Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (24 page)

Borja gestured to me and I took out my notebook.

“There are in fact only three people who were in the centre that night who don't have an alibi: the sculptor, the yoga teacher and the woman who says she has cancer.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Mònica and Marta, the two who are close friends, were chatting in their room into the early hours. Mònica eventually confessed to her friend that she'd had a fling with Bernat Comes. In fact, she'd persuaded her friend to accompany her on that weekend in Zen Moments with a view to seducing him. Marta, who didn't know Horaci from Adam, swears they were chatting in her room until three a.m. And Marta is currently feeling too resentful towards her friend to lie to the police just to give her an alibi.”

“What about that married couple? The husband was jealous of the doctor, wasn't he?”

“They both say they spent the night in the wife's room,” I replied.

“They might have agreed that in order to have an alibi,” objected the Inspector.

“To be frank, I don't think Carme has it in her to take the pressure such a crime would bring. Besides, Xavier was grateful rather than jealous of Horaci,” said Borja. And he added, “That is a long story.”

“So what about the sculptor and the yoga teacher?” asked the Inspector.

“In truth, neither had any motive to want to kill Dr Bou, or at least any motive with substance. Sebastià,” I said reviewing my notes, “had been chasing Horaci for months for payment for the stone Buddha in the lobby, but he also wanted to take advantage of the contacts Horaci and Bernat had to sell his sculptures to Zen Moments' clientele. As for Cecília, the yoga teacher, gossip has it that she is in love with Bernat. She had no motive to want to kill Horaci.”

“And the woman with cancer?” asked the Inspector.

“You mean the woman who
says
she has cancer, because it is all down to self-diagnosis. She is not all there, Inspector,” I explained. “Frankly, I can't see her smashing Horaci's head in and then getting rid of all her fingerprints. Nor
did she have any motive, as far as we know. In fact, Isabel admired Horaci, and her theory is that the pharmaceutical companies did him in.” The Inspector raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Besides, she was in the room next to me and I can vouch I heard her snoring all night.”

“That leaves the lover, Edith Kaufmann, who has no alibi, but a possible motive,” recalled the Inspector, sighing yet again. “Even if the Deputy Inspector is convinced she is not the kind of woman who would waste time on killing her lover.”

“I agree,” said Borja. “Edith belongs to another class. She is far too sophisticated a lady to commit such a vulgar crime.”

“It's strange, you know,” remarked the Inspector. “Maria del Mar, who also questioned her, was very struck by Edith Kaufmann. She said she wished she could be like her.”

“I think Horaci was merely a momentary diversion for her and that she couldn't have cared less if he was married or involved in lots of affairs. Inspector, I know my women, and I can't see her tracking him down to the centre to snuff him out,” said Borja.

“Even so, she had a motive and can't be discounted,” objected the Inspector.

“Well, I wouldn't waste more time on her,” said a supremely confident Borja.

The Inspector finished his beer and looked at his watch.

“Thanks for your help,” he said as he made a move to get up. “The Deputy Inspector will be pleased you agree with her. I will tell her everything you've just told me…”

“Just a minute, Inspector,” said Borja, grabbing his arm to stop him getting up. “Where are you going?”

“Well, I thought we'd finished…” said the Inspector, sitting down again, rather upset by my brother's imperious tone.

“Eduard and I have come up with a plan to catch Horaci's murderer. That
is
what you are after, isn't it?”

“Though I'm not so sure it's a good idea,” I muttered.

“I'm all ears,” said the Inspector, ignoring what I'd just said.

“Given the circumstances,” Borja began, conscious we had to capture the Inspector's attention, “our only option is to trap one of the two women into incriminating herself. Consequently, we thought blackmail would do the trick.”

“Blackmail is a crime,” retorted the Inspector.

“Yes, but if we do it with your agreement…”

“I don't think I really understand.”

“Oh, come on, Inspector! You know perfectly well what I mean. Eduard and I will ring Edith and Sònia and say we are in possession of a videotape that proves they went to Zen Moments on the night in question.”

“Well, I presume you mean a diskette,” the Inspector corrected him. “People don't use tapes any more.”

“All right, whatever,” said Borja.

“But the building doesn't have security cameras, and they are both aware of that,” objected the Inspector. “Or at least, his widow must be.”

“Yes, but what they don't suspect is that the mansion opposite does have hidden cameras that you can't see from the road and that are filming twenty-four hours a day,” said Borja with a smile.

“And is that so?”

“No,” said Borja calmly. “But they don't know that. And if we sound persuasive enough…”

Inspector Badia stayed silent for a while, deep in thought. He was a strange guy, not quite your usual ignorant, foul-mouthed cop that I'd met in previous eras. With his longish grey hair, intellectual spectacles and Antoni Miró suit, he could well have passed himself off as a lawyer, politician or executive. If you didn't know he was an Inspector in the
mossos d'esquadra
and bumped into him in the street, you'd never have guessed his line of business. Nonetheless, we
couldn't forget that the Inspector was a man of the law and that we were fakes with our office fit for operetta and Borja's false identity. Finally, after a long pause that enabled Borja and I to finish our gin and tonics, the Inspector said, “For any confession to be legal, it would have to authorized by a judge and you would have to use a microphone.”

“That's fine,” said Borja, keen to seem cooperative.

“Naturally, if I talk to the judge and then neither of them gives in to blackmail, or they take out a writ… I will look a complete fool,” argued the Inspector.

“So the best way to play this,” said Borja with a grin, “would be to call them and test the waters before speaking to the judge, don't you agree?”

Before the Inspector could raise further objections, Borja took his mobile out and called Edith Kaufmann. He threatened her, saying he had a video that showed her going in and out of Zen Moments on the night Horaci was killed and that if she didn't pay him sixty thousand euros he would hand it over to the police. Edith insulted him in English, threw shit at him in Catalan and hung up.

“You see, Inspector?” said Borja. “It's clear Edith knows it is a trick, because she didn't go to the centre on the night in question. I told you it wasn't worth wasting time on her.” And, as he dialled another number, he added. “Now let's see how the widow reacts…”

Borja phoned Sònia and told her the same story. Sònia listened to him attentively and, a few seconds later, said she didn't believe him and that he didn't have any such video.

“Very well,” we heard Borja tell her, “I'll take the recording to the police.”

“No, wait!” she said. “Sixty thousand euros is a lot of money. Thirty thousand is the most I can lay my hands on.” Then she added, “But I need time even to get that sum, because my husband only left me a load of debts.”

Borja replied he would give her two days to find the thirty thousand and that he and I would go to Zen Moments on Thursday afternoon with the incriminating video. Rather theatrically he cautioned her against trying anything rash.

“Whoopee!” said Borja after hanging up. “That's her in the bag!”

“Now we only need to persuade the judge!” exclaimed the Inspector with a sigh, as he beckoned to the waiter to come over and ordered a whisky straight. And, shaking his head, he added, “To tell you the truth, Mr Masdéu, I don't know how I ever let you implicate me in such madness…”

Borja smiled contentedly. I would like to have told the Inspector that my brother's persuasive talent was one of his virtues or defects, depending how you looked at it, and that he wasn't the first person to succumb to it. But I said nothing. The Inspector downed his shot of whisky and we ordered another round of gin and tonics as the pianist for the evening opened his performance at Harry's with the classic ‘The Way You Look Tonight'.

Late next morning the Inspector rang Borja and informed him that the judge had finally given him the green light. Deputy Inspector Alsina-Graells would lead the operation and we should come to the station on Les Corts at nine on Thursday morning to start off. At the time, Borja and I were window-shopping in jewellers on the Passeig de Gràcia trying to find a present for Lola, whose birthday it was on Sunday. Borja couldn't decide between a white-gold bracelet and some earrings.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“You know an engagement ring is what would really make Lola's day.”

“I think she'd prefer the bracelet,” concluded my brother, acting as if he'd not heard me. “Its fancy design is more her style.”

As soon as we left the shop, Borja's telephone rang again. My brother answered, sure it would be the Inspector, but when he heard the voice on the line his expression changed and he looked surprised. I could only hear what Borja was saying, but it wasn't difficult to deduce he wasn't in conversation with Inspector Badia.

“It was that woman,” said Borja rather nervously after he'd hung up. “The one who gave me that mobile.”

“The foreign lady with the sensual lips?”

“That's right.”

“So how come she phoned your mobile and not the one she gave you?”

“Because its battery has run out…” said Borja. “I've not found a charger that works.”

“Does she want to meet up?”

“Yes, she wants to see me tomorrow to collect the package. She says it's the only day possible because she's very busy on Thursday and Friday, and her plane leaves first thing on Saturday.”

“Good heavens, how garrulous! This time she really went into detail…” I said, remembering how sparse she'd been in her use of words when she accosted us in the street. And as I'd heard where Borja had suggested they meet, I queried, “Why did you say the zoo? Isn't that rather recherché?”

“I don't think so. It's the first place that came to mind,” he replied. “I once saw a spy film in which the secret agents agreed to meet at the zoo to exchange their messages; I suppose that's why I thought of it.” When he saw I still looked bemused, he added, “It's a secure place, open-air, with lots of people with children… Nothing remiss can happen to me in a zoo.”

“To us, because I'm coming too,” I replied.

“No, you're not,” he said, shaking his head. “I got involved in this business by myself and you don't have to pick up any of the fall-out. I'll go alone.”

“You're my brother. I'm not letting you meet a CIA agent without someone to cover your back. And I'll remind you I'm the elder brother, so don't answer back.”

“No, you're not. You popped out first. So, in fact, I'm the first-born,” argued Borja.

“Be that as it may, I'm coming tomorrow,” I added. “What I can't fathom is why it had to be opposite the lions. Isn't that rather dramatic?”

“So what did you want?” he retorted, shrugging his shoulders. “An encounter opposite the giant turtles or a tapir? At least you can't miss the lions.”

“True enough,” I had to agree.

We walked as far as the Diagonal, where our ways parted. Borja had arranged to have lunch with Lola and said he was going to take a taxi. I decided to take the bus home.

“Are you sure it's what we really ought to do?” I asked anxiously. “I mean, the information on the memory stick may be vital for the safety of the planet, and tomorrow you're going to hand it over to a complete stranger. Perhaps you should speak to Badia, tell him the whole story and let him take over.”

“Hey, Eduard, forget the Inspector. In the unlikely event that he believed us and didn't lock us up there and then, how can we be sure if we hand this information over to the
mossos
, that the CIA won't be furious and put us on a plane to Guantánamo?”

“Hell, don't give me any more frights!”

“I don't want to, but the risk is there. Just think: Brian didn't know me at all and gave
me
this keyring, not the police. I imagine he was thinking that if something happened to him, as it soon did, the keyring would be safe until someone from his side came to collect it. And this person must belong to the CIA, right?” argued Borja. “So, we'll give them back their keyring, and end of saga.”

“Sure, but what if the information falls into the wrong hands?” I persisted.

“Please, Eduard, don't tie yourself in knots. Tomorrow we will get rid of the wretched keyring, period. Let the CIA see to it after that, it's what they're paid for!” he exclaimed, ending the argument.

We agreed to meet the following morning at half past eleven by the entrance to the zoo. We both arrived punctually, he in a taxi from Lola's, and I by bus, with Arnau, who was on holiday. That same morning, Joana had gone on a trip with some friends and, as Montse was working and I had to look after the kid because we can't rely on the twins, I decided to bring him along. Borja had assured me we were in no danger, and Arnau was delighted with the prospect of a morning at the zoo surrounded by exotic animals.

A group was demonstrating by the entrance with anti-zoo placards. They'd set up a table with pamphlets where they were collecting signatures, but there were few activists and they weren't having much success: the scant visitors around simply walked into the zoo without paying much attention to their harangues against the alleged mistreatment of animals by zoos. It wasn't like the weekends when mile-long queues formed when, at best, only two ticket windows were open. There was hardly any queue at all. Borja, who'd looked surprised to see Arnau, paid for our entrance tickets and we walked in.