Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (21 page)

Montse threw herself round Borja's neck and kissed him twice loudly.

“Borja, you may be a snob, but you're wonderful!”

“You know Eduard is like a brother to me,” said Borja with a smile.

“It was a real stroke of luck when he met you. Lola and I struck it lucky too!” she exclaimed, giving him another kiss.

We left a happy Montse to get on with her spring clean, and, as we were in Gràcia and near the plaça de la Virreina, Borja suggested we go to the Salambó for a drink.

“I don't know how to thank you,” I began. “If they'd ended up shutting the centre, Montse wouldn't have found another job very easily. She's no twenty-something any more.”

“I know. That's why I decided it was time to do something. Besides, I owed you one. What with that crazy idea about us being in China…”

“Don't rub it in. You believed we were too.”

“Whatever, but now we've solved Montse's little problem I think we should focus on the Horaci case and the suspects who have a motive but no alibi. Get pencil and paper.”

I obediently took my notebook out of my pocket.

“Take notes. First we have Sònia. She had a reason to kill her husband and doesn't have an alibi.”

“Right.”

“We can discount Alícia. And if we discount Alícia, we can discount Valèria too.”

“But she might have lied,” I retorted. “It may be true that Valèria heard Alícia talking on the phone, but she would only have taken ten minutes to go down to Horaci's office and kill him.”

“True, but, according to the police reports, Valèria had no motive,” argued Borja.

“All right, we'll discount her,” I sighed. “And what about Sebastià? The Inspector said Horaci owed him money.”

“Yes, we should talk to him. Add him to the suspects' column.”

“Who else?”

“Edith, the American artist,” said Borja. “It may have been a crime of passion.”

“True enough. I think we should include Cecília as well. She worked at the centre and may have a motive the police haven't yet uncovered.”

“That's right. Another one for our list.”

“And what about the others?”

“Maribel, Iolanda and Bernat have solid alibis that the police have checked out,” said Borja, reviewing the documentation the Inspector had given us. “Maribel lives with girlfriends who said she was at home with flu; from what it says here, a doctor from social security paid her an emergency visit at around one a.m. Her friends said she didn't move from her bed the whole day. And Iolanda went to a concert at the Palau Sant Jordi with friends.”

“And Bernat?”

“He's also got a good alibi. He went out to dinner with friends in the Port Olímpic and they ended up in the Vela where they stayed until three a.m. What's more, the guy brought a woman home with him,” Borja continued.

“Even so, he and Horaci were partners and I think we should talk to him,” I suggested.

“All right. We can eliminate Carles and Ernest from our list: they went to dinner at a friend's place and were out until two a.m.”

“The alibi given by Xavier and Carme is quite rocky,” I concluded after reading the reports. “I think Xavier was jealous of Horaci.”

“Very good, add them to our list. We'll pay them a visit.”

“Do we discount Isabel?”

“Who is Isabel?” asked Borja.

“You remember, the woman who said she had cancer and didn't want any treatment.”

“I really don't have a clue. Put her on the list, just in case. And then there are the two young women who are friends, Marta and Mònica.”

“Do I put them on the list of suspects too?” I asked.

“It doesn't look as if either had a motive to do Horaci in. And I don't think they are friends enough to commit perjury. I think we can eliminate them.”

“You're the boss.”

We now had a list of seven suspects, and as Horaci's murderer or murderess didn't force the door or set off the alarm, the guilty person must be one of them. Borja asked me to read the list out aloud.

“We've got Sònia, Sebastià, the American artist, Cecília, Xavier and Carme and Isabel. What I don't know is what we can do to get more information than whatever the police extracted.”

“Bah, it will be a walkover, you just see,” said Borja, who always thinks everything will be easy.

That evening we decided we would interview Bernat Comes first, although he wasn't a suspect, and then go and see Cecília. As we had all their addresses, courtesy of the Inspector, we'd call on them at home in the morning without prior warning and catch them by surprise.

“And now we've sorted that, let's drink a toast to Mariona!” said Borja.

“Here's to the good health of Mariona… and here's to yours, kid!”

That night Montse got home just before two. She and her partners had set about tidying their Alternative Centre in readiness to welcome Mariona, who'd said she'd be appearing at midday that same morning. Although my wife was shattered, she was so excited she couldn't sleep.

“Put the alarm on for seven,” she said after tossing and turning in the dark for a while.

“We always get up at a quarter past,” I replied.

“Yes, but I've lots still to do. Oh, and could you see to Arnau and the twins? I won't be around.”

“OK, now get to sleep.”

The next morning I did everything Montse had requested. Joana, who kept repeating she'd always thought Borja was basically a good boy, got up earlier than usual, prepared breakfast and eased the twins out of bed. I took Arnau to school and then headed to the San Marcos where I'd agreed to meet Borja before we paid our visit to Bernat Comes.

Bernat also lived in Sarrià, but unlike Alícia, who lived in an old, very humble flat, Bernat's was a modern, spacious attic flat that confirmed my first impression of him as a spoilt rich brat. Borja and I knocked on his door at ten and caught him in his pyjamas.

“Very sorry. We didn't have your phone number, so we
had no way of contacting you,” Borja apologized. Naturally, he was lying.

“How did you get my address?” he asked, annoyed and half-asleep.

“Horaci's brother gave it to us. In fact, he's contracted us to investigate his brother's death.”

“I'd better put some coffee on,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, so you're partial to coffee?” I asked in surprise.

“Coffee is a great idea,” chirped Borja, digging me with his elbow to get me to shut up.

Bernat went off to the American kitchen at the back of his lounge-cum-dining-room and prepared three cups of coffee on one of those automatic machines that are now so fashionable. Personally, I prefer the old-style Italian coffee-pots, but that ersatz brew was better than nothing.

“So how come you want to speak to me?” he said after gulping down his coffee. “The police have questioned me and accepted my alibi. I was with friends well into the early hours.”

“Right, in the Vela, and, indeed, you aren't a suspect,” said Borja.

“So what exactly do you want from me?”

“Well, we thought that as you two were partners you might be able to tell us if Horaci had enemies or if there was anyone who resented him enough to want to kill him,” said Borja, trying to establish a fraternal upper-class complicity with the guy and leaving me somewhat in limbo.

“I don't know if Horaci had any enemies,” he answered laconically.

“It does seem obvious that someone hated him enough to kill him,” persisted Borja.

“Or could benefit in some way from his death,” I added.

“All I know is that he and his brother, the surgeon, didn't get on at all well,” said Bernat.

“You are right there, but Dr Virgili Bou isn't a suspect.”

“So, it would seem I can be of no help,” he rejoined, languidly shrugging his shoulders.

“We know the person who murdered Horaci was either in the centre that night or had keys to the building, because nobody forced the door open,” Borja went on.

“Oh, really?” said Bernat as if he couldn't care less.

“Come on now, you must suspect somebody…” continued my brother.

“It's one thing to have suspicions and another to have proof. I have none.”

“What about Sebastià? I gather the centre owed him money…”

“Horaci commissioned the stone sculpture from him that's in the lobby, but Sònia and I thought his fee was far too high. We are negotiating a solution.”

“Do you think Sebastià was so angry he could have split his head open when they were arguing?” I asked.

“Frankly, I think it's unlikely. What would he have got out of killing him? Besides, the centre may owe him for the sculpture, but having it on display in the lobby means Sebastià gets lots of new commissions. Why did you think he was there at the weekend? He was hunting for new customers. And as we owe him money, it was all free.”

“So who do you suspect?” persisted Borja.

“I'm sorry, but I'm not going to accuse anyone. I—”

At that very moment, a young woman who was half-asleep and wearing a bathrobe that was too big for her appeared in the doorway. It was Iolanda.

“What's the matter?” she asked. “Oh!” she added, stepping backwards the moment she saw Borja and me.

“Good morning, Iolanda. We were talking to Bernat about Horaci's death,” said Borja, as if Iolanda's presence in that attic flat was the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh, I agree with Bernat. I think it was his wife,” said Iolanda. And seconds later, when she smelled the aroma of coffee, she shouted, “Great! You've made coffee!”

“I imagine you'd like to shower and dress before breakfast,” said Bernat icily. “You'll find clean towels in the bathroom.”

“But, of course…” Iolanda muttered, rather subdued.

After lingering for a few seconds, Iolanda turned and walked out of the room, her cheeks a bright red. Right then, I'd have liked to identify Bernat as Horaci's murderer and march him off to Les Corts so the Inspector could lock him up in a cell.

“We just had a chat after a few drinks,” Bernat explained defensively. “I'd like to make it clear I've not accused Sònia of anything.”

“Not to worry, you're not the only one rooting for Sònia,” smiled Borja. “Might I ask you if it is simply an intuition or whether you know something the police don't?”

“It's what seems most logical,” Bernat rasped, walking to the door and inviting us to clear off. “I'm sorry, but I must get dressed too. I have an appointment and it's late.”

As I'd promised Montse that Borja and I would be at the Alternative Centre before twelve to greet Mariona, we decided to shelve our list of suspects for a while and head for Gràcia. Montse and her partners had performed miracles: they had painted walls, framed posters and bought candles and flowers. The old sofa in the entrance had disappeared, and in its place were two wicker armchairs with a matching table.

“They belong to Elsa,” said Montse. “We'll take them back to her place after Mariona's visit.”

At twelve Montse and her partners began to eye the clock nervously. Everything was ready to welcome Mariona. The minutes passed slowly. They started to fret impatiently at a quarter past, and by half past even Borja was worrying that Mariona had had a rethink and that this might turn into a remake of
Bienvenido, Mr Marshall
. Finally, at a quarter to one, Mariona's silver Mercedes was purring outside the door.

“You must be Montse?” she asked after kissing her on both cheeks and greeting her partners with a nod. “I am very, very sorry, but I can't stop. I've spoken to my lawyer and he'll send you the necessary paperwork next week, so no need to worry. Now, as we can trust one another and I think you may be rather short of cash, I've brought you this on account,” she said, handing Montse a cheque for twenty thousand euros. “When we sign the paperwork, I'll give you a cheque for the balance. And I'm so sorry, but I must go now as I have another meeting.”

“But wouldn't you like to have a look at the centre, madam?” Montse asked, quite beside herself.

“My dear, please cut the madams, we're partners,” replied Mariona, bursting into laughter. “I'll come another day with more time and you can show me everything. I'm sure it's absolutely delightful. See you soon.”

Montse stood rooted to the spot, cheque in hand and gawping, while Marcelo, Mariona's chauffeur and butler, opened the door of the Mercedes and she quickly climbed in.

I don't know where Mariona was rushing to, but from the jewels and clothes she was wearing I imagined it must be an important reception. Montse was happy with the cheque, but upset and disappointed because she and her partners could have spared themselves all the effort they'd made to prettify their modest premises. She said she was going to the bank to pay it in straight away.

“That's typical Mariona!” Borja apologized. “The key thing is you've already got a healthy advance.”

When Montse returned from the bank, we all went to celebrate with a cheap set lunch. Then she and her partners returned to the Alternative Centre, and we went in search of the Smart. We'd decided to go to Hospitalet that afternoon to talk to Cecília, and as my brother refused to go by metro and a taxi would have cost a fortune, we needed the car.

Cecília lived in a small, dingy, stale-smelling flat in a poor neighbourhood. Her mother opened the door and told us her daughter had just slipped out to the supermarket, but would soon be back. The lady, whose name was Dolores, invited us in for a coffee without taking the minimal precautions necessary with total strangers.

It was a small flat, and while Dolores boiled up the coffee in the kitchen and we waited in the dining room, she informed us without raising her voice that she was a widow and deeply grateful to her daughter, because her widow's pension didn't cover the rent. Cecília was a good girl, she said. She'd been lucky to find that job in Barcelona, where she earned almost double what she was paid when she worked on a supermarket checkout. Pity she'd not got a steady boyfriend, she added, because she was over thirty and, if she didn't watch it, she'd be left on the shelf.