Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (26 page)

“The fact is it could have worked much better if we'd made the changes we are introducing now,” continued Sònia, smiling sadly. “By incorporating a spa, beauticians' studios, a restaurant and a decent menu… People don't just want yoga and meditation, or prescriptions for pills to cure their colds. They want to drink juice with their girlfriends on a terrace, and, after their meditation session, they want their body hair shaved off, facial treatments, manicures…”

“So I suppose the issue was getting the necessary capital together…” I commented. “But with the proceeds from the insurance policy your husband must have contracted…”

“Ah, you really don't get it, do you?” exclaimed Sònia even more wearily. “The real issue was that Horaci ended up believing all this tosh about meditation, feng shui, Bach flower remedies and homeopathy. He suddenly lost all interest in money. He was convinced this nonsense really worked and didn't want to change anything. He'd even started giving sessions gratis.”

“So was the decision to remove him from the scene yours alone, or was Dr Comes involved?”

“I told you it wasn't premeditated,” replied Sònia, shaking her head. Bernat and I, and Cecília for that matter, had often talked about the changes we wanted to introduce at the centre, but we never contemplated a solution of this nature… It never occurred to us.”

“So how were you hoping to persuade him?” I asked.

“We wanted Horaci to sell his shares to Bernat and me. Cecília had almost persuaded him that if he wanted to make progress on the path to complete spiritual purification
he ought to sell his shares and free himself of all material worries and ties.”

“That Cecília is another fine specimen,” muttered Borja.

Sònia Claramunt shrugged her shoulders.

“Nobody likes to be poor, Mr Masdéu. Apart from Horaci, who'd evidently gone round the bend.”

“So what did happen then?”

“We'd agreed that he'd come home last Saturday after dinner with the residents, and we'd talk it through. But he phoned me at around eleven to say he wasn't coming home to sleep, that he was staying at the centre to meditate because he'd had a vision.”

“So you jumped into your car and drove here.”

“Yes. I simply wanted to talk to him and bring him to his senses. But when I found him sitting on the floor and he came out with all that nonsense about how we should leave everything and go off to India flat broke, I got so angry I just grabbed the Buddha from his desk and crowned him with it.”

“And then were cold-blooded enough to complete the deed and wipe off your fingerprints…” I chipped in.

“Won't you ever understand? Horaci had gone stark raving mad!” she exclaimed. “This is just a business. A business, period. That's why we set it up!”

At that precise moment the
mossos
burst into the office and arrested her. Sònia immediately realized we'd set a trap for her and stared at us with hate-filled eyes. While they were handcuffing her, she started shouting, “Nothing I've said is true! I was making it up! Do you hear? It's not true! I'm not the person you can see on this tape! It's not me!”

Back at the station, Inspector Badia thanked and congratulated us. When we thought that was the end of that and
we could go home, he asked us to step into his office for a moment. He said he wanted a word in private.

“I've come up against a snag in the Brian Harris case,” he snapped.

“A snag?” asked Borja, instinctively leaning backwards.

“Well, maybe not a snag, more a question of detail,” smiled the Inspector.

“So what's it all about?” asked Borja, trying to stay deadpan.

“Well, it's like this, Mr Masdéu, we know who killed Brian Harris because we found him with the pistol that was used to shoot him.”

“Oh, really, who was it?” I asked, relieved.

“One of the Russian mafia who died in the shoot-out in Poblenou,” declared the Inspector.

Borja didn't react, and let the Inspector continue.

“Somebody cleaned the flat when Brian was already dead,” he revealed. “And we think they did so wearing the gloves that were in the laundry room.”

“The Russian who killed him, I imagine?” asked Borja.

“That is precisely the snag, Mr Masdéu. We've found fingerprints and traces of DNA in the gloves, that were new according to the scientific chaps, and they don't belong to the assassin or to Mr Harris,” said the Inspector, lolling back on his chair and rubbing his hands together.

“Good heavens…” I thought I heard Borja swallow.

“We've checked them against our database, but they don't match anyone on our files,” the Inspector went on.

“Perhaps they belong to the cleaning lady,” I whined.

“No, Mr Harris didn't have a cleaning lady, according to the concierge.”

“In any case, if you've caught the assassin, I don't see what difference it makes…” Borja wasn't able to finish his sentence.

“You know, Mr Masdéu, I've had a sudden intuition. Naturally, I can't compare the prints and DNA with those of all the inhabitants of Barcelona,” he said with a cunning smile, “but I could ask the judge to authorize me to compare them with those of the other people living on the staircase.”

Borja and the Inspector stared at each other for a few seconds.

“I believe that would be a waste of time and a waste of the taxpayers' money, Inspector,” Borja finally said, recovering his usual sangfroid. “Frankly, I thought you had enough real problems to deal with, Inspector.”

“Well, that is all I was after. I only wanted your opinion,” countered the Inspector.

“Well if I were you, I'd leave things as they are,” replied Borja defiantly.

“Now, if we did a check of that nature, we wouldn't find
your
prints on those gloves, would we, Mr Masdéu?”

Borja said nothing for a few moments and looked the Inspector up and down. He finally burst out laughing as if the Inspector had cracked a joke he'd only just understood.

“Inspector, your sense of humour shows how intelligent you are,” he said. “Just listen to me and let sleeping dogs lie.” He strode towards the door and added, “There's no point pouring oil on waters that are no longer troubled.”

Teresa Solana returned to Barcelona that same evening, just in time for the Sant Jordi celebrations on the Saturday. That meant we had to arrange to see her at the beginning of the following week to tell her about our foray into the world of alternative therapies, and this time we couldn't make an excuse to avoid seeing her in our office. As our main problem was the smashed fake doors, Borja spoke to a carpenter who was prepared to measure up and install two new mahogany doors in the record time of three days. We'd agreed to meet the carpenter at eleven and, when I got to the office at a quarter to, Borja was already there.

“You're looking very smart,” I said, surprised to see him in a new jacket and tie.

“I've arranged to see Mariona. We're going for lunch at the Via Veneto.”

“Give her my best regards. And my thanks!”

“I've already done that a thousand times… By the way, what were you thinking of doing today?”

“Well, I thought I'd go home and spend the afternoon in bed reading a novel,” I replied with a smile, anticipating my pleasant afternoon at leisure.

“I told you not to bother coming in today!” he said, clicking his tongue. “I can deal with the carpenter by myself.”

“You know, it's a nice day. I took my time walking here. Besides, it will soon be summer and I need to lose some weight or Montse will keep grumbling,” I replied, stroking my paunch.

The bell rang.

“He's here already!” said Borja, walking towards the door.

However, the man who'd rung the bell didn't look very much like a carpenter. He was wearing a dark suit, an elegant tie and a light-coloured shirt. I'd say he was in his early forties.

“Mr Borja Masdéu?” he asked in very correct Catalan, though with what sounded like an American accent.

“Yes, I am he,” answered my brother, unable to hide his surprise.

“I need to discuss an urgent matter with you. Can I come in?” And he strode inside and closed the door behind him, not waiting for Borja's say-so.

“Hey…” said Borja. “Where do you think you are going?”

The stranger didn't reply. He gave me the once-over and stared at Borja questioningly. Curiously, the spectacle of the smashed fake doors didn't seem to worry him.

“And who might
he
be?” he asked, pointing his chin in my direction.

“This is my partner, Mr Martínez,” replied Borja. “And you are?…”

“A friend of Brian's. Can we talk in front of him?” he asked, referring to me.

“That's not an issue, my partner is about to leave, aren't you, Eduard?”

“Not likely! I don't intend leaving you all alone with this fellow!” And addressing the stranger, I added, “I know all about this. My partner wants to protect me, but I don't intend on leaving. And watch it, I have a friend in this pocket!”

The man who had introduced himself as Brian's friend looked at me and smiled.

“A friend?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“A friend that shoots bullets,” I added, sticking my hand in a trouser pocket to make the threat seem more palpable.

“I understand. Very well then, why don't you invite me to take a seat?” he said, swaggering his way to the sofa. It was obvious he wasn't impressed by my threat.

Borja and I exchanged worried glances and sat down as well.

“It wasn't easy to track you down, Mr Masdéu, as the individual in whom Brian confided,” the fellow kicked off, sprawling back on the settee as if he were in his own front room. “He told us it was a neighbour on the staircase, but never said which.”

“Oh, really?” commented Borja, deadpan.

“Mr Masdéu, let's not play any more games. I've come to get what Brian gave you. It's time to give it back to us.”

“Give it back to you? To who?” asked Borja, looking put out.

“To Brian's friends,” he answered dryly.

“You mean the CIA?”

“So you know…” the stranger tried to conceal an almost imperceptible note of surprise that was translated in a very slight raising of his eyebrows. “Well, I hope you've not done anything foolish, Mr Masdéu, because that object is highly valuable. Now give me the keyring and I won't bother you any more.”

“But I've already given it back!” protested Borja, nonplussed.

“Given it back? Given it back to whom? And when and where?”

All of a sudden the man's face transformed into an unpleasant and threatening snarl.

“To a young woman by the name of Emily. She rang me on Tuesday afternoon and we arranged to see her the day after to hand over the packet. She said she worked for the Agency,” explained Borja.

“What did this woman look like?” he asked.

“English, redhead, freckled, thin… Young – twenty-seven or -eight. Not what you would call pretty,” said Borja.

“A redhead with freckles? Are you sure she wasn't wearing a wig?”

“No. I think it was her own hair, because her eyebrows and lids were the same colour. And I can tell you the freckles were natural. To be candid, she didn't seem like a spy the way she dressed and talked. But, of course, I supposed it was a disguise to put people off her scent.”

The man sighed.

“She's not one of ours,” he said finally. “She must be working for another agency. I don't understand. How could she know
you
had the keyring?”

“Well, you know, she never exactly used the word ‘keyring',” said Borja, smiling nervously. “I told you she rang me and said I had something that… Shit!” Borja suddenly exclaimed, turning to me.

It took me a few seconds to grasp what had just occurred to my brother.

“So we've made a fucking mess of it yet again!” I muttered.

“It looks that way,” said Borja despondently.

“What do you mean?” asked the stranger, getting more and more agitated. “What are you two talking about?”

“We gave her the wrong thing… So that was why she mentioned a Charlie and not Brian.”

“Charlie? The wrong thing? Would you like to explain yourselves?” the fellow asked, about to hit the roof.

“It's a long story,” said Borja, looking at his watch. “And we are expecting a visitor…”

“Well, they can wait. Tell me your story. Now,” he rapped imperiously. “Or your partner's friend and mine will get to know each other,” he said, putting his hand in his pocket.

I started to sweat. It was clear the nightmare of Brian and his damned keyring wasn't over yet. We thought we'd said goodbye to one of our problems and it now seemed we'd simply created another. Borja kept his cool and explained all the ins and outs of the statue, the kidnapping by Russian mafia who'd then been defeated in a gun battle with the
mossos d'esquadra
in the Poblenou film studio, how we'd discovered by chance the memory stick in Brian's keyring, and the confusion created over the statue and the keyring. The stranger listened without interrupting, and when Borja had finished, he took a notebook from his pocket and asked for the name of the Dutch antiquarian who'd contracted him to bring the statue to Barcelona. Borja tried to resist revealing his name, but in the end he yielded to the aggressive attitude of that fellow who, unlike me, was most definitely carrying a real firearm in his pocket.

“Wait a minute,” I interjected. “You also owe us an explanation. After all, Brian was our neighbour and he almost sent us to our grave. We would be interested to know why.”

The man said nothing for a few seconds and just ruminated.

“Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose there's no harm in telling you. In any case, if you tell anyone else, I don't think they will believe you.”