Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (8 page)

“Perhaps we
should
have told him the truth. If he finds out we've been lying, he won't let us off lightly.”

“He'll never find out. That's quite impossible.”

“What about the neighbour opposite?”

“Bah, the Inspector accepted she simply got the wrong flat. Besides, don't you ever forget we are in no way involved in Brian's death. We simply happened to find him – by chance.”

“Well, by chance, because you've got the keys to his flat. And I recall we interfered with the scene of the crime…”

“Forget it. I bet even those CSI guys would never notice. I gave everything a good clean.”

“That is precisely what most worries me,” I groaned.

It was almost two o'clock, so I suggested we catch a taxi to get us on our way. I'd promised Montse I'd be home for lunch and, taking advantage of the fact Joana had gone to a friend's and that we'd be alone in the flat, we would see if we couldn't find a solution to the bank's refusal to give them the loan they needed to keep their business on the road. The crisis meant many of Montse's leftist clients were unemployed, and that had forced them to give up the treatment they were getting at her Alternative Centre (that was entirely dispensable, in my view). Without a cash handout to see them through until the situation improved, she and her two partners would go bankrupt. Usually a spirited, optimistic woman, Montse had been depressed for the last two days, as I told Borja.

“Change of plan,” he now told the taxi driver. “Let's go to the market on València.”

“To the market?”

“We'll take her a bunch of flowers. I've yet to meet the woman who doesn't cheer up when she's given a bouquet of flowers. But don't worry, I'll only drop by for a moment and then I'll leave you to have your lunch in peace.”

“Pep, we're in no state to spend money on flowers…”

“Don't you worry, this one is on me. Or rather, on Merche,” he replied with a wink.

I sighed and let him get on with it. Once in the market, Borja scrutinized the different varieties of flower and finally chose five sprays of red, crimson, pumpkin, pink and yellow African daisies that made up a spectacular bouquet that cost him forty euros.

“Don't be so mean,” he reproached me. “Do things well or don't do them at all!”

Montse's face lit up when she saw us walk in with that colourful bouquet. She wasn't expecting it and I'm sure she immediately guessed it had been Borja's idea. When I went into the dining room, I was surprised to see Joana and Lola setting the table. I discreetly asked my wife what they were doing there.

“My mother's friend is ill and they had to cancel lunch. And you know Lola, she came to the Centre this morning to cheer me up, and then invited herself to lunch,” she whispered.

“Now I'll have to ask Borja if he wants to stay and eat a bite with us…” I growled.

“What do you bet he says yes?”

So there would be five of us for lunch, and Joana had decided on a menu of Cuban rice followed by sausages. While the women were busy in the kitchen, Borja and I finished setting the table and opened a couple of cans of beer. I still hadn't got over our big scare.

“We'll go to Dr Bou's centre this afternoon,” Borja declared. “It's best if we can keep to the schedule we planned.”

“You mean in terms of the Inspector?”

“No, I mean in general. After all, we were
not
involved in Brian's death.”

“That's quite a coup to have a CIA spy for a neighbour.”

“Merche, who is a friend of the British consul, tells me Barcelona is teeming with them. It's all to do with al-Qaeda.”

“Wonderful! What with the spies and the tourists, we'll never get a look-in!”

“In any case, his death wasn't connected with the statue I hid in his flat,” he reminded me.

“I suppose not,” I had to agree. “But if the guy was a CIA agent, that might make things a bit livelier. And if they ever find out we were in his flat…”

“They never will! You saw how the Inspector didn't suspect us.”

Over the course of lunch, we explained that a man had been murdered in the building where we rented our office, but avoided mentioning the episode of our conversation with the Inspector and, naturally, the fact that we had found Brian's corpse. On the other hand, as it was no secret, we made the most of the curious assignment from Teresa Solana and how we intended enrolling at a Zen centre.

“The peculiar things you two get up to!” said Joana, who still hadn't digested the fact I'd left a secure job at the bank to work with Borja and that Montse had abandoned her job as a school counsellor to set up an Alternative Centre in Gràcia.

“But the place we are going to investigate is not at all like Montse's,” Borja made clear.

“You mean it's an establishment for the well-to-do, don't you?” asked Montse.

“I hope so,” said Borja with a smile. Lola grimaced.

“Homeopathy is a much more natural form of medicine,” my sister-in-law suddenly declared, even though she was immediately on the defensive. “All chemists sell it. I take it too.”

Borja said nothing and Montse and I simply goggled at Lola. We were surprised because if Lola is a fan of one thing it is antibiotics, ibuprofen and paracetamol, which I knew she hadn't given up because I'd caught her swallowing a pill just before lunch.

“Well, it's all yours,” interjected Joana. “I reckon all those things are a lot of tosh.”

“But lots of people believe in it. So I reckon it must work.”

“The fact that a huge number of individuals believe something to be so doesn't imply that it is so,” I suggested tentatively.

“Doesn't it? Well, if people believe in it, it must be for a good reason,” came her defiant response.

“Come on, Lola, lots of people believe in horoscopes, in kidnappings by beings from other planets or in UFOs, but that's no proof that they actually exist.”

“People believe in UFOs because so many have been sighted.”

“So if people have seen them, how come there is no definite proof they exist? At the end of the day, all we have as evidence is what the people who claim to have seen one say,” I replied.

“That's because governments keep it from us, just like they do with alternative therapies. They would rather people stuffed themselves with medicines that damage their livers or kidneys, so that pharmaceutical companies can make a bomb.”

“Oh, that's all we needed! The famous conspiracy theory!” I retorted sarcastically. But Montse kicked me under the table. “The problem, Lola, is that before antibiotics were discovered, people simply died, if you remember.”

“Many illnesses can be cured by homeopathy, without antibiotics,” she countered. “That's a well-established fact.”

To be frank, as far I was concerned, the jury was still out on homeopathic medicine, and I decided to end the discussion right there and let Lola have the last word. Borja very deftly channelled the conversation to noir novels and Teresa Solana, whom only Montse had read, on the recommendation of one of her customers. After coffee, Joana said she was going to stretch out and disappeared into her bedroom. Montse and Lola also got up and slumped on the sofa, but not before they had subtly invited us to clean the kitchen. Borja and I obediently donned our aprons and started washing up.

“The next present you get from me will be a dishwasher,” grumbled Borja. “I've a friend down in the port who—”

“No thank you very much! I don't want to hear another word about any of your friends! I bet it's illegal!”

“Shush! Not so loud, or the girls will hear you…”

“And talking of risky business, have you heard from your statue friend?”

“Not yet. But he said it would be at least a fortnight…”

“You know I'm not keen on hiding it here,” I carped.

“Take it easy, kid. I said it's only a matter of days.”

We finished the washing-up in silence, dried our hands and went into the dining room to say goodbye to Montse and Lola and announce that we were going to Zen Moments to meditate a while and purge our sins.

The Zen Moments centre was on Escoles Pies, above the boulevard Bonanova, very close to where Mariona lives. It was a three-storey designer building, cube-shaped and painted in several shades of grey. Unlike the exuberant, chaotic gardens that one could glimpse around the nearby mansions, where creeping plants spilled over walls and offered the street their wisteria and magnificent clusters of deep-purple bougainvillea, the garden surrounding the meditation centre was so prim and proper that all its plants looked man-made. There wasn't a single leaf on the gravel, and I noted that all the flowers were pallid – not one was red. The pale mauve petals of two huge hydrangeas welcomed visitors from their earthenware pots on either side of the front door.

“Good afternoon,” we chorused as we walked in.

Borja smiled and walked towards the young woman sitting behind a shiny black marble counter that was flanked by an artificial waterfall under an elegant, equally black, stone Buddha that must have been at least a metre and a half high.

“We are looking for information,” said Borja. “My business partner and I are interested in finding out about your centre's activities.”

“Is this your first visit?” she asked, returning his smile.

“Yes.”

The young woman got up from her chair and emerged from behind the counter. She was dark-haired and stocky, in pastel pink trousers and a short-sleeved smock that reminded me of the uniforms nurses and girls in beauty centres often wear, though not entirely.

“If you would be so good as to follow me,” she instructed us.

A tinted glass door opened automatically and led into a wide, door-lined corridor. There were two offices at the end with signs that said respectively, “Dr Horaci Bou” and “Dr Bernat Comes”. Two doors next to them were labelled “Seminar 1” and “Seminar 2”. The receptionist opened the only door without a sign and ushered us into a waiting room with a window that overlooked the garden. The room was empty, with no chairs; only two long concrete benches without backs that were placed in parallel either side of a small rectangular table decorated with white flowers and white candles. Six white cushions were arranged in perfect harmony on each bench.

“If you would take a seat, someone will soon be along to help you.”

The receptionist left, shutting the door behind her. A soft, subdued New Age melody began to waft from a small loudspeaker.

“This place is spooky,” I said, surveying the empty space.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, I was expecting to find the usual paraphernalia you get in this kind of centre. It's all very sober, dispiriting, if you ask me.”

“There's a Buddha in the entrance,” retorted Borja.

“Yes, but it's stone and not gilded.”

“So what?”

“I'm not sure,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. “Montse's centre is quite different and so colourful…”

The only adornments in that spotless room with white walls and a grey fitted carpet were a standard lamp with a white paper shade, a bonsai by the window and a huge white canvas where black brushstrokes represented what I imagined was an Oriental character. When we'd been sat there for five minutes eyeball to eyeball, the door opened and the same dark-haired girl from reception came in with a tray, two cups, a steaming teapot and a dish of those thin biscuits you find in the slimming section of supermarkets. The teapot and cups were also white.

“Somebody will be with you right away,” she said with a saintly smile. “In the meantime, I thought you might like some green tea.”

“That's most kind,” said Borja.

So as not to be rude, and because Borja gave me a vicious look when he saw I was wondering how much liquid the bonsai soil could take, I drank the tea, which I hate. Five minutes later, the door opened once again and another dark-haired woman appeared wearing black fishnet tights and an off-white smock that barely reached her knees.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she began as we stood up, on our best behaviour. “I was saying goodbye to some students. I hope you liked the tea.”

“Yes, it was excellent,” I lied.

“I am Cecília, the yoga teacher,” announced Cecília, shaking our hands. “Maribel told me you wanted information on the activities we have on offer at the centre.”

“We need something to fight stress,” said Borja, sighing mournfully. “My partner and I thought this might be just the place we are looking for. We have heard nothing but good…”

“Oh, really?” she replied as she sat down and scrutinized our faces. Just like the girl in reception, at first glance she didn't seem to be wearing make-up, but a closer inspection
revealed the lightest touch of face cream that worked wonders for her complexion and a lipstick that made her lips glow.

“They say that meditation and yoga are excellent ways to fight stress,” I added.

“Indeed, a lot of executives come here to meditate and learn relaxation techniques. Here you have a brochure with information about our services,” she said, putting the brochure on the table in front of us. “As well as meditation and yoga, we have a homeopathic consultant and a specialist in Bach flower remedies. And, naturally, the centre offers reiki and shiatsu massages, and we also run short feng shui courses and introductions to Buddhism and Hinduism. You'll find all the information you need here,” she said, pointing to the brochure.

Borja picked it up and, on the sly, we took a peek at the prices. Mariona was right: they were executive class.

“Yes, we would be interested in starting meditation,” said Borja. “Mind over body and all that…”

“I'm afraid our meditation sessions are full for the moment,” she said with a smile. “You'll have to wait several months given the length of our waiting list. I do apologize.”