‘Happened? Like what?’
‘Has Charles Verge tried to contact you?’
Diaz waved her smoking fist dismissively. ‘Of course not.’
‘It would be natural, wouldn’t it? You were good friends, and you live close to his daughter.’
The other woman turned away, her mouth a tight line of exasperation. ‘This is how you think. I came here to work in peace. I don’t like to think that you are watching me. Maybe I should go back to Barcelona until this is all over.’
‘You were good friends, weren’t you?’
‘You mean, were we lovers, is that it? That’s what those cops in Barcelona went on about. It’s the only kind of relationship between a man and a woman they understand.’ She took an angry suck at her cigarette.
‘So what was your relationship, exactly?’
‘We were both professionals, and we admired each other’s work.’ She finally took a seat, as if reconciling herself to having to talk. ‘I first met him at the opening of a show I had in a gallery in Barcelona. He was knowledgeable about contemporary painting and had definite opinions. He was very generous in his praise of my work and bought a small painting. Then he contacted me a week later to say that he wanted to recommend me to a client of his to do a big canvas, bigger than I had ever done in my life, for the lobby of a new building he was doing. He said my work and his would go together very well. I was flattered. The commission fell through, actually, but we became friends and when he was in Barcelona he would often come to my exhibitions or my studio.’
‘So you’ve known him since the time of his first marriage.’
‘Yes, about ten years. It has been a difficult period in his life, a time of change. He was very successful, sure, but first there was the divorce, then his affair with Miki. With me he enjoyed to talk. We had rapport. People said we looked like brother and sister together, and maybe that was it-we were both single children, you see.’
She shrugged and stubbed out the cigarette.
‘How did you come to buy this house?’
‘I explained all this to the other officers, in London. They checked the paperwork, didn’t they? It was just chance, really. The house had been empty for several years since Madelaine moved out, but Charles couldn’t bear to sell it because of what new owners might do to it. He brought me to see it one day when I was in London, the spring before last, and I fell in love with it. I had inherited some money at the time, and I had been looking for a new house and studio, and I thought how perfect this would be. The great window faces north, you see? The light is perfect for painting, and I needed somewhere where I could spend time away from the distractions of my scruffy little place in Barcelona. And he was right about his architecture and my painting being made for each other. Here they could be one. So I told him that if he would sell it to me, I would promise to change nothing.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘He was in Barcelona in early April, we met briefly.’
‘What did he talk about?’
‘Mainly about his daughter. He had just heard that she was to have a baby, and he was very happy about this, but also worried about her not having a partner to help her. Charlotte had recently split up from the father, and then she discovered that she was pregnant.’
‘Was Charles angry about that?’
‘Angry? No. He thought the man was lazy, that Charlotte was well rid of him. But he wanted to help her. They had just found this cottage for her, near here. He said he hoped I wouldn’t mind having her as a neighbour. I said of course not.’
‘Did he talk about anything else?’
‘About his work, I think. Yes, his prison.’ She arched an eyebrow, catching the small crease in the corner of Kathy’s mouth. ‘You think that’s amusing?’
‘No. A bit ironic, that’s all. It’s an unusual project, isn’t it?’
‘Charles was very bound up in it…’ Now Luz allowed herself a tight smile. ‘Yes, full of irony, I know. But he was really passionate about it. He said no other well-known architect would do such a project. They all want to design what he called safe public buildings-prestigious art galleries, museums, universities. No one had the courage to face such an uncomfortable subject as a prison. But he said that it is the father and mother of all buildings, because it does absolutely what other buildings do only in part. A prison is the building that most fully controls the lives of the people inside it, so the very best architects should design it.’
‘Someone in his office said that he had the idea that his building could fundamentally change people. They said he was obsessed with it.’
Luz Diaz looked thoughtfully at Kathy. ‘Did they say that? Were they laughing at him, do you think?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Do they miss him? Or do they hate him for what he’s supposed to have done?’
‘I think they’re just trying to weather the storm caused by it.’
‘Yes, of course. We’re all trying to do that…’ She said it wistfully, looking out through the large window as if she might catch sight of the missing man somewhere out there in the sunlit fields.
‘You sound as if it affected you a great deal.’
The woman looked back sharply at Kathy. ‘Not me, no. I meant the others. Although I miss him now, more than I would have expected.’
Kathy watched her reach for another cigarette. Her fingers looked pink and inflamed, as if she were allergic to something in the paint. ‘Are you quite sure you haven’t heard from him, Ms Diaz?’
Luz snapped the flame off and took a deep breath. ‘Quite sure. And I’m quite sure I never shall.’
‘Why?’
‘Because his mother is right. He is dead.’
‘How can you be certain?’
‘I feel it. I know it. I am absolutely sure that he didn’t murder his wife. And whoever did has made quite certain that you will never find him. You’re wasting your time looking. Charles Verge doesn’t exist any more.’
Luz Diaz got to her feet and looked at her watch. ‘I said ten minutes. I’ve given you twenty. Now I must work.’ She rammed the cigarette into her mouth and reached for the yellow gloves.
7
The idea of fronting up to another strong woman didn’t appeal to Kathy, but she knew that Leon would have phoned his mother to warn her she might be calling. She rang the Barnet number and when Ghita Desai answered she heard the guarded tone in her voice.
‘Yes, dear, Leon said you might call to see us. Is everything all right?’ ‘Yes, yes. I’m just going to be over your way, so I thought I’d say hello. But only if it’s convenient.’ ‘Of course. Morarji may be resting. His operation, you know. But that doesn’t matter.’
Kathy arrived armed with a bunch of flowers at the Desai house, its semi-detached neatness enhanced by some recently fitted double-glazing.
Ghita answered the door immediately, as if she’d watched Kathy’s approach from behind the net curtains. ‘How are you, dear?’ She offered Kathy a cheek. Both she and her husband had the coal-dark eyes that Kathy found so disconcertingly attractive in Leon, but in their sagging faces the eyes gave an impression of deep fatigue, as if recovering from a very long period of watchfulness. Ghita peered at Kathy now through those dark eyes like someone conducting a physical.
‘Are you sure everything’s all right? There is nothing wrong?’
It was the unexpected visit, the rarity of direct contact, and suddenly Kathy realised that Ghita assumed she had come to deliver some momentous message concerning herself. ‘Leon and I have decided to get married’, perhaps, or more likely, ‘You’re going to become grandparents’. Yes, that was it. Ghita thought she was pregnant and had come alone to spill the awful beans. Because Kathy also saw, from the sombre expression on Ghita’s face, the way she held herself braced, that such news would not be welcome. Not from her.
‘No, everything’s fine. Absolutely. How is Morarji?’
The brow between Ghita’s dark eye sockets creased in a tiny frown of doubt, then eased. ‘He’s much better, really. But he gets tired. He’s just having a little nap. You don’t mind, do you?’