in this, George? You're on parole. They'll put you back inside forever. Let me out now and I'll do the best I can for you.'

'Save it.' He stepped back and slammed the door closed behind him.

It was late afternoon before George appeared again. He knocked on the door and pushed it open cautiously.

'Let's go.'

'Where to?' she asked, suddenly reluctant to leave the security of her prison.

'Where do you want to go?'

'Queen Anne's Gate.'

'Okay.' He turned on his heel and she hurried after him.

When she reached the top of the spiral staircase she had the impression that the house was deserted. She noticed a large painting had been taken down from the wall of the studio.