Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (25 page)

It was Holy Thursday and the school holidays had started some days ago, but the zoo was almost empty: the odd tourist couple with their children and a few groups of kids wearing club caps and clutching lunch boxes on a day's outing. It was hot and sunny, though cool in the shade. A gentle breeze wafted our way, bringing with it the stink of animal excrement that triggered nostalgic childhood memories. Borja hadn't been back to the zoo since then, but I knew the place well because I'd been time and again with the twins and then Arnau. I saw my brother getting all emotional because those visits to the zoo, picnic included, were among our rare memories of our parents, who'd tell us stories that thrilled us to bits. In those days, the distance separating visitors from the elephants was much less and
you could give them peanuts and carrots, which they – or rather he, because there was only one – quickly snaffled up with his hairy trunk. I was scared of elephants, but a fascinated Borja spent hours contemplating them.

“I don't remember it like this,” he said as we walked past the giraffes. “When we came with our parents, it seemed enormous. In fact, it's very small.”

“But they
have
modernized it, and some animals now enjoy acres of space!” I said. “The tigers, for example, aren't caged any more.”

“You know what? I'll think I'll come back with Lola one of these days. Just to remember the old times.”

I noted that my brother had said “Lola” and not “Merche”, and smiled to myself. I'm fond of Lola, so I was glad they were getting on well.

We soon reached the area with the lions and my senses signalled red alert. It was early and Borja suggested sitting down on a bench with shade. The lion and lioness were engaged in seasonal, quite shameless erotic acts, in full sight of everyone, something that aroused Arnau's curiosity.

“What are they doing?”

“Playing.”

“The lioness seems really happy,” muttered Borja, gazing at the tender scene of love that was keeping the king of the jungle busy.

“She certainly does.”

When it was five to twelve, we got up and stood by the rail, opposite the lions.

“I find it very strange to be standing here with Arnau watching this couple,” I whispered, referring to the lion and lioness roaring with pleasure and licking away.

“Ah, we're not the only ones watching. It's not a spectacle you see every day.”

“I feel we're intruding on their intimate moments.”

“Eduard, intimacy is a human concept,” Borja drawled, breaking into philosophical mode. “I assure you that the lion and lioness couldn't give a toss.”

“I expect you are right.”

I glanced around to see if I could spot a spy with shades and sensual lips, but could see her nowhere. The only one who seemed rooted to the spot like us, and looking around as if she were looking for someone was a tall, freckled redhead who was far from pretty. She wore a low-cut, sky-blue T-shirt and a miniskirt, but her long white legs looked like two stunted toothpicks that made you feel sorry for her.

Arnau had got bored of the lions and had been grumbling for some time. Finally, when it had gone ten past twelve, I asked Borja, “Is that the woman who rang you yesterday?” discreetly indicating the redhead with my eyes.

“No way!” was Borja's confident reaction. “She doesn't look one bit like the girl who gave me the mobile. She was very pretty, or have you forgotten? This girl is taller and looks English, not American.”

We waited on, listening stoically to Arnau's complaints until, at a quarter to one, the redhead came over and asked us in excellent Spanish if either of us was Borja.

“I'm Borja,” my brother declared, quite surprised.

The girl smiled and said she'd been put off by the fact there were three of us because she was only expecting one person. Borja asked her what her name was and she said she was Emily. She apologized for her last-minute call, but said Charlie was moody and impulsive like that. Now she was looking forward to seeing him again, though she'd not set foot in London for three years as it brought back such bad memories. She was also happy to do him this favour. She blabbered away and gesticulated a lot, and though Borja and I understood none of her blabber we
listened very politely, imagining it must be a technique designed to deter other spies who might be observing us. Finally, Emily looked at her watch and asked Borja if he had the package. Borja said he did and extracted from his pocket a sealed envelope where he'd lodged Brian's gift-wrapped keyring.

“Well,
we
were expecting someone else,” said Borja.

“Oh, I'm completely in the dark,” replied the redhead, shrugging her shoulders. “Charlie simply asked me to pick up this package before catching my plane.”

“But, you do work for the Agency, don't you?” I asked, wanting to be reassured.

“Yes,” she said, rather taken aback. “Did Charlie tell you?”

“It's what he hinted,” I said.

“And are you familiar with the agency?” she asked.

“Well, I suppose most people know something about the way it works,” said Borja.

“Good,” she said, stuffing the envelope into her bag. “I'm very sorry, but I must run, or the agency guys will kill me! Luckily I came on my motorbike!” she said with a smile.

And leaving us rooted to the spot, Emily turned around and walked quickly off.

Borja and I took a while to react and started walking.

“That spy has a really peculiar sense of humour,” Borja commented, as we headed towards the dolphins.

“Yes, very peculiar and very macabre; how could she say such a thing after what happened to poor Brian…”

It must be her way of living with the pain. Besides, she was English, and we all know the English are masters of black comedy,” he declared wryly, sounding very sure of himself.

Montse had insisted on inviting Borja to lunch, and after watching the dolphins perform we caught the metro home. My brother grumbled all the way, because it wasn't direct and we had to make a couple of changes. As it was only
April, the air conditioning wasn't switched on and it was very hot inside the tunnels.

“Are you absolutely sure she was the woman Brian wanted us to hand his keyring to?” I said suddenly, while we were walking down one of the passages. “If I remember correctly, she called him Charlie, not Brian.”

“You heard the Inspector,” said Borja, throwing a coin at the cap of a girl playing the violin who had flashed a smile in his direction. “Brian used a pseudonym.”

“Yes, but it was his surname, not his first name that was fake!” I replied, remembering how we'd known him as Brian Morgan when in fact he was Brian Harris, at least according to the Inspector.

“Oh, that's because these spies have lots of different aliases,” chirped Borja, acting as if he was an expert. “Besides, you asked her if she worked for the Agency and she said she did, didn't she?”

“That's true. But she didn't look like a spy.”

“I agree. But what did you expect? There must be all kinds of spies. They can't all have sensual lips!” sighed Borja.

“And isn't that a pity?”

“Yes, I guess it is.”

We spent the whole of Friday morning with Deputy Inspector Alsina-Graells, fine-tuning the details of Operation Buddha, as the Inspector had dubbed it. We'd arranged to meet Sònia in her deceased husband's flat at five, and the plan was for Borja and I to carry hidden microphones so the Deputy Inspector and her men could overhear and record the conversation. As we had no other evidence, we had to try to get a confession out of her, which seemed easy enough on paper, but less so in reality.

“Above all, don't get nervous or forget you've got the microphones on you. Remember, she must confess to killing her husband,” the Deputy Inspector pleaded.

“Don't worry, Deputy Inspector!” Borja said soothingly. “It will all turn out fine, you just see. Won't it, Eduard?”

I'm not so good at lying as Borja, and was as agitated as the Deputy Inspector. We left her office at two and went for lunch with her and a couple of sergeants in a bar full of
mossos
and, as soon as we finished, we went back to the station to go over the plan for the nth time. At half past four, after checking that the microphones Borja and I had hidden under our clothes were working properly, we climbed into a taxi driven by a policeman in plain clothes. Behind us came three Ford Escorts incognito, full of police: Deputy Inspector Alsina-Graells was in the first.

When we reached Zen Moments, we saw what Cecília had told us was true: they were refurbishing. The centre was closed to the public and the Eastern-style garden that surrounded it was full of sacks of rubble and building materials. Workers were constantly going in and out and, as the door was open, Borja and I walked in without asking permission from anyone or being stopped by anyone. Once we were inside, we went straight to Horaci's office and knocked on the door. The sign with his name had gone.

Sònia Claramunt opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” Borja greeted her.

“You're very punctual,” she replied frostily, as she gestured to us to come in.

She looked daggers at us, but that was hardly strange, I reflected, as Borja and I had come – at least in theory – to blackmail her and she was about to hand over thirty thousand euros to buy our silence. Her jeans and tight-fitting white T-shirt emphasized how svelte she was, and her necklaces, bracelets, earrings and paste rings on her fingers added the finishing touches to her informal, if not entirely casual, style of dress. I stared at her shoes, which were flat and dark blue, and the little toes she'd amputated for the sake of fashion came to mind.

“Have you got the video?” she asked.

“That depends,” replied my brother with a smile. “Have you got the money?”

“Yes,” she rasped.

“The thirty thousand euros we agreed for the tape where you can be seen entering the meditation centre the night they killed your husband?”

I thought Borja was spreading it on too thickly, and that Sònia might sense this was a trap.

“Here's your thirty thousand,” she said, pointing to the plastic bag on top of the desk.

“May I?” Borja pointed to the bag. “I don't want to seem rude, but you must understand I can hardly trust a woman who killed her husband in cold blood,” he continued, smiling away.

“I didn't kill him in cold blood,” retorted a weary-sounding Sònia. “In any case, that's none of your business. Take your money and leave me in peace.”

Borja glanced inside the bag and gave her the empty tape.

“By the way, I am intrigued,” added Borja. “Was it an attack of jealousy? You did know your hubby was no saint, didn't you?”

“I didn't have a clue,” she replied wearily.

“Obviously you must have inherited insurance money. I saw the building workers outside…”

“I thought we'd come to an agreement, Mr Masdéu. I give you the money and you give me the tape. Our professional relationship ends there.” She walked over to the door. “And don't try coming back to ask for more, because then we will all end up in the slammer. I'll get put down for a number of years but you'll lose your thirty thousand and will be inside for a time too,” she warned threateningly.

“I told you when we spoke on the phone that we are real gentlemen and, if we hold on to anything, it is our word,” replied Borja, as if she'd insulted him. “The truth is, my brother and I would find it much easier to forget this business if you told us why you killed your husband,” insisted Borja, determined not to leave that office until he'd extracted the confession the Deputy Inspector needed.

“Why do you need to know?”

“Simply out of curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, Mr Masdéu.”

“Is that a threat? Are you going to liquidate us as you did your husband?” retorted Borja.

“Hey, I didn't… liquidate him. I told you it wasn't premeditated.”

“So what did happen then?” insisted Borja.

“Very well…” she started as if she'd not the energy to argue any more. She walked away from the door and sat down on the sofa; we followed suit and sat in the armchairs. “If you
must
know, it was no sudden attack of jealousy. I'd known for some time that Horaci was carrying on with that artist, Edith.”

“And it was all the same to you?” I asked.

Sònia Claramunt shrugged her shoulders.

“Horaci and I weren't just a married couple: we were a business,” she went on. “When I first met him, he'd just graduated and didn't know what to do with himself. He'd fallen out with his father, didn't get on with his brother, and, after spending eight years studying medicine, had discovered he didn't like the idea of being a doctor. I was working as a highly paid economist at the time. I had some savings and I suggested he should do a crash course in homeopathic medicine and open a consultancy in this part of the city. Homeopathy was starting to become fashionable, and could be highly profitable if it was done properly.”

“And how right you were.”

“Then Horaci met Bernat and Cecília. She was broke, but was really into yoga and meditation, and she was very knowledgeable; Bernat, on the other hand, comes from a good family and managed to persuade his father to be a backer so he could get a loan to establish Zen Moments. Indeed it was
his
idea to knock down his grandparents' mansion and build the meditation centre. The project was for all four of us – Bernat, Cecília, Horaci and me – to become wealthy by offering alternative therapies to the residents of the Sarrià and Bonanova districts.”

“And business
was
booming, wasn't it?” asked Borja, who by this point had probably forgotten he'd a microphone hidden somewhere on his person: he was genuinely intrigued.