A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

“All right,” he said drowsily. “Bring it to my place.”

  Before hanging up, he told me he’d got to bed in the early hours because he’d had a very long and insightful conversation with the MP. I was intrigued and told him I’d be there within the hour.

  Montse didn’t have to be at the Centre till the middle of the morning so the girls would be back in time to look after Arnau. As I was still trying to get back into her good books, I told her I’d be back earlier and would get lunch ready for everybody. She’d not be home till three o’clock, would have a quick bite and then rush back to work. As it was party time, women wanted to be beautiful and Montse was run off her feet.

  When I got to his flat, my brother was already showered, dressed and shaved, though his face looked sleepy. We put the picture under his bed and hoped Merche wouldn’t start sniffing around – not that she was likely to. And if she did find it, it was so well packaged Borja could tell her it had to do with one of his lines of business.

  “I think this guy has put us right in it,” Borja started off.

  “Why do you say that.”

  “The whole matter is much more complicated than I thought.”

  “Fine, we’ve still time. Look, we just take the damned picture, return it to him and tell him our job’s over,” I suggested. “His wife is dead, isn’t she? She can’t have any lovers now.”

  “It’s not so simple. Want a coffee?”

  While he prepared coffee in the kitchen, he began to tell me in detail about his conversation with our client. First things first, the autopsy confirmed she’d been poisoned, although it would be a few days before the forensics identified the kind of substance that had caused death. But that wasn’t all.

  “It turns out this Sílvia and the MP have been lovers for almost a year,” he let drop.

  “Fucking hell!”

  “He went stiff as a board when I told him there was a naked Cuban in the upstairs flat as well, twenty years younger than his sister-in-law, who disappeared in a flash when the ceiling collapsed,” he went on as he gulped down his coffee.

  “Well, well ... And the guy was upset in case his wife was carrying on with a painter!” I said scandalized. “And all the time his lover was having it off with someone else!”

  “Just so. And we were happily investigating his wife while he was carrying on with his sister-in-law. Of course I already suspected something ...” he said, playing the wise guy.

  Apparently, when they were by themselves, Borja decided to make a few stabs in the dark and the MP had finally confessed the usual old story: his marriage had been on the rocks for years and he’d fallen in love with another woman; unfortunately the woman in question was his sister-in-law. Given his position, divorce was unthinkable, apart from not being a very practical solution. As Mariona had told us, Sílvia was Lídia’s step-sister, daughter of her father’s first marriage to a woman who broke her neck skiing in Cortina, and, unlike Lídia, she was a good listener, an affectionate, understanding woman he could relax with (with the occasional bit of rumpy pumpy, no doubt, I thought to myself). On the other hand, Sílvia Vilalta was quite an attractive woman, although not to be compared to her sister. She was divorced and childless. In Borja’s view, Lluís Font spoke about her as if he sincerely loved her and found it difficult to accept she was having it off with a mellifluous gigolo.

  As for the flat the neighbours thought was empty, as the MP had told the police the previous night, he was its owner. He’d found it an unobtrusive way of being able to meet his lover without his movements giving rise to suspicion. Behind his wife’s back and through that company called Diagonal Consulting, he’d bought the flat so everything stayed in the family. The only precaution the MP and his lover had to take was to ensure the neighbours didn’t catch them going up or down the flight of stairs that separated his office from the bachelor pad, but luckily it was an attic and opposite was one of those phantom companies that act as a tax address. The ruse had worked reasonably well up to then.

  “Christ, what a mess!” I said, rather confused. “Naturally if these two are lovers, they had a good reason to get rid of the deceased. Either together or separately.”

  “I expect that’s what the police will think if they ever find out. He swears it wasn’t the case and I believe him.”

  “At this point I really don’t know what to think!” I responded, shrugging my shoulders. “Perhaps he thought if he killed her in this recondite way, using sweets or poisoned cognac sent by a stranger, he wouldn’t be caught ...”

  “It hardly makes sense,” he shook his head, “why should he implicate us with the picture business? And what if his daughter had eaten the marrons glacés? Or if the maid or someone else had poured a shot of cognac?”

  “In any case, we still don’t know what killed her. You ate one of those things and you’re all right ... So it must be the cognac.”

  “I suppose so. But I think if our MP had wanted to see off his wife he’d have found a simpler way than putting poison into a bottle of Courvoisier. An accident in the house, for example,” Borja speculated.

  “Yes, he’d have avoided the publicity,” I conceded.

  “The newspapers have talked about nothing else for a couple of days, and I don’t think a murder in murky circs will help his political ambitions. Conversely, the poison implies premeditation, that the person who put her away thought carefully before acting.” He paused and sighed, joined his hands together and half-closed his eyes. “Eduard, this is no crime of passion.”

  “Elementary, my dear Sherlock,” I laughed, because it was the first time I’d seen him play that role. “And do you have any idea what might have happened?”

  “This Sílvia woman came to their Christmas lunch. She was probably connected to the poisoning,” he suggested. “She was probably unhappy with her role as second lady and thought the most expeditious way forward was to make her brother-in-law a widower.”

  But that wasn’t all. Borja extracted from the drawer of his night-table an envelope full of 100 and 500 notes. He reckoned 12,000 euros all told.

  “The MP wants us to continue with our investigation. Discreetly, of course. He says he’s got a contact in the police who’ll tell us how their investigation is faring and will get us copies of their reports. Apparently it’s the nephew of a friend.”

  “So he wants us to spy on what the police find out!” I said, shocked. “So he can cover his own back, I expect!”

  “I suppose so. Well,” my brother turned serious, “if he’s guilty, we’ll also find out.”

  “And will we also cover it up?” I wondered, though not daring to voice the question out aloud. “At what price? How stuffed does an envelope have to be in such cases?”

  “Pep, it’s one thing to be a prying eye for the rich and quite another to cover up a murder. Besides, I should remind you we’re not detectives.”

  “He knows. Listen, I give you my word that if we discover he murdered his wife we’ll go straight to the police. But I think he’s innocent. People who can afford lawyers don’t usually opt for violence.”

  “Only if divorce is too expensive,” I retorted, “and I’m not just referring to money.”

  12,000 euros were tempting enough, not to mention the 20,000 he’d already shelled out in less than three weeks. On the other hand, what Lluís Font asked of us bordered on the illegal, although so far, when all’s said and done, we’d done nothing to keep me awake at nights. Even so, keeping hold of his wife’s portrait in oils to avoid her adultery hitting the headlines, or having furtive conversations with a policeman so he could tell us how their investigation was going, wasn’t the same as turning a blind eye to cold-blooded murder.

  I was convinced Borja and I would never cross that frontier however much cash the MP might offer us. Besides, I had my brother’s word, and he didn’t usually go back on his promises. I agreed to carry on with the case, although I didn’t have the slightest idea where we should start.

  “We’ll go to Paris and see
Pau Ferrer,” Borja decided. “If he and Lídia were lovers, he may be implicated or perhaps can give us the name of somebody who had it in for her. Perhaps she suspected someone wanted her out of circulation, her husband even.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” I agreed.

  Given the circumstances, we decided we would bluntly ask the painter how he got to know Lídia Font and what kind of relationship he’d had with her. We were quite sure a conversation with the painter of the picture that had caused such a stir would clear up many of our doubts.

  I’d promised Montse I would get lunch ready, so I told Borja I’d see him in the afternoon. We’d have to pass by a travel agency to order the plane tickets and book a hotel. I’m not over fond of flying, but knew that Borja wouldn’t agree to take the train.

  When I told Montse my business partner and I were off to Paris she got all furious again. She harped on about the murder, the picture and the police, and it began to look as if I had a full-scale matrimonial crisis on my hands.

  “You know,” I said, trying to change the subject, “I think Borja really likes your sister.”

  It was as if I’d uttered words of magic. The long face and reproaches went and suddenly the conversation centred on the relationship between my twin brother and much adored sister-in-law. Women always go for the romantic, some at least, and Montse took the bait immediately. Of course my timely comment would generate futile expectations for Lola and a future problem for Borja, but I thought it better they focussed for a couple of days on the Borja affaire rather than on the business of the painting.

  “Well, I had thought Borja was rather taken by Lola ...” said Montse excitedly. “Do you think he’ll bring her a present from Paris? And what about you? Will you bring me something?” she asked sweetly.

  The truth was I’d not given it a thought, but obviously we’d find time to buy a few presents in Paris, although it isn’t as simple as it sounds. It used to be easy when you travelled abroad to find a little present that would go down well. Now, you buy something with high hopes it will please, cart it around in your suitcase only to find it’s on sale at half the price next door to where you live. Luckily, I was going with Borja, who loved shopping.

  The tickets bought today to travel tomorrow cost us the earth. However, thanks to our MP’s generosity money was no longer a problem, and we booked two rooms in a small hotel near the Opéra. Paris is enormous, and it’s better to go for somewhere central than to bankrupt yourself on taxis. Because the plane would be departing at the crack of dawn, Borja and I left for our respective homes. We still had to pack our bags and I wanted to get to bed early because I’d had a backlog of sleep owing ever since Christmas Day. That night my brother had arranged to have dinner with Merche, whom he’d not seen for days, and I advised him to disconnect his mobile.

  “Lola will probably give you a call ...” I said casually.

  I didn’t dare tell him about the comment I’d made to Montse. It was stupid, but I knew Borja would lose his temper with me, and then eventually take it on board. I was getting desperate for a zoo where I could hide this elephant that was getting bigger by the second.

  14

  “Mésépamafótsivúnevusavépabian’xpliqué, mesié!” rattled the taxi-driver at Borja’s third remark about the route we were taking.

  We’d taken the taxi at the Gare du Nord and were now embarked on a rough-and-ready tour of the most historic sights in Paris. When the driver saw our luggage and heard that our destination was a hotel, he’d deduced quickly and correctly we were foreigners and we ended up paying fifty euros for a journey that should have cost twelve. Despite my brother’s excellent French, the guy took us on the classic sight-seeing route, and not content with that, he got very angry when Borja pointed out most politely it was the third time we’d passed that same église. Of course, the wiles of Parisian taxi drivers are something you have to anticipate when travelling to the city, as my brother explained. No need to kick up a fuss or tear one’s hair out.

  I’d always told Montse I’d never been to Paris. It’s one of those stupid lies one makes up on the spur of the moment and then have to sustain for a lifetime so as not to look silly or like a liar. What happened was that one afternoon soon after we’d started going out, after making love in the tiny flat I used to rent in Sants, Montse asked me if I’d been to Paris. She’d just confessed that she’d never set foot in the city and really looked forward to the day we would discover it together. Faced by such blossoming tenderness, I didn’t have the guts to tell her the truth.

  “No, no, I’ve never been,” I said quietly as I caressed her hair. “I was leaving it till I met you.”

  That little white lie was meant more as a romantic aside, but the consequences have haunted me ever since. In fact, I was twenty when I first went to Paris with a girlfriend by the name of Olga who lasted six months. With hindsight I can see she was quite crazy and I thank God things never turned serious, but all the same I was mad about her at the time.

  We went to Paris together over a long All Saints Day weekend, in one of those awful trains that left the estación de Francia and took three decades to arrive, at the time our passion had reached its culminating peak. Days I shall never forget, that’s for sure. It was autumn, and the golden leaves on the trees in Paris rustled and fell on the pavements to form a carpet that crackled under our feet. Postcard skies, of unimaginable colours, framed some of old Europe’s most emblematic buildings while Olga and I crossed, one by one, the bridges of the river that has surely witnessed the most lovers’ suicides throughout history. I also remember the small, cheap, unheated hotel where we stayed just over four days, and a passion driven by youthful hormones that steamed up the windows and prevented the bright moon beams shining in.

  I felt guilty about staying in Paris with a girl who wasn’t Montse. The intensity of my memories made me feel uneasy, as if I’d been unfaithful to my wife, even though it was a fling from years before I met her. The truth is that both Paris and Olga had captivated me in my early twenties. It had been only my second excursion abroad (I’d been to Italy with some friends before that, but it wasn’t the same), and my brief stay in that paradise of freedom, hedonism and philosophie brought me back to Barcelona thinking I lived in a small, boring provincial capital. Franco hadn’t been dead long, the first democratic elections had been held, and in my eyes and those of all my generation Paris possessed the magic the Generalíssimo had snatched from us.

  Our plane had left and arrived on time, and Borja and I were in our hotel by mid-morning. We unpacked, changed our clothes and prepared to visit the gallery where Pau Ferrer had exhibited the portrait purchased by our client just over a month ago. Borja forced me to put on my Armani suit and the tie Mariona Castany had given me, and he lent me one of his overcoats – black, in fact – to round off the image. I had to pass myself off as a Spanish art collector who spoke no French, and my brother had given me very precise instructions about how I should perform.

  “While I talk to the person in charge and try to get the painter’s address,” Borja told me, “You look at everything as if you’re interested in buying. When you find the most expensive painting in the exhibition, come over to me and say you’ll be back in the morning with your wife. Don’t smile, look as if you’re suffering from a stomach ulcer and look at your watch now and then. Leave the rest to me,” he added with a smile.

  The gallery was near the Jardins de Luxembourg, so we caught a taxi. This time, with no luggage and Borja’s impeccable French, the taxi-driver spared us the roundabout route and we were there in a few minutes. It was a modern outfit in an old building, and stuffed with quite abstract pictures at a price to cure your hiccups. First, a young West Indian woman attended to us, and then the man who must have been the gallery owner, a middle-aged Frenchman, snooty, precious, heavily scented and as charming as pie. I performed to prior instructions, and while acting the indecisive buyer I tried to decipher what the shop manager was explaining to my brother in French.r />
  “Well, then?” I eagerly asked Borja as we left. “What did he tell you? Have you got the address?”

  “We’re out of luck again.” He shook his head. “Pau Ferrer had a stroke a week ago and is in a coma in hospital.”

  “Fuck! What a coincidence! Wonder if he’s been poisoned as well ...”

  “I doubt it. Apparently, he’s a glutton for punishment,” he explained. “He wouldn’t give me the name or address of the hospital, but I did get his dealer’s number. It’s a woman.”

  “Well, every little helps. Perhaps she can.”

  “Don’t get too hopeful. She’s out of Paris, abroad, and won’t be back before the end of the year.”

  A pointless trip, I thought, because we couldn’t stay that long in Paris. We’d have to go back empty-handed and perhaps return later on.

  “We’ve still got one card to play,” my brother said mysteriously. “Let’s go for a bite to eat.”

  Borja seemed withdrawn and I could tell he was in no mood to talk. I know him and realized he was plotting something. We went into a café and ordered a couple of croque-monsieurs and two beers. While we downed our frugal repast, Borja revealed the ace up his sleeve.

  “I know someone in Paris,” he said finally. “I’d have preferred not to have recourse to her, but as we’ve come this far ... Obviously, she’s probably on holiday. It’s not a good time ...”

  “It’s worth a try. We’ve nothing to lose,” I encouraged him.

  “I need a cognac first.”

  Without going into great detail, he explained that the woman he was thinking of contacting was, as I worked out, the woman who’d broken his heart in a previous life. It was a typical, clichéd story, one to inspire the screenplay for a profound film or a tear-jerking melodrama. Since our reuniting, Borja had told me very little about his life, except for a few disparate, entertaining anecdotes I could never quite believe. I’d got wind of the fact that it hadn’t been a path strewn with roses, since, as Montse says, when somebody refuses to talk about their past it’s because they have something to hide or a painful wound that has yet to heal.