an Francisco, California, October 1990

Lindsay picked up her briefcase and slammed the car door shut. She collected a bundle of letters and a newspaper from the mailbox and sniffed the salty air appreciatively. She walked down the path to the house overlooking the beach, taking her time in the late afternoon sun.

She juggled her burdens till she had a free hand, then let herself into the newly-painted timber house. Kicking her shoes off, she headed for the long verandah that stretched the length of the house. There, she dropped everything on the table and went to the kitchen where she took a bottle of Stolichnaya out of the freezer and mixed herself a vodka and freshly-squeezed orange juice. Then she returned to the balcony and opened her mail. A letter from her mother, a resistible invitation to join a book club, a note from a fellow faculty member inviting her and her partner to a barbecue brunch on Sunday.

Lindsay grinned happily. Just another day in paradise, she thought. It was the best thing she'd ever done, moving out here to California. Though it was early days, the job was everything it had promised and more. Teaching journalism at the local university was a dream compared with doing the real thing. And for a woman raised on the wild Atlantic shore, the Pacific coast was a peach of a place to live.

She ripped the wrapper open on her copy of the Sunday Times and settled back to enjoy her weekly taste of home. At the end of the news section, she refreshed her drink, then settled down with the arts pages. Her eye was instantly caught by a headline which read, "FROM SCANDAL TO BOOKER."

Lindsay read on eagerly.

Mary Nkobo's masterpiece, Ikhaya Lamaqhawe, this week became the most controversial Booker Prize winner in the history of the award.

Ikhaya Lamaqhawe (Home of the Heroes) was first published under the name of feminist author Cordelia Brown. But following the issue of a warrant for Brown's arrest for the murder of Scottish journalist Alison Maxwell, the truth about Ikhaya Lamaqhawe's authorship came to light.

It was the work of African teacher Mary Nkobo, who has disappeared in South Africa after her arrest last year by the secret police. Friends fear that she has been killed.

Like a previous Booker winner, Schindler's Ark, the book is a fictionalised version of real events. Ikhaya Lamaqhawe is the thinly disguised story of Mary Nkobo's struggle to uncover the truth about her fiance Joshua Shabala who was murdered by South African security forces. When she finally uncovered the truth, she too vanished.

Mary had the manuscript smuggled out via Zimbabwe, prior to her disappearance. She sent it to Cordelia Brown, because they had been in correspondence about Brown's work.

Believing that she was the only person who had actually seen the manuscript, Brown presented it to her publishers as her own work. Ikhaya Lamaqhawe was published under her name last December.

But her secret was not safe. Police sources say that Alison Maxwell uncovered the truth, and Brown killed her to maintain the fiction of her authorship of Ikhaya Lamaqhawe.

Another journalist, Jackie Mitchell, was found guilty of the murder, and had served some months in prison when the real sequence of events was uncovered by a private investigator working for Miss Mitchell's lawyers.

By the time Brown's imposture was discovered, she had fled the country, becoming the literary world's Lord Lucan.

Ikhaya Lamaqhawe was recalled and reissued under Mary Nkobo's name, and the Booker judges rewarded the undoubted power and clarity of the book on Thursday night.

The book's publisher, Jonas Milner, said, "It has been a very difficult and embarrassing experience for us. No one likes to be conned. We had no reason to be suspicious, because we knew Cordelia Brown was a very talented and versatile writer. But I'm glad to say that it has all been sorted out now. Ikhaya Lamaqhawe was a very worthy winner. Mary Nkobo's mother, who accepted the award on her behalf, has announced that the money will go into a trust to award bursaries to black writers."

Justice may have been done to Mary Nkobo. But it awaits Cordelia Brown, still on the missing list."

Lindsay folded up the paper with a smile on her face. She glanced at her watch. Sophie would be home any minute now, crises permitting. Her AIDS specialisation had paid off handsomely, and she was now a senior consultant at the city's maternity hospital. The offer of the job had come less than a week after Cordelia's escape, and Lindsay had been more than glad to accept Sophie's suggestion that they go to California together.

After some wrangling with the police, she'd been allowed to remove her belongings from Cordelia's London house. It had been a sad and depressing experience, for the discovery of Cordelia's crime had made it impossible for Lindsay to enjoy the good memories. The house had seemed oppressive and threatening, not the home where she had once been happy. Selling the Mercedes and donating the proceeds to an AIDS charity had felt like the last act in a long tragedy.

But California had banished the shadows from her life. And the job had been the icing on the cake. Lindsay padded through to the kitchen and opened a bottle of the local sparkling Chardonnay. Mary Nkobo's Booker prize deserved a celebration. As she topped her glass up with orange juice, she heard the front door slam. Hastily, she poured another glass for Sophie, and greeted her as she strolled cheerfully in.

"Good day?" Lindsay enquired, kissing her lightly.

"Not bad. And you? Are we celebrating something?"

"In a way. The end of a story. Or at least, the end of a chapter. Come and see." Lindsay took Sophie's hand and led her out on to the sun deck. "Read that," she said, pointing to the article.

Curious, Sophie picked up the paper and sat down with her glass of Buck's Fizz. She read through to the end with a smile on her face. "I'm glad it won," she said. "You're right, it is the end of the chapter. Strangely enough, I have a surprise for you too." She opened her bag and fished out a postcard which she handed to Lindsay.

Lindsay picked it up and glanced at the front, an artistic photograph of two cats on the doorstep of a Greek village house. She flipped it over and immediately recognised the handwriting. The card had been forwarded from Sophie's flat in Glasgow to the hospital. The message was brief but curiously final.

"Dear Lindsay:

Weather wonderful. Life very simple here. It's good to get away from it all. A wonderful place to set a thriller, don't you think? Hope everything is fine with you and Sophie."

There was no signature, but it needed none. She looked up at Sophie's concerned face and managed a wan smile.

Relieved that the card hadn't upset Lindsay, Sophie smiled back and said, "I know you haven't wanted to talk about it, but how are you feeling now?"

Lindsay sat down. "I think I've finally managed to let it go. I read that article, and I didn't feel a single pang of regret for Cordelia. Even that postcard didn't churn up any unwanted feelings. I'm not sorry that she seems to have escaped, but I don't think I care very much about what happens to her now. The woman who committed those crimes feels like a stranger. She must have existed inside the person I loved, but I never saw any clue to that side of her. She's lost all power to hurt me. A lot of that's to do with you. And California. And the new job."

"In reverse order, eh?" Sophie grinned. "Aren't you bored with our quiet life? No chasing fire engines? No murders to solve?"

"If I never hear about another murder as long as I live, I'll die a happy woman," Lindsay vowed.

"Funny you should say that," Sophie said nonchalantly. "A patient I saw today told me this long story about how she was convinced that her roommate had been murdered..."