A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

  And then added: “In fact, I still think it must have been a heart attack but the ambulance people weren’t so sure and told the police as much. These gentlemen,” he said referring to the scowling police, “say she may have been poisoned. Because of the blood around her mouth.”

  In fact, there was a small pool of blood and vomit next to where Lídia Font was lying, but I still couldn’t grasp why the fellow was telling us all that, nor even what the hell we were doing there. Nor could I understand why the police didn’t simply remove us from the scene of the crime, given that we weren’t family and didn’t live there. I suppose the fact that he was an influential person meant these civil servants turned a blind eye in situations like this. Meanwhile, my brother, who seemed to have recovered from his fright, was giving himself the airs of a professional detective. What a joke.

  “Do you know the provenance of the cognac and the marrons glacés?” he asked gently.

  “I really don’t know,” the MP shook his head. “I imagine the cognac must have come in a Christmas hamper. We get a good few. And as for the marrons glacés ...” he hesitated before answering, “come to think of it, Lídia did say someone had sent them with a note. I remember because she couldn’t decipher the signature and showed it to me.”

  “Stop!” exclaimed the policeman who moments ago had lambasted Borja. “You say there’s a note? Where is it?”

  “I don’t know, on Lídia’s bureau I suppose, if she kept it. I’ll tell the girl to go with you to look for it. Frankly,” he added, “it was a frightful card.”

  Minutes later, one of the policemen returned triumphantly with a very sentimental Christmas card, like the ones my aunt and uncle send me every year. The policeman had placed it very professionally inside a small transparent plastic bag.

  “Is this it?” he asked.

  “I think so. Though I don’t recognize the signature ...” Our client seemed genuine enough.

  “What about the envelope?” asked the other policeman, who seemed to be in charge.

  “Well, now you mention it,” the MP thought aloud, “the card was in a white envelope which just had my wife’s name on it. I expect it ended up in the rubbish bin.”

  The policeman, who was wearing a surgeon’s gloves, took the card out of the bag and examined it minutely. My brother and I craned our necks to get a look in. Somebody had written shakily with a blue ballpoint:I wish you Happy Holiday

  With heart-felt gratitude

  In effect, the signature was illegible.

  “Do you know if the parcel came through the post?” I asked.

  “No, I think a messenger brought it,” said the MP. “Perhaps the girl might remember. Or perhaps not. We get so many gifts and seasonal greetings ...”

  I thought of all the people who must send the Fonts presents, whether to thank them for some favour or to anticipate one in the future. At Christmas time, bribes are allowed if they come ham-shaped or in a hamper.

  “Wasn’t your wife shocked when she received a box of sweets from a complete stranger?” I ventured.

  “They are marrons glacés,” pointed out Borja, offended by this confusion.

  “The fact is Lídia receives ... used to receive lots of thankyou notes accompanied by flowers, boxes of sweets and this kind of gift.” And he went on: “Everyone knows she adored marrons glacés, anyone slightly acquainted with her, that is. In our position, there are a lot of people who ask us for small favours, and if it’s within our hands ...”

  The maid interrupted him, rushing into the room, extremely agitated.

  “Miss Núlia sicking upstairs!” she said, looking aghast, her whole body shaking. “Sir coming up now! She very bad, very bad!”

  “Good God!” exclaimed the MP, clearly worried about his daughter.

  “Casadepuny, accompany him!” the sergeant ordered.

  The MP and the younger policeman ran out of the room and up the stairs. We stayed in the drawing room, watched over by the other two eagle-eyed policemen, particularly Borja. After a few minutes, the young policeman came back to say it was nothing serious, just an attack of nerves. Soon after the MP returned, slightly calmer.

  “She’s very upset, but she’s all right,” he explained when even calmer. “She’s taken a pill and her aunt will come for her in a minute. She’s beside herself, naturally ... It would be best if she spent tonight at her aunt and uncle’s house.” And whispered, “Poor Núria, that’s all she needed ...”

  “His Honour the Judge has just arrived,” one of the policemen waiting outside the house informed us rather nervously.

  The judge, who was quite young (around thirty, I’d say), came in looking disgusted. His holidays had obviously just been ruined. He seemed competent but out of his depth, and when they told him it looked like a poisoning by some deadly substance and that Borja had eaten a marron glacé from the same box the victim had eaten from, he went berserk. He snarled at the police and threw us unceremoniously out of the room. After giving the body the necessary once over he ordered its removal.

  Meanwhile, the judicial police searched the room and took fingerprints and samples. They also took with them the box of marrons glacés and the bottle and glass of cognac that still retained a few drops of liquor and the traces of red lipstick.

  The judge summoned the MP to go and make a statement the following day and advised him to bring his lawyer. He asked us to ensure we were contactable. As soon as the judge disappeared, Lluís Font told us very quietly he wanted a word in private and asked us to wait in his office.

  What with one thing and another it was now two a.m. Despite the upheaval and tension I was exhausted. All this time, Borja had been pretending to survey the scene of the crime, as our client had asked, but I really didn’t know what to do or think. I was shocked by the man’s sangfroid: after all, he had just lost his wife. He seemed so calm and collected. If anything similar happened to Montse (God forbid), I’d be on my knees, I expect, a blubbing heap of nerves. Our client, on the other hand, was so cold and self-possessed it put me on edge. I considered whether he might possibly be involved in some way in his wife’s death, but finally concluded that if he were the murderer, he would logically have acted as if he’d been much more affected in order to allay suspicions. When we were alone in his office, I communicated the drift of my deductions to Borja.

  “It’s a question of upbringing,” he told me in the pedagogical tone he adopts when informing me of the subtleties of the world of the wealthy. “The process is an internal one. These people know how to control their emotions, but it doesn’t mean they’re not upset.”

  “Well, if he can impose that much self-control, he can’t be that upset,” I retorted.

  “It’s a class-marker, Eduard,” he sighed at my incredulity. “The upper classes never cry in public. It’s considered to be in bad taste.”

  “Oh!” I said not at all fathoming his insight.

  When the police abandoned the house, the MP came and offered us a drink. Remembering the bottle of cognac the forensics had taken off to test, we prudently declined his offer. Our client also abstained, I expect for the same reason.

  “I must ask a favour of you,” he began quite nervously. “You’re the only people I can trust in this matter.”

  “At your disposition,” said Borja deferentially.

  “My personal assistant is on holiday in Sri Lanka. He’s away till the end of the year ...” He paused to light a cigarette. “I mean to say I’m only asking you because he is abroad ...”

  “What is your concern?” asked Borja, wanting him to come to the point.

  “The painting, of course. The portrait of Lídia that’s in my office is what concerns me,” he confessed. “Particularly as we don’t know what happened this evening. If it’s true, as the police believe, that Lídia was poisoned ... I don’t know what the routine is in such cases, but the police will probably issue a search warrant. Obviously I have nothing to hide, but if they were to find the painting, you know, life might be
gin to get complicated. I’d have some explaining to do, I mean it’s not a portrait I commissioned, but one I discovered by chance, the model being my wife ...”

  “... there’s no invoice,” Borja quickly homed in.

  “In fact, there is. It’s made out to a company name. That’s not the problem.”

  “So I don’t see what we can do,” my brother said. “Unless ...”

  “Tomorrow is a public holiday, and I don’t think the judge will be in a great hurry to sign a search warrant.” He paused while Borja and I tried to work out what he was plotting. “If you could, tomorrow night for example, discreetly go and replace Lídia’s portrait with another picture and keep it for me for a few days ...”

  “Replace the portrait?” asked Borja.

  I hadn’t understood either.

  “I know what I’m asking you to do is rather strange ...” the MP recognized.

  “And why not just take it and leave it at that?” I asked.

  “My secretary has seen the package, but not the contents. She knows it’s a painting. If the police asked her if she’d noticed anything missing, she might, without meaning to, put her foot in it. I thought,” he suggested as innocently as he could, despite the anxiety our faces betrayed, “it would be best to substitute a similar sized package. That way I wouldn’t have to do any explaining. If you do me this favour,” he drawled, “I shall be eternally grateful.”

  Neither my brother nor I said anything for a few seconds. Borja huffed and looked at me askance.

  “But what if the neighbours catch us?” he objected. “If they see us coming and going with a big package, they’re bound to think we’re thieves and inform the police ... You can’t hide a package that size under a topcoat!”

  “I’ll give you a key.” He seemed to have thought his plan through. “And there aren’t many people living in the building. Most of the flats are offices like mine. The porter isn’t there at nights or on public holidays. Nor are there cameras or other security devices. It’s an old building, as you’ve seen. It’ll only take ten minutes ...” he said, poohpoohing our fears.

  I was convinced that what Lluís Font was suggesting was practically a crime. He wasn’t asking us to get rid of the murder weapon or provide him with an alibi, but our client did possibly see a connection between his wife’s unexpected death and that mysterious portrait. If we contributed to its disappearance, we would be hindering police investigations and could perhaps end up accused of being part of a coverup.

  “The problem,” reflected Borja, “is where to find a picture of that size in the next twenty-four hours.”

  In other words, he’d already accepted the commission. I should have predicted as much.

  “I’m sure you’ll think of a way.” And saying this, he looked at me askance, opened a desk drawer and took out an envelope. “Here’s something towards your expenses.”

  It plainly looked like a bribe, if not worse. I agree some of the things my brother and I do from time to time verge on the illegal, but to date we’ve never had to confront a woman’s dead body. I was hoping Borja would refuse the envelope, wish him goodbye and we’d disconnect from the whole business.

  Instead of that, my brother said thanks and solemnly pocketed the envelope without looking at its contents. Not wasting any time, the MP gave him the keys to his office and thanked us once again for this great favour we were doing him.

  “I shall never forget this. You will always be able to count on me,” he asserted wholeheartedly. And repeated, “I shall be eternally grateful.”

  Before leaving the house, we called a taxi. Once inside the vehicle, almost in the dark, Borja counted the notes in the envelope.

  “Ten grand! Ten thousand euros!” he whispered in my ear, his voice trembling with emotion.

  “Pep,” I said – when I was annoyed or particularly worried I’d call him by his real name – “we’re getting into really deep water. We should watch out ...”

  At that time in the early morning, Barcelona was dark, silent and hung-over. The snow had covered the city in an eerie layer of white that disguised its Mediterranean character. It was cold and there wasn’t a soul to be seen, but it had stopped snowing and a few stars were peering between the clouds. The moon had even put in an appearance.

  “Everything will turn out fine,” he answered, unable to hide his euphoria. “But if there is a problem, I’ll take full responsibility, don’t you worry. In fact, you don’t even need to come tomorrow. I’ll manage it by myself ...”

  “As if you didn’t know me! ...” I regretted my wellmeaning comment. “Though I don’t know where we’ll get a picture that size tomorrow. It’s a holiday and all the shops are shut.”

  “I’ll think of something. Just leave it to me,” he said in a complacent tone.

  But the bright idea my brother eventually thought up was only to make our lives even more complicated.

  PART TWO

  11

  As I’d predicted, Borja rang on Boxing Day to excuse himself from lunch. Lola was invited, as usual, for this annual fixture. Initially I felt relieved, thinking that this way we’d have a quieter celebration, but I was mistaken.

  “Well, might we know whose side his lordship’s on?” Montse recriminated in the kitchen while she cut the turrón. “Why the hell did you have to say something like that to Lola, in the susceptible state she’s in?”

  “I only ...” I started on my self-justification but couldn’t think what to say next.

  “I’ll go and see if she’s recovered!” she said, taking the tray of turrón and letting fly with her parting shot, “Eduard, you men always put your feet in it! You kept your mouth shut for the whole meal and then regaled her with one of your stupid comments! ...”

  In fact, I’d only told Lola to bear in mind that love and sex are two different things, hardly an obscenity, or a discovery that’s going to win me the Nobel Prize, let alone a slight on Lola, as Montse reproached me later. I might perhaps have kept the comment to myself, but we were halfway through the meal, had been debating for a good three hours the kind of work my partner and I were engaged in and I couldn’t stand a minute more. What was our connection with Lídia Font’s murder (now reported on the television news)? Why hadn’t Borja shown up for the meal? Had she been stood up? What did I think of her relationship (that is, did two shags make a relationship ...)? Were there other women in my partner’s life apart from Merche? Etcetera, etcetera. I was sick and tired of my wife and sister-in-law submitting me to a third degree about whether Borja really had an upset tummy or if it was just an excuse because of what happened with Lola, as if they didn’t know perfectly well. Apparently, they’d developed the theory that if you fuck once it’s only sex, but if the man comes back for more there must be something else.

  And all this in front of the girls, who were all ears, and Arnau, who was luckily out of his depth. And it had been more of the same since Lola arrived. Although the cannelloni were delicious, my Montse’s are always first-rate, the conversation on the topic of Borja put me off eating them. I only managed seven, instead of the usual dozen. What with this and the previous night’s hassle, I wasn’t in the best of moods. That’s probably why I blurted out a home truth: namely that one night of passion doesn’t amount to an engagement ring, with the result that Lola left the table and went for a weep in the bathroom.

  “I knew you were in the know! ...” my sister-in-law reproached me as she left the room sobbing her heart out.

  Montse was right that Lola was more susceptible than usual, but I was pretty positive her parlous state was also down to the three large vermouths she’d drunk before lunch and the bottle of wine she’d downed by herself to accompany the hors d’oeuvres.

  After shedding crocodile tears, my wife tried to distract her sister by letting her in on the gossip from her Centre and lecturing her on the virtues of new massage techniques from the Orient she was learning somewhere or other. Montse had promised her a session of I Ching with her coffee, an
d Lola couldn’t wait. The twins, who were beginning to find their aunt’s scenes tedious, nibbled on the turrón and announced they were off to their bedroom to listen to music. Just what I felt like doing: leaving the witness box and going to lie down for a while. I didn’t obey my instincts, however, aware that if I vanished mid-crisis, Montse would take it badly.

  Boxing Day is the worst day of the holidays, because it follows on after the excesses of Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas Day lunch, and I had a thick head and a belly fit to explode yet again. I sat down on the sofa and pretended to leaf through a newspaper supplement from way back while they both chatted and saw off a bottle of one of those so-called digestive liqueurs the ladies knock back at family dos. Finally, despite my titanic efforts at staying awake, I dozed off listening to coins jingling and my wife’s voice reading those ridiculous predictions in the reverential tones of a guru inspired. I’ve always wondered how it’s possible my Montse, who read a more or less scientific degree at university and even got good marks, can believe that the way three coins fall can reveal a person’s future fortunes and deliver wise advice on how to behave.

  “The fact is you don’t understand these things,” she always retorts when I raise an objection. “Men are too rational. And then you end up killing each other in wars and destroying the planet with your inane sense of macho superiority. The wisdom of the Orient,” she adds from the depths of her wisdom, “is infinitely more subtle. And much more ancient. We have so much to learn!”

  As a general rule, when Montse launches into this kind of philosophical disquisition I opt out. Occasionally I’ve tried to get her to see that the main spiritual adviser of the planetary boss is the God of the Bible, not Aristotle, which is hardly what you’d call rational. As far as I know, Margaret Thatcher, Ana Botella and Imelda Marcos are women (women Montse particularly loathes), and I’ve yet to have the pleasure of meeting a female Dalai Lama. I argue that the enmity between the Chinese and Japanese, who not so very long ago engaged in mutual slaughter, is as ancient as their venerable philosophies, and that chakras are like the Holy Spirit: nobody has ever seen them. Finally, as my parting shot, I remind her that the Orient is all well and good if one is lucky enough not to be a woman or belong to the pariah caste, but, when I say that, she accuses me of hankering for an imperial past and turns her back on me in a huff when we get into bed.