Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (3 page)

Although I couldn't imagine what murky machinations were lurking behind that set of keys, I assumed Borja
was
hiding something.

“Haven't I told you time and again not to call me Pep?” he grumbled. “One day you'll let it out in company!”

“I'm sorry.”

Sometimes, when we are by ourselves, I forget to call him Borja and come out with Pep, which is, in fact, his real name. The pompous name of Borja Masdéu-Canals Sáez de Astorga that he decided to adopt when he came back to Barcelona, alongside the aristocratic ascendancy, he invented to help him hobnob with the upper classes of Barcelona as if he were one of them. We don't look like each other, although we are twins (Borja seems younger, perhaps because he still has all his hair), so nobody apart from Inspector Badia knows we are brothers. Not even Montse and Lola. We tell our clients we are business partners, and our entrepreneurial strategy has worked well so far.

“Come on, we're running out of time,” he said, looking at his watch again. “Let's go up to the American's flat and make sure it's fit for our visitor.”

And he walked out of the office and sped upstairs without giving me the right of reply.

Unlike our office, which just about has a small lobby, a room where we see clients and a tiny, definitely bijou toilet, our neighbour's flat was state-of-the-art. The dining room was some twenty square metres and, according to Borja, the flat had a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom, a second toilet, a kitchen and a laundry room that looked over an inner courtyard. Brian had certainly rented it furnished, because, although the furniture was brand new and quite expensive, the final effect was far too impersonal: everything was just so and matching, and nothing was out of place. In fact, the flat was so tidy it didn't look as if anyone lived there, but Borja and I immediately noticed a strange smell in the air that was coming from the kitchen.

“I expect it's because the flat has been shut up for so long,” I suggested. “Your friend must have forgotten to put the rubbish out the last time he was here.”

“Phew!” Borja wrinkled his nose, his sense of smell being much more developed than mine, perhaps to make up for his colour blindness. “There's rotten meat somewhere. We can't see anyone here with this stench. It's awful.”

“Perhaps if we shut the kitchen door and open the windows to make a draught…”

“We must do something. Why don't you go down and get Mariajo's bottle of perfume. We can use it as an air freshener.
In the meantime, I'll put the rubbish in the laundry room and open all the windows.”

“I'll be right back,” I said, rushing downstairs.

Mariajo, our secretary, doesn't exist, even though my brother and I have got into the habit of talking about her as if she were real flesh and blood. Borja thinks we need to give our customers the impression we employ a high-class company secretary, not just a series of temps. When we see clients in the office, we say Mariajo is out on an errand for us, while the classic fragrance of
L'Air du Temps
, a small pot of red nail varnish from Chanel that's always on her desk and a Loewe scarf draped over the back of her chair create the illusion of a beautiful crème-de-la-crème secretary who, according to Borja, lends a touch of distinction – what he calls “glamour” – to our company.

I struggled to track down the bottle of perfume among the debris. It had lodged itself under a sofa in one corner of the room, but was fortunately intact. I left the door so it looked shut and not as if it had been broken into and hurried back to the American's flat. I had to ring the bell twice, and when Borja finally opened the door I could see from the look on his face that something was wrong.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

Borja was as white as a sheet.

“I feel a bit queasy…”

“Have you got pains in your chest? Are you finding it difficult to breathe?” I gripped his arm firmly to make sure he didn't collapse on the floor, if he fainted, and split his head open. “I'll ring for an ambulance.”

I imagined a worst-case scenario and had diagnosed cardiac arrest. My mind dizzily reviewed the packet of cigarettes he smokes a day, the gin and tonics we sometimes drank at Harry's, Mariona's dry martinis and all the crap he
eats because he hates cooking. I naturally also thought of the effort and physical wear and tear involved in satisfying two women who are no longer young innocents and know what they want.

“No, nothing like that,” he said, as if he'd read my thoughts. “The truth is… Excuse me, I'm going to be sick…” and he rushed to the toilet.

Luckily, he got there in time to avoid vomiting the croissant and coffee he'd eaten for breakfast in the middle of the hallway. I helped him to wash his face with cold water, and the second I saw the colour coming back to his cheeks, I calmed down.

“I need a brandy. Let's go into the lounge. It's got a minibar,” he whispered.

“A doctor is what you need,” I replied. “We ought to go to a hospital.”

“I'm fine.” His voice was still shaky. “It was the scare. I'll tell you later.”

“The scare? What scare?”

“There's no time for that now. Did you find the perfume?”

“Yes.”

“Spray it around the flat. And then go down and wait for Mrs Solana. But don't go into the kitchen,” he whined as he gulped down his cognac.

“Why not?”

“I'll tell you later.”

“What's in the kitchen?” I insisted, heading down the passage, not giving it a second thought, determined to find out what had upset him so.

“Eduard, please, don't go in…”

“But, what on—”

I should have listened to him. As soon as I opened the door, I too started retching and puking. There was no sack full of rotting organic waste, as I'd imagined, but the corpse
of a man crawling with insects and beginning to stink in the middle of a pool of congealed blood. I shut the door, leaving my vomit behind me, and tottered queasily back to the lounge.

“Pep, on the kitchen floor there's a…” I didn't finish my sentence. My legs were giving way and I had to sit down.

“I did tell you not to go in. Here, have a shot,” he said, pouring me one.

“But there's a corpse in there!” I shouted.

“My hunch is that he's been there for a good long time.”

“Is it your American friend?”

“I think so, although I didn't get a proper look at his face.”

“His face was covered in blood and insects…” I responded, still shaking.

“I know. I think he was shot in the head.”

“We must tell the police immediately. The best thing would be to ring the
mossos
,” I suggested.

“Wait, take it easy,” said Borja, recovering his sangfroid. “Remember that Mrs Solana is about to arrive any moment now.”

“And you want me to sit back and relax?”

“I mean we should just wait a bit before we inform the police. First we must speak to her.”

“But you're not intending to talk to her here, are you?” I shouted. “With this stench and that corpse covered in creepy-crawlies in the kitchen! Not to mention that this must be the scene of the crime!”

“Here's our plan of action. I'll spray Mariajo's perfume around the flat while you go down and wait for her in the street,” he said, getting up from the sofa and ignoring my protests.

“Borja, I don't think it's a good idea…”

“You just do what you're told,” he said, looking at his watch. “We don't have much time.”

My stomach was still churning and I didn't feel strong enough to argue with him, although I couldn't help thinking through the consequences of using the scene of a crime as a place to welcome a client who, to boot, was a writer of crime fiction. I didn't want to imagine what might happen if the police found out, but, on the other hand, I supposed that by virtue of her profession Teresa Solana must be used to visiting morgues and, thus, only too familiar with the reek of death stinking out the flat. Despite Mariajo's perfume I was afraid she'd soon realize that there was a corpse decomposing in the room next door, and for a moment I was tempted to turn round and tell Borja this was complete madness. At the end of the day, it wasn't such a blow to lose a client, I told myself, and then I recalled that our company wasn't enjoying its best moment and that Montse's business was also looking shaky, thought how it wouldn't be the first time Borja and I had managed to survive a dodgy situation and decided to put on a brave face.

Fortunately, Teresa Solana arrived a quarter of an hour late. While I was waiting for her in the street, I had time to smoke a cigarette and get over my scare. Borja was right: it seemed our neighbour (if it really was him) had been shot dead. The puddle of congealed blood around him indicated he had hardly died from natural causes, and that meant the police would begin an investigation and we'd have to answer a pile of questions, like what we were doing in the flat and why Borja possessed duplicate keys.

Over the weekend I'd done a Google search on Teresa Solana, as I do with all our clients, and I had seen the odd photo of her online, so I recognized her the moment I saw a woman with short dark hair walking quickly towards me and anxiously glancing at her watch. The way she was dressed reminded me of Lola's showy style, and I assumed
they must both frequent the same boutiques, far from that neighbourhood. Unlike Lola, however, Teresa wasn't wearing high heels but flat, red shoes. Nor was she heavily made up.

“Mrs Solana? I am Eduard Martínez, Mr Masdéu's partner,” I cheerily greeted her when I saw her stop in front of the entrance to our building and scrutinize an address in a notebook.

“Pleased to meet you. I'm sorry I'm late,” she said, looking sincerely repentant as she shook my hand. “I had a devil of a time finding a taxi…”

“Don't worry,” I smiled. “We've had a hectic morning and that's why I came downstairs to welcome you.”

“Are you leaving already? Good heavens, I am sorry…”

“No, not at all,” I hastened to reassure her. “We've had a burst pipe and the office is flooded. We're waiting for the plumber.”

“That's really unlucky!”

“You can say that again! If you don't mind, we'll have our meeting in the flat of a friend who's away on holiday and has let us borrow his flat. It's in this same building. My partner's up there already.”

“That's fine.”

“This way, please,” I replied, opening the door and letting her go in first, like a true gentleman, as Borja had taught me.

We walked towards the lift and the concierge was quick to peer out of her cubbyhole and eye us suspiciously, as she did whenever strangers passed through her lobby. Although it was a stylish old building, most of the flats had been split up, and their owners had converted them into offices or flats for visiting executives, which meant there were few long-standing occupants, lots of strange faces and, according to Paquita, the occasional tart who went up on the sly to service an executive. As most of the offices were
usually empty, Borja and I suspected they were only used as fiscal addresses to receive correspondence and sidestep the claws of the Inland Revenue. As for our office, the owner was a friend of my brother's, who owed him a favour and let us have it for a ridiculously low rent. Although I'd asked Borja more than once what kind of favour was involved, I'd never got a straight answer.

When we reached the landing, I rang the bell and Borja quickly opened the door and welcomed Teresa Solana with one of his seductive smiles.

“Mrs Solana. I am so pleased to meet you at last,” he gushed, shaking her hand. “I imagine my partner has told you about the little problem we have in our office this morning.” Borja signalled to her to come in. “Don't you worry. This flat belongs to a friend who's away for the moment. We can talk here. I assure you everything will be as confidential here as it would have been in our office.”

“Well, it's not as if I'm going to tell you any state secrets,” she replied with a smile. “Although I expect you already know quite a few…”

“Yes, and will take them to the grave,” my brother assured her in his best jocular tone as he looked her up and down.

The three of us walked down the passage to the lounge, with Borja leading the way. Although the windows were wide open and there was a through breeze, I still caught a whiff of the stench that was now blending with the smell of our vomit and Mariajo's sophisticated perfume.

“Would you mind closing the window?” asked Teresa Solana. “I know it's hot, but I've got a cold, or perhaps it's an allergy, I'm not sure. I've been sneezing the whole morning.”

The truth is that the breeze was quite unpleasant and Borja rushed to shut the dining-room window. Quite unconsciously, my eyes turned to the kitchen and the swarm
of flies that was flying over our heads. For the moment, Teresa Solana didn't seem to have noticed anything.

“I am really grateful you found the time to see me,” she began. “As I told Mr Masdéu on the phone,” she continued, staring at me, “I am off on my travels tomorrow and will be away for almost a month.”

“Holidays or promotional tour?” I asked, trying to ingratiate myself.

“A bit of everything. I'll do a little tourism between talks,” she replied.

“And while you are away, there's a little matter you'd like us to look into in Barcelona, I believe?” Borja prompted her.

“Yes. Last week a friend suggested I should contract your services,” she confessed, crossing her legs. “Frankly, the idea would never have occurred to me.”

“Well, be assured you
have
come to the right place,” said Borja with a knowing smile, egging her on.

“First of all, you should tell me your rates,” she sighed. “I don't have limitless funds, unfortunately.”