A Shortcut to Paradise (20 page)

“The fact is that we know someone who can help you,” I suggested, looking at Borja out of the corner of my eye. “Someone who could perhaps spend a period of time protecting you.”

“You mean a kind of bodyguard?”

“I mean someone who is used to protecting the goodies and fending off the baddies,” I said, thinking of Lluís Arquer and his pipe.

My brother nodded silently.

“Well, I'll certainly think about it. I've got to think over such a lot of things, take so many decisions…”

Although the sky was beginning to cloud over, it was hotter and Maite went over to the window and shut it and then switched on the air-conditioning.

“Auntie preferred the garden to look on the wild side, though she didn't exactly go without,” she said with a smile. “Fortunately I am also the beneficiary to the royalties on half of her books. If I weren't, I don't know how I'd be able to maintain this palace!” she sighed as she looked gloomily around the room. “I wouldn't want to sell this house under any circumstance.”

Well, it was a welcoming house. I'd realized that the moment I'd stepped inside. It breathed peace as well as activity. It was evident no interior designer had got his claws into its fabric, because although slightly chaotic, it had a warm, strong character. It wasn't one of those museum houses belonging to the rich people my brother liked to hobnob with, where you can't find a speck of dust and everything seems sparkling new, even the antiques. Maybe there were ghosts, but they and the inhabitants had made their peace. You could tell.

“It was because of the sect that your Auntie let it be known that she was from Sant Feliu and changed her name…” said Borja, trying to fit all the pieces together.

“More or less right… Initially, she told me, it was to ensure her own parents and the people from the sect couldn't track her down. I imagine she was also in flight from her brother and his religious obsessions. Later, when she became a famous writer with enough money to keep intruders at bay… I don't know, I expect she preferred to forget her past and not have to enter into explanations about such a dreadful business. Especially as the grandparents died in a kind of collective ritual suicide in the United States. Like what happened in Guyana, but on a small scale.”

“And why did your auntie choose Sant Feliu?” asked Borja, returning to our interests.

“She apparently spent a summer here, when she was six, before the grandparents joined the sect. We always end up returning to places from our childhood, she used to say.”

“Not always…” I said. “Ever since our parents crashed on the Garraf coast when Borja and I were thirteen, neither of us has ever gone near Sitges.”

“One last thing: do you know if your aunt had any enemies? If anyone had ever threatened her?”

“You mean apart from our family?” she said, smiling sadly. “No, not that I know of.”

“And do you think it's possible someone from the family?… Possibly her ex-husband?…”

“Perhaps. But I think he lives abroad.”

“Could it be someone from the sect? Someone wanting revenge?”

“I don't think so. What would be the point? These people are only interested in money, and Auntie had money, but it was always well tied up. Besides, why would they wait so long? The grandparents must have committed suicide twenty years ago…”

“No, it doesn't seem to make much sense…” I agreed. “On the other hand, they say your aunt had an aristocratic lover. Is that true or is that part of the biography she invented as well?”

“No, Roberto exists, but he's not an aristocrat, even though he looks like one. He's a very wealthy antiquarian who lives in Rome. He and Auntie were an item for twelve years. They loved each other a lot, but preferred not to live in each other's pockets.” She shrugged her shoulders. “They spent long periods together in her palace in Tuscany, but liked to preserve their independence. He's a bachelor, and Auntie was divorced, as I expect you know. I found it hard to understand to begin with, but they both seemed happy. Roberto never came to Sant Feliu, and Auntie never went to Rome. Poor Roberto is beside himself with grief!”

“You said earlier that your aunt had bequeathed you this house and the royalties from half of her books. Where does the other half go? To Roberto?”

“Yes, he inherits the palace in Tuscany. He's rich enough to maintain it and I don't think he will sell it off.”

“But what about the royalties on the other books? And the rest of her money and properties?” Borja had made some quick calculations. “It must be a tidy sum…”

“A small fortune. Auntie divided it up between different charity organizations working for children in the Third World. I know, because she insisted I accompany her when she went to draw up her will.”

“Good heavens, how generous! She must have liked children a lot…”

“Not really. She couldn't stand them, in fact. She wanted to leave me everything but I persuaded her.” And she added, as if by way of an excuse, “I don't need so much money.”

“A curious point of view,” rejoined my brother. “Just one last question. Why didn't you go to the Ritz with her? I understood you accompanied her everywhere.”

“I caught one of those silly summer flu bugs. I was in bed with a temperature of thirty-eight and a half, and Auntie wouldn't let me go. I shall never forgive myself. If I'd been with her that night…”

“I expect you couldn't have done anything to help. Destiny…”

“Destiny is totally irrelevant.” She shook her head. “Auntie didn't deserve that from anyone. Perhaps she wasn't the good writer she thought she was” – she attempted to smile – “but I can assure you she was a good person. If it's true that that writer is innocent, you
must find the guilty party and put him behind bars.” And she added, this time looking extremely serious, “I'm a very grateful person, as you shall see. I learned that from Auntie as well.”

 

 

I suppose it is statistically very unlikely you will get parents who are so screwed up they join a satanic sect, but Marina Dolç had had that misfortune. She took to the grave the key to the mystery as to why the brainwashing didn't work on her, but at least she'd survived without feeling the need to write her memoirs or flaunt her personal drama in some television studio. Marina Dolç had built a life for herself beyond the tragedy of her childhood and had invented a biography that someone had inexplicably decided to cut short the night she'd received her most important prize ever. Yes, good and bad luck exist, and Marina Dolç tasted equal amounts of both.

We realized the sun had suddenly disappeared under thick, grey, storm-threatening clouds, and decided to leave. As we were saying goodbye, Borja reiterated to Maite that we would be extremely discreet but also warned her to be on the alert. It was on the cards that police or journalists would start digging the dirt and would uncover her aunt's murky past. Maite nodded silently and thanked us.

Big drops of rain began to fall as we left the house. To avoid arousing the curiosity of the locals and having to answer their questions, we decided to return to Barcelona immediately, since the local bus had just stopped in Sant Feliu. My brother and I were quiet and thoughtful on the journey. It wasn't as if we could talk about the case and the revelations of Marina Dolç's niece inside a packed bus, however loudly the Top 40 Hits were blaring away. On the other hand, if Lluís Arquer came up with the goods, we would soon know whether the business of the family and the inheritance were true. When we were on the outskirts of Barcelona, Borja broke our tacit vow of silence.

“Just imagine giving up all that cash for an NGO…” he said, unable to come to terms with such an idea.

“Well, that's what she said. Though she seemed sincere enough. Loads of money brings loads of headaches!”

“Right, Eduard, it's what Mother always used to say,” Borja recalled.

“So it must be true.”

Back in Barcelona, we decided to wait until we had the documentation Lluís Arquer had promised us before taking another step. Borja spent the Monday evening finishing Amadeu Cabestany's novel and I took Arnau to the cinema as promised to see a terrible computer-animated film. At nine, when I was cooking the spaghetti, my brother rang sounding desperate.

“Hell, I don't understand one word.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This Cabestany guy's novel. I don't have a clue about what's going on… Though it's great for putting you to sleep.”

“Tell me about it! I did my bit getting to the end of Marina's doorstop,” I reminded him.

“And couldn't you?…”

“No. And goodbye, it's time for supper. See you tomorrow.” And I hung up.

19

As agreed at our previous meeting, my brother and I were waiting for Lluís Arquer at one o'clock at the Ambos Mundos, drinking a beer, naturally. On this occasion we'd come with enough cash to cover the detective's fee and our drinks, and my brother had let me wear jeans. He was also dressed casually, though he looked much more stylish in his Ralph Lauren sweatshirt and Lloyd trousers. He'd arranged to meet Merche for lunch at half-past two in the Port Olímpic and was worried he might be late.

“So what
is
the state of play with Lola?” I asked in an act of solidarity with my sister-in-law.

“I'm seeing Lola tonight. Merche has a business dinner in Begur,” he explained.

“You
are
busy…” I countered. I already knew because Lola had rung Montse that morning to ask her to go and help her buy a dress.

Although our table was in the shade, there was an oppressive heat in the Plaça Reial that made you drowsy. Lluís Arquer seemed to be taking it in his stride, since he was late. It was twenty past one when we spotted the detective approaching at a leisurely pace from the Ramblas, leaning on his stick and looking every inch a hoodlum. He was wearing the same white linen jacket, now possibly even more creased, the same straw hat and dark sunglasses. However, we noticed he was also carrying a folder under his arm.

“Have you got the cash?” he asked, not taking his glasses off and beckoning to the waiter.

“Have you got the paperwork?” asked Borja, looking at the folder.

Lluís smiled condescendingly and ordered a beer. He handed the folder over to my brother.

“I'm a professional. I told you I'd get it and here it is: a copy of the case file,” he said smugly.

“Good heavens, what a lot of documentation…”

“I've given them a look over, in case you wanted my opinion.” And he added magnanimously, “This is on the house.”

Borja opened the folder and looked at the sheaf of papers. Lluís Arquer obviously had good contacts, because the file had everything: the autopsy report, the analysis of fingerprints found in the bedroom, a list of the clients staying at the hotel and the night staff, and another of the people who were drinking in the bar after dinner, the witness statements, the police's conclusions… We had our work cut out, so my brother went straight to the point.

“Well, then, Arquer, what do you make of it all?” he asked, impressed to be dealing with a real detective.

Lluís Arquer now slowly took off his glasses and hat and lit a cigarette. Like a star who knew what was expected, he took his time before he answered.

“I don't think this Cabestany did it,” he said finally. “Killing someone isn't as easy as it seems. And even less
so when you don't want to get caught. You need to be cold-blooded.”

“And who told you Cabestany isn't?” I interjected, deciding to play devil's advocate. “Remember how disappointed he was when they didn't given him the prize.”

Lluís Arquer looked at me if I were an insect not worth crushing underfoot and shrugged his shoulders.

“You only have to look at his face,” he said. “I'm not denying the guy could kill someone. We all could in certain circumstances. But it's one thing to kill in a rage and quite another when you know what you're doing. They didn't find any fingerprints and that implies a degree of premeditation and guts. If this guy had killed her, he'd have thrown up on the spot. And no vomit was found in the room. Besides, who'd ever invent such a flimsy alibi? No.” He shook his head. “It's obvious it wasn't him.”

“So who do you reckon killed her?” Borja tried to provoke him into saying more.

“Do you think I've got magic powers or what?” Lluís Arquer grinned like an old cat. “Apart from the fact it's your case.”

“You mean you've not the slightest clue.” Borka stuck the knife in.

Lluís Arquer slouched back in his chair and extinguished his cigarette.

“Look, if what the hotel staff says is true, and between midnight and half-past two the only people who went in or out of the hotel were hotel guests and those invited to the party, it reduces the list of suspects from, say six million, to give a rough figure, to around… two hundred. I've checked the list and most of the customers were foreigners, well-off tourists on holiday and the odd executive passing through. Then there's the hotel staff on duty that night, around ten, if we include security, and the group of friends in the bar getting drunk gratis.”

“You must be joking; the drink was not gratis,” Borja assured him.

“Two hundred suspects are a lot of suspects,” I noted, slightly downhearted.

“I think we can discount those staying at the hotel. Reservations are usually made two months in advance. The only exceptions were the victim, who made a reservation three weeks before, and the suspect.” He coughed and gulped down some beer. “In Marina Dolç's case, it was her publisher who reserved the room, and in Amadeu Cabestany's, he was just very lucky, because he made his reservation that same day.”