Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (20 page)

We thought the investigation the Inspector had assigned us was slightly peculiar, but in the end found it comforting because it meant Badia didn't think we were involved in Horaci's murder, or in Brian's, and didn't suspect we'd escaped by the skin of our teeth from the shoot-out at the film studio on Monday. On the other hand, we couldn't refuse his request because, if he wanted, the Inspector could really land us in it, so we had decided to forget the other business and focus on his list of suspects and eyewitnesses.

Sònia Claramunt, Horaci's widow, was the first person we had to speak to. She lived in Tres Torres, which is closer to Borja's neighbourhood than mine, so we agreed to meet at her flat. I rang the bell a few minutes before eleven, and Borja, who was waiting for me, came downstairs straight away, flourishing the keys to the Smart.

Tres Torres was in the well-off part of Barcelona, north of the Diagonal. Sònia Claramunt lived in a flat in a modern, three-storey building surrounded by a garden area that was unambiguously cultivated for aesthetic effect; it wasn't designed for children to play in or for neighbours to sunbathe or enjoy the cool shade in. The report the Inspector had given us indicated it was a building the Bous acquired before the property boom began, even though the price the Bous paid at the time was well beyond the budgets of most ordinary citizens. A uniformed porter in the lobby asked us which flat we were visiting, and before letting us in, rang Sònia Claramunt to check that we were welcome.

“Tell her we've come on behalf of Dr Virgili Bou,” Borja told him.

Sònia Claramunt gave us the green light and the porter pointed us to the lift.

“Don't you think we should have phoned her before coming?” I asked Borja, as we zoomed up to the third floor.

“No way. I'd rather catch her by surprise and not give her time to prepare her answers!”

“Sure, but the police have already questioned her,” I replied.

“It's hardly the same,” countered my brother, very self-assured and confident of his skills as a detective. “You let me do the talking.”

An uncombed Sònia Claramunt opened the door: in her dressing gown and in a temper. She wasn't made up, and I hardly recognized her because the widow in dark glasses
I'd seen walking into Zen Moments with Bernat Comes had looked to be an elegant beauty much younger than the woman standing in front of us now. When I inspected her from close-up, I saw she was well past the forty mark and had undergone a facelift: a pert little nose, full cheeks, puffy lips and a hieratic glare that betrayed the work of a plastic surgeon who'd meddled with her face and made a fine mess. She was tanned, but her skin was coarse and singed by the hours she spent in fake-tan establishments preserving that perpetual summer shade of brown. She was barefoot, and I was shocked to see that her two little toes were missing.

“We'd like to ask you some questions about your husband's death,” remarked Borja after expressing his condolences. “Your brother-in-law has contracted us to give the police a hand in their investigations.”

“Virgili?” she snapped, unable to hide the bad feeling the sound of his name provoked. She invited us to step into the lobby, but didn't seem about to offer us even a glass of water.

“His brother's death has left him distraught,” continued Borja in the same mournful tone. “That's why we would like to talk to you —”

“Oh, really,” interjected Sònia, assuming the same haughty air she'd displayed in the clinic on the day of her husband's murder. “Well, tell Virgili to leave well alone and let the police get on with it!”

“Surely, but the fact is —”

“Are you two policemen?” she asked, looking as if she was about to send us packing.

“Well no, but —”

“Then I have nothing to say.” She opened the door. “Have a good day!”

She was adamant and we could hardly create a scene because the porter looked every inch a nightclub bouncer,
and Borja and I had used up our annual quota of fisticuffs with thugs, so we left her flat, tails between legs and offering no resistance. Although Sònia Claramunt was under no obligation to talk to us, we were shocked by her hostile attitude and total lack of interest in helping to clear up her husband's murder.

“What a waste of time!” I sighed when we were out in the street.

“On the contrary,” Borja contradicted me. “Her attitude was extremely eloquent. I bet you anything her brother-in-law is right and that she was the one who did him in.”

“I'm not so sure. You like rushing to conclusions… Besides, the fact she can't stand her brother-in-law simply means the dislike is mutual. That doesn't make a murderer of her.”

“In any case,
I
think she did it,” insisted Borja, very sure of himself.

I looked at my watch.

“Half past eleven. What are we going to do now?”

“Ring Alícia,” suggested my brother, smiling like Mephistopheles. “It would be interesting to hear her opinion about what happened to Horaci.”

During our stay at Zen Moments, Borja and Alícia had only exchanged a few polite words, so we thought it would be better if I called her. Alícia was at home, depressed and on sick leave, and she sounded so pleased to hear my voice she said we could go to see her whenever we liked. As she lived in Sarrià and her flat was relatively near to where Sònia Claramunt lived, I suggested going that same morning. She was delighted by the prospect and invited us to come for pre-lunch drinks.

Alícia welcomed us, all spruced up and with the dining-room table all ready. Crisps, olives, strips of ham and a bottle of Martini Rosso were set out on serviettes. She asked us
whether we preferred beer or Coca-Cola to Martini, but we were both happy with Martini.

“I got very angry when I realized Horaci had led me such a dance,” she announced, telling us about her suicide attempt with homeopathic pills, which we knew nothing about. “How can medicine cure you, if it doesn't kill you when you take an overdose? And you know, I took one hell of a lot of pills that night!” she added, shaking her head.

“It's quite natural you should feel angry,” said Borja.

“That's why I enrolled on the weekend course at Zen Moments. I wanted revenge, to ruin Horaci's reputation with all those annoying jokes. But I never thought of killing him. In fact,” she continued, “I am sorry he is dead. I know I am naive, but I did have such high hopes. And when I saw him in the Dry Martini, with that woman, and when I went into hospital and the doctor said the blotches and itches weren't nerves, but a case of mange…”

“I'm not surprised you wanted to get back at him,” I replied. “I imagine I would have reacted no differently.”

“Do you have any idea how much money I spent at Zen Moments? I could be enjoying new tits and an unwrinkled face right now!” she mused.

“But you look wonderful…” soft-soaped Borja. “Most women would do anything to be like you when they're past forty!”

Alícia smiled gratefully because she was now well past fifty. Even so, Borja was right: she looked very well preserved for her age.

“If I have understood correctly,” she went on, “you are detectives and investigating Horaci's death on behalf of his brother.”

“That's right,” said Borja, not wanting to enter into details.

“Where do I come in?”

“Tell us all the centre gossip. Anything that might give us a lead on who killed Horaci and why.”

Alícia told us she'd heard rumours about Sònia Claramunt and Bernat being lovers, though some people also reckoned Bernat was gay.

“But I don't think he is,” she added, sounding quite definite. “The fact he's such a handsome hunk doesn't mean he's necessarily queer. And I don't believe he's been carrying on with Sònia. In fact, it was Pietat, one of Horaci's students, who started to spread that gossip. Simply because she saw them together in the street one day…”

“What can you tell me about Cecília, the yoga teacher?” Borja then asked. “Do you think she had any reason to feel resentful towards Horaci?”

“I wouldn't know,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders. “Though everybody knew she was in love with Bernat. That stuck out a mile,” she continued, lowering her voice and leaning forward.

“So what about Horaci? Did he have, shall we say, a special relationship with any of his pupils?”

“Horaci's admirers were legion,” Alícia smiled sadly. “Admirers as silly as I am, I imagine.”

“Do you have any theory about who killed him?” I asked.

“If I were to lay a bet on it, I'd go for Sònia,” she said. “She must have found out Horaci was having an affair with that American artist and must have been afraid he was going to leave her and take everything with him. According to Maribel, Sònia is one of the shareholders in Zen Moments, with Horaci and Bernat. She must now own Horaci's shares!”

The rest of the gossip she told us wasn't connected with Horaci's murder, but Borja and I listened politely and pretended to be genuinely interested. We finished
our drinks, said no to another round and that we had to leave.

“So what will happen to you now? I mean as a result of the japes?” I asked when we were in the lobby.

“My lawyer says I can claim I was mentally disturbed at the time. He says I shouldn't worry about the salt I put in the food or the itching powder, but that it was a mistake to stuff silicone into the keyhole and spray red paint everywhere, because though the judge may accept I was temporarily mad, I will have to pay damages, and the repairs will cost a small fortune,” she said with a sigh of resignation.

After we left Alícia, I suggested to Borja that we go to my place for a bite to eat. He said he couldn't because he was having lunch with someone.

“With Merche, I expect?” I asked.

“Cold, cold.”

“Lola?”

“You're freezing now.” And he winked and added, “It's a surprise. If everything turns out OK, I'll tell you this afternoon.”

“All right, Pep, but don't get us into another mess, right?”

“Cross my heart…” replied my brother with a solemn expression that boded ill.

Montse had work at the Alternative Centre and my mother-in-law and I had lunch by ourselves. My mobile rang at half past four when it was time to go and collect Arnau from school. Borja wanted us to meet at five at Montse's centre.

“I've got to pick up Arnau. We'll have to meet a bit later.”

“OK,” he agreed, and hung up.

I went to collect Arnau and left him with Joana, who gave him his afternoon snack. Borja was already at the centre
when I got there at five thirty. Montse was surprised to see the two of us and immediately told us that if we'd come for money the centre had none.

“No, no, Montse!” said Borja, bursting out laughing. “Don't always think the worst! I'm the bringer of good tidings.”

“What kind of good tidings?” asked Montse in a tone that barely concealed her scepticism. “Have you split up with Merche at last?”

“Much better news than that. I found you a capitalist partner to save you and your partners from bankruptcy.”

“A capitalist partner? In this day and age? You must be joking!”

“Not at all. She is prepared to invest up to sixty thousand euros,” Borja revealed.

Montse was so astonished she was struck dumb.

“Sixty thousand euros? Have you gone mad?” I exclaimed, afraid that this generosity must come with draconian measures that would suck out the little blood we had left. “And how do you reckon they will ever repay sixty thousand?”

“There's no need. I said I'd found you a capitalist partner.”

“You mean Merche…” piped up Montse, weighing up the implications such a move might have for her relationship with her sister, if my brother's official girlfriend became her Alternative Centre's partner and saviour.

“Don't you worry,” said Borja, bursting out laughing again. “It's Mariona. She'll drop by tomorrow to meet you and talk through the details. If you and your friends are happy to have her as your partner, that is.”

Montse was shocked into silence for a few moments more before she finally asked him, “Why does a rich woman like her want to invest her money in a business that is going down the pan?”

“It's not really a business decision. She is doing it as a favour because I asked her to. And because, as you have
pointed out, she is so rich that the sum of sixty thousand euros is neither here nor there for her.”

“This means we can pay our suppliers and hold out a bit longer, until things improve,” said Montse, who was already doing her sums. “We've invested so much effort and energy in this project…”

“So, there you are. Problem solved.”

“And you say she'll drop by tomorrow?” Montse suddenly blurted out, looking terrified.

“Tomorrow, around midday. Is that a problem?” asked Borja, frowning.

“No, of course not. But I do need time to clean and tidy everything,” said Montse, glancing around. “We'll have to give these walls a lick of paint and —”

“No need to stress out. Mariona knows Gràcia isn't the Bonanova. And she's not coming to carry out an inspection,” Borja reassured her.

“Even so, we've not got any time to waste. We need to get a move on. I'll ring Elsa and Solé right now,” she announced, running to the phone. Elsa and Solé are her partners.

I was speechless. Once again, Borja had saved my bacon, as he always used to when we were kids. Knowing Mariona, I imagined it hadn't been easy to convince her to invest her money in the Alternative Centre.

“I'll be home late tonight,” Montse told me after she'd put the phone down. “We won't rest till the centre is shining like a new pin!”

“Montse, it really isn't necessary…” Borja repeated.

“Now you'd better be off. I've not got a minute to waste!”