Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (23 page)

“You can say what you like, but you're not going to trap me.” Then her expression suddenly changed. “I see it all now… I expect you were the people who killed Horaci.” I realized she had just entered a spiral of paranoia.

“No we didn't, we are only —”

Isabel got up and stepped back from her chair, a look of terror spreading across her face.

“So now you have come to kill
me
, haven't you?” That being a statement of fact rather than a question.

“We'd better be going before we get into real trouble,” I whispered to Borja.

Borja and I got up and tiptoed quickly out of Isabel's flat, leaving her convinced that my brother and I were a couple of killers hired by a pharmaceutical company to send her to the other side.

“You are quite right: that woman's not all there,” was Borja's comment as we beat a retreat from her neighbourhood.

As I'd listened to Isabel, I'd realized to what extent we live in a world still under the sway of superstition, irrational beliefs, misunderstandings and magic. Isabel was sure that scientific research and advances were merely a plot, organized at planetary level by the powers that be, and that the noble profession of doctors was simply evil commerce orchestrated by the pharmaceutical companies. The
idea that real knowledge resided in antiquity and that the ancients, by dint of being ancient, were necessarily wiser, more disinterested and purer than present-day mortals was another of the misunderstandings that many so-called alternative therapies used in order to manipulate the ignorance of individuals of good faith, like Isabel now.

“In any case,” I told Borja, “one has to recognize that doctors themselves are to blame if there are so many people who think like Isabel. A large section of the scientific community has surrendered to the interests of the pharmaceutical and food conglomerates; too many studies with a ‘scientific' label produce results suspiciously favourable to the people who commissioned them. On the other hand, there are issues scientists can't agree on, like, for example, whether transgenic food is good or bad for you. I myself don't know what to think on that subject…”

“So what you are saying, then, is that Isabel is right…”

“No, not at all. At the very least, scientific studies are there to be compared and refuted and, in effect, that is what scientists do all the time. The problem with homeopathy and Bach flower remedies is that their therapies are based on faith rather than scientific method. You have to believe in them if you want to be cured. The advantage of conventional medicine is that you don't have to be a believer for them to take effect. Their abuse is another issue entirely.”

“Anyway, I think we can discount Isabel!…” sighed Borja. “Horaci was her hero.”

“So what do we do now? It's very early,” I asked.

“I think it's time to pay Sebastià a visit.”

Sebastià lived in Sant Joan Despí, and, as it was Friday, and he might have decided to go away for the weekend, we decided to ring him to avoid going on a wild goose chase. Borja dialled Sebastià's number and he immediately
picked up the phone and seemed pleased to hear Borja's voice. He said he was busy that afternoon, but suggested we should go and have dinner with him. Borja was free, because Merche was going to the Liceo with her husband and some friends, and Lola had a working dinner, while I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with the family. After I'd sighed and nodded in agreement, my brother accepted his invitation.

“Montse will be furious,” I said.

“It won't go on until late, you just see.”

The house-cum-workshop Sebastià had in Sant Joan Despí was impressive. The first thing he did when Borja and I arrived was to show us the sculptures he'd made and those made by other artists he collected. He didn't look like a man with financial problems, and Borja asked him some straight questions.

“I've been able to devote myself to sculpture thanks to the fact that my father made a lot of money,” he explained. “And I'm doing very well as a sculptor,” he said with a wink.

“But I thought Horaci had owed you money for some time for the sculpture he commissioned for the Zen Moments lobby,” Borja continued. “The police might think you were angry and split his head open.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked, seemingly taken aback.

“Well, they're not discounting any possibility. You know how they work…”

“I don't in fact,” he said, as if he genuinely didn't. And then laughed and said, “It would be really idiotic for me to kill Horaci because he owed me for that sculpture! I've had a load of commissions because of the one he displayed in the lobby.”

“Bernat claims that's why you go at the weekends: to get customers.”

“Yes and no,” said Sebastià. “It's true I do a bit of self-promotion, public relations, as the Americans say, but the fact is…” He didn't finish his sentence.

“The fact is what?” Borja asked.

“Well, you know, Zen Moments is a good place to get to know ladies of a certain age and status who haven't let their figures slide. My wife died two years ago and you'll understand I'm not the kind of man to sign up to one of these Internet agencies that help you find a partner. Valèria, for instance, is an interesting woman and we've met a couple of times since that weekend.”

“I thought as much,” said Borja.

As it was past ten o'clock and the temperature had dropped, Sebastià lit a fire and served us a supper of cold meats, cheeses, pâtés and bread with tomatoes. The bottle of red wine my brother and I had brought was soon dispatched.

A few more bottles bit the dust. I got home at four a.m., after Sebastià persuaded Borja to park the Smart in his garage and call a taxi. According to Sebastià's theories, Sònia was also the chief suspect, since she and Horaci had been more than living separate lives for a time, and divorce was on the cards. Now only Edith Kaufmann remained on our list, the mysterious lover whom only Sònia and Alícia knew. But we'd have to wait until Monday to speak to her.

After a quiet weekend when Lola and Borja smoked a pipe of peace or two, we went to see Edith Kaufmann on Monday morning. The painter had forgotten about our appointment and looked surprised to see us.

“Oh, yes… It's true we'd agreed to meet today,” she said, swathed in a gauzy turquoise tunic, with an absent-minded expression on her face that struck me as sincere. “You're here on behalf of Horaci's brother, I take it?”

Although she was American with a strong Chicago accent, she spoke Catalan well.

“Yes,” nodded Borja. “We are collaborating with the police to try to find the murderer.”

“I thought the murderer had been arrested. As that all happened almost a month ago…”

“Well, three weeks, to be exact,” I noted.

“So, who do you think they arrested?” asked Borja.

“I don't have a clue. I rarely read the newspapers. I'm not interested in current affairs.”

“Don't you want to know who killed the man you were in a relationship with?” I asked, rather shocked.

Edith looked at me in amazement as if she couldn't see why she should be interested in discovering who had killed her lover.

“I spoke to an Inspector,” she finally confessed. “Do you
know how long I had known Horaci? Eight months. We got on well and occasionally went out for a drink followed by a fuck. No commitments or
mals rotllos
, as you Catalans put it. I am very sorry he is dead, obviously, but, to be frank, I wasn't that interested in the guy. I don't know if the person who bumped him off had a decent motive or not, but the fact is I find the whole issue quite boring.”

“Didn't it bother you that he was a married man? Weren't you jealous of his wife?” asked Borja.

“That was his business, not mine,” she replied with a shrug of the shoulders. “And in any case, I'm not after a husband, if that's what you are insinuating. I've had four, and I can assure you there won't be a fifth. Whether Horaci was married and was or wasn't happy with his wife was no concern of mine.”

“What kind of paintings do you paint?” I asked, pointing to a big canvas that dominated her lounge.

“Oh, no… That's by Yves Tanguy. Another surrealist painter.” And she added with a smile, “I'm not that good yet.”

“I think we can wrap this case up,” said Borja as we left Edith's house. “It is obvious Horaci was killed by his wife.”

“I think ‘obvious' is too strong…” I replied. “Edith doesn't have an alibi either.”

“I know, but you've seen how almost everyone has plumped for Sònia. And that lie of hers confirms it was her.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We'll give the Inspector a call and tell him what we've discovered and what we've concluded.”

“But the Inspector will want proof.”

“I know. And I've got an angle on that: we'll ring Sònia and blackmail her. And if she falls for it…”

“So, you are definitely discounting Edith?” I asked.

“Well, if you want we can blackmail Edith as well, and see which of the two we catch out… But my money is on the widow,” he said.

The Inspector arrived at Harry's punctually, at eight on the dot, and ordered an alcohol-free beer. Borja and I, who'd got there early in order to land a table that was out of the way, were already on our gin and tonics that the Inspector was looking at askance. I'm not sure whether it was disapproval or envy.

“Do you think this place is discreet enough?” he asked, looking suspiciously around at the tables, most of which were still empty.

“Oh, definitely!” Borja hastened to soothe him. “There's never anyone here at this time of night.”

“Yes, but the waiters…”

“They're real professionals,” responded Borja. “And they prepare great cocktails! You should order one.”

The Inspector looked around again and sighed.

“If you say so,” he said finally. “I suppose the off-the-record nature of our encounter justifies meeting up in a cocktail bar, though I can tell you for nothing that I don't like bars. So what have you found out?”

“We've spoken to all the suspects and eyewitnesses and boiled the list down to two,” said Borja, smirking.

“And?”

The Inspector couldn't hide his impatience, and Borja, who wanted to savour every moment of our little victory sitting opposite the man who'd caused us more than one upset in recent weeks, took his time finishing his sentence.

“The front-runners are Sònia Claramunt, the widow, and Edith Kaufmann, the lover. But we plump for the widow, don't we, Eduard?”

“Yes,” I agreed, nodding my head.

The Inspector sighed, raised his eyebrows, and then sprawled backwards. He'd yet to taste his beer.

“Well, Deputy Inspector Alsina-Graells also comes down on the side of the widow,” said the Inspector. “Though it is only an intuition, because she has no proof. Might I ask how you reached the same conclusion?”

“Quite simple, really: if we take the list of suspects and put to one side those who don't have an alibi, and, on the other, those who have a strong motive and we think capable of the crime, you'll see that the names that select themselves are Sònia and Edith,” said Borja.

“That's not enough,” replied the Inspector. “Maria del Mar reached the same conclusion days ago. But judges want proof, not intuitions.”

“Oh, but I think we have something the Deputy Inspector failed to find out,” said Borja.

“What might that be?” asked the Inspector, raising his eyebrows.

“Sònia Claramunt said she was at home watching
Titanic
the night her husband was killed.”

“That's why she has no real alibi,” interjected the Inspector.

“Yes, but we've caught her lying. The lady did not see
Titanic
,” said Borja, beaming all over. “It would have been quite impossible.”

“So what?”

I felt the Inspector was beginning to lose patience.

“Well, it just so happens they didn't show
Titanic
that night on the TV. They showed an Elizabeth Taylor film instead,” explained Borja.

The Inspector stared through him as if he didn't understand.

“The fact is they decided to pay homage to Elizabeth Taylor that night, because she'd recently died, and changed the film at the last minute. According to the newspaper they
were going to show
Titanic
at ten o'clock, but at the last minute they decided on
Cleopatra
. I know because my wife and mother-in-law adore
Titanic
and organized dinner so they could see it afterwards.”

“And that means Sònia Claramunt lied!” added Borja in case the Inspector couldn't see what he was getting at.

“Maybe.” The Inspector shook his head. His reaction was less enthusiastic than we'd anticipated. “But I don't think that will convince any judge. She can always say it was a mistake, or that she was watching another programme, like
Big Brother
or a porno film, but was too embarrassed to say so. This is hardly incriminating stuff. Lying about the film or programme she saw on TV is no crime,” he said.

“There's another argument in favour of her candidacy for the chief-suspect spot,” revealed Borja.

“What might that be?” asked the Inspector, sitting up in his seat.

“All the people we have spoken to think she is the murderer. If they were members of a jury, they would undoubtedly declare her guilty. And so many people can't be wrong, can they?” asserted Borja.

“Even so, this is no proof,” I piped up.

“Well, such unanimity is remarkable…” retorted Borja as if the power of his logic couldn't be challenged.

“No, your brother is right,” said the Inspector. “The opinions of eyewitnesses must always be treated with a pinch of salt. And, by the way, what about the remaining suspects? I'd like to know why you discounted them so rapidly.”