A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

  “Fine, but we’ve only just arrived from Paris ...”

  They cancelled the flight we should have flown on at eight o’clock the evening before, the exact time Borja had agreed to meet his old flame for dinner fully intending to stand her up in honour of the good old days. We never discovered why. We were kept waiting hours inside the plane without anyone bothering to offer the slightest bloody excuse as to why we weren’t taking off, until finally the loudspeakers announced that we couldn’t fly till the following morning because of technical problems. It was a really mean trick but fear of terrorist attacks meant no one protested. We had to leave the plane and were ushered to a hotel next to the airport. What with the noise from planes, the late hour and the stress caused by the knowledge we’d have to get up at six in order not to miss our new flight, I barely got a wink. The following morning I was a wreck.

  The previous evening, before leaving for the airport, we’d rung the MP to tell him of the positive results from our investigations. However, as soon as he heard Borja’s voice, our client told him curtly “nothing by phone”, and that he expected to see us in his office as early as possible in the morning. According to Borja, Lluís Font’s voice sounded very distressed. My brother tried to explain it had all been a misunderstanding and that he could stop worrying about the portrait, but the MP rudely cut him short in a tone we’d not heard before and we imagined it must be because he suspected his telephone was being tapped. In a harsh, imperious voice he told us to be in his office at nine a.m. sharp.

  When they cancelled our flight, we had to ring him again to defer our appointment, but he insisted we go straight to his office from the airport. We had barely time to pass by Borja’s place to drop off our cases and presents. Without even changing our clothes, we jumped into the Smart and headed for the Diagonal.

  “Pep, I reckon the thing’s taken a turn for the worse. The murder’s hitting the headlines again.”

  “But there are no new revelations. And since the judge has decreed that the hearing should be in secret ...”

  “Then they’ve probably found some thing out that the newspapers haven’t published yet. The MP must have his contacts among the judiciary, and it’s very likely there are new developments,” I suggested while we were still trying to park.

  We finally found a space to park the Smart but with one thing and another we reached our appointment half an hour late. His secretary wasn’t there and Lluís Font opened the door himself. We were shocked to see that the man who now welcomed us wasn’t the same self-confident politician who’d contracted us a few weeks ago to keep an eye on his wife, nor was he the calm and collected bereaved husband we’d watched replying with such aplomb to the questions of the police while his wife’s body lay theatrically on the carpet in his drawing room.

  To begin with, his suit hung off him as if he’d shrunk, and he looked much the worse for wear. He was no longer the all-powerful MP, but a man running scared. He listened gravely to our explanations, but his attitude didn’t change despite our good tidings. His face still looked as distressed as when he’d opened the door to us.

  Rather than bringing him some relief, Borja’s explanations deepened his disquiet. I saw that his eyes had the same vacant look as Montse’s when she takes a valium, although in the MP’s case there was something else that the valium – or whatever he’d taken – couldn’t conceal. The look on the face of the man opposite us, as Borja had already suspected when speaking to him on the phone, belonged to a man running scared.

  My brother gave him a blow by blow account of our activities in Paris (obviously omitting any mention of his old flame) and told him of the happy conclusion to our enquiries. As detectives, we weren’t performing so badly.

  “In short, the painter took a photograph of Lídia when she wasn’t looking,” our client said, visibly displeased.

  “Apparently it happened in a train, some two years ago,” explained Borja. “She must have fallen asleep and the painter took the opportunity to photograph her. Then he painted the portrait. Cécile Blanchart, the painter’s friend, promised us she will try to get one of the photos he took, but I believe her all the same. Art connoisseurs in Paris know how Pau Ferrer works.”

  “It’s an explanation that’s too simple and surprising not to be true,” I added. “It was also our bad luck the painter had had a stroke only a few days ago ...”

  “I expect if he doesn’t survive, his paintings will leap in value,” observed Borja, who thought of everything.

  The MP shrugged his shoulders as if to say that at that precise moment he wasn’t impressed in the least by that spin off. He seemed despondent. Leaning back on his chair he muttered sourly: “In other words, Pau Ferrer wasn’t involved in Lídia’s death. You don’t think he’s a suspect ... In fact, the photograph explains everything,” he conceded gloomily. “Lídia never travelled by train, and that’s why I remember how once when she went to Paris (for reasons of work, she claimed), she came back in the Talgo. There was a strike of ... air-traffic controllers, I don’t remember exactly. She did that because we’d been invited to a gala banquet with the King, Queen and Prince in Pedralbes, and the President of the Generalitat, the Mayor and a few other MPs ... Lídia didn’t want to miss the reception, naturally. She had spent a fortune on her dress,” he sighed sounding annoyed, “and besides she loved that kind of thing. So she decided to come back by high-speed train.”

  “You obviously remember it well ...” said Borja.

  “Lídia was in a temper for days. She spent the whole dinner complaining about the bags under her eyes and the fact she was exhausted. She even got the king into a stew over her journey. And obviously as he’s so goodnatured ...”

  “Not half!” Borja chimed in to endorse his flattery.

  “So it all fits perfectly,” I spoke up in an attempt to ensure the conversation didn’t turn into a eulogy of the virtues of the monarchy. As a good republican, I’d started to twitch.

  “Not entirely,” Lluís Font shook his head and looked down. “The ambulance workers were right. Someone did poison Lídia.”

  He lit another cigarette and stiffened slightly in his chair. He was tense and felt uncomfortable, but his attitude didn’t seem a result of his loss.

  “I wasn’t at all convinced, but it was confirmed by the tests,” he said slowly. “It was the marrons glacés. Some of them were poisoned. You,” he said addressing Borja, “were very lucky.”

  “I don’t know what came over me in those circumstances. It must have been nerves ...”

  I saw Borja go slightly red, a colour he can’t see. Eating the sweets or whatever they were while Mrs Font’s body was lying dead had been one hell of a blunder. We still lived in hope that his greediness wouldn’t lead to problems with the police or the judge.

  “There is something else,” said the MP, “ that I’d better tell you.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “I didn’t want to tell you on the phone because it’s not a secure channel at the moment. I wanted to say,” he said grimly, staring hard at us, “if you are thinking of taking this story to the press, I can assure you ...”

  Borja shot out of his chair, as if catapulted by a spring. He seemed very offended.

  “Let’s bury this here and now. I don’t know what kind of people you think we are!” he exclaimed pretending to be highly indignant.

  I followed suit and also got up, though somewhat less angrily. When the MP saw our reactions he immediately corrected himself and adopted a diplomatic tone of voice. He was in no position to threaten anyone.

  “I didn’t want to cause offence. I do apologize, Mr Masdéu. And to you, sir ... I’m very sorry I doubted you, but you must understand that I’m at my wits’ end. Journalists are after me all the time, and yesterday they broadcast a report on Lídia’s death on one of those programmes they show on breakfast television that so many people watch. They even showed interviews with Yanbin, our housemaid ...”

  “It’s disgusting!” exclaimed Borja sitting do
wn again. “Of course, not everybody is like that ...”

  “No, of course not ...” the MP agreed.

  I wasn’t at all clear that the idea hadn’t passed through Borja’s head. These programmes that feed on gossip and scandal have been the fashion for years. The chat and rumours that used to go no further than the bar, market or office have now become our main source of entertainment. People no longer read novels, crochet or go to political meetings to protest or put their demands. Nowadays, they like to spend weekends buying special offers in shopping centres, watching football all the time and then going to bed in the early hours after seeing a few sex and adultery dramas on telly. Even though the pariahs now get their moment of glory on reality shows, it’s the scandals of the rich and the powerful that spark infinitely more interest, and all the more so if they come with a juicy crime attached.

  “You mentioned there was something else ...” I spoke up in order to break the uncomfortable silence that had descended after the MP had confessed his worries over our integrity. I was curious to know what was suddenly upsetting him.

  The doorbell rang before the MP could answer. Our client gave a start and Borja and I realized his heart was beating at full pelt. He went pale, half-closed his eyes and, downcast, got up out of his chair muttering that he wasn’t expecting anybody. He repeated this to himself three times as if that improvised litany would help quell his fears.

  It was the judicial police. Two men and one woman in plainclothes: young, polite and pleasant. None looked like police or had the rough, bullying ways of the pigs of yesteryear. When they identified themselves, the MP was quite taken aback. They were carrying a search warrant from the judge.

  “It’s the procedure in such cases,” said one of the policemen. He seemed very nice and his accent betrayed that he was from Lleida.

  “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. We’ll only be a minute, you’ll see,” said the woman with a would-be soothing smile as she glanced quickly round.

  The other policeman, a rather scrawny young man wearing spectacles that looked too thick for a man of the law, hovered silently in one corner. He didn’t even deign to look at us. Lluís Font introduced us yet again as his advisors and resigned himself to the fact they were about to turn his office upside down. He had no choice. When he realized it was a search, he looked relieved, as if it could have been much worse.

  The police took their coats off, put on white, thin gloves, like the ones hairdressers and surgeons use, and started to search the room quite gingerly. The three of us remained silent though we couldn’t avoid glancing furtively at the package behind the door.

  They looked in every drawer and checked every scrap of paper. The police who had done the introductions spotted the huge package wrapped in brown paper. It was exactly where Borja had left it on the night the MP’s sister-in-law had crashed down so dramatically from the flat upstairs. Although he didn’t have to, the policeman asked for permission before he unwrapped it very, very carefully.

  “So what is this?” he asked when he came face to face with the hideous sight of one of my mother-in-law’s most dubious expressions of her artistic genius.

  Lluís Font swallowed. His mind had gone blank. After seeing what was hanging on the walls of his house, I imagined he couldn’t think of an excuse to justify possession of that monstrosity. In the full light of day, it was even worse than I remembered. As usual, Borja was the only one who kept his sang-froid and rescued the situation.

  “Well, if it isn’t the painting that supporter of yours gave you at the end of a meeting!” he exclaimed totally matter-of-fact, looking at the MP. “How thoughtful of you to want to hang it here. Of course you might want to change the frame. It doesn’t go with your furniture ...”

  “Yes ... No, quite ...”

  “It’s signed by one ‘J. Mir’ ...” the policeman remarked. “It’s vaguely familiar. Don’t you think?” he asked the policewoman.

  She came over to take a closer look. Perhaps it was me, but I could swear that when she walked past Borja she almost lurched into him, regaling him with a smile that wasn’t merely polite. Apart from being flirtatious, she was quite young.

  “You certainly get a nice line in presents!” she exclaimed after scrutinizing the painting. “Joaquim Mir is one of the most important contemporary Catalan modernists. If it’s genuine, this painting’s worth a small fortune.”

  The three of us were struck dumb. She might be a policewoman, but that girl was out of her mind.

  “What do you mean? It’s an awful painting!” I interjected.

  I couldn’t tell them that “J. Mir” was the signature of my mother-in-law, Joana Mir, who, as far as I knew, wasn’t related to the famous painter. You could bet Montse would one day split her sides when I told her about this mix-up, I thought. Her views on the painting that used to hang in our passage were as scathing as mine.

  “If it is a Mir, one certainly cannot say it’s awful,” the woman opined. “Besides, in matters of taste everything is relative,” she added solemnly.

  Nobody felt like arguing with her. The six of us focussed back on the painting. It was a kind of landscape with mountains, trees and village houses. A few clouds floated quite gracelessly over a postcard blue sky. The foreground was dominated by shapes pretending to be shrubs with flowers of different colours and sizes, all species that were unrecognizable.

  While the policewoman took the painting to the window and examined it expertly, her colleague explained that the young woman had a degree in art history. As I already knew my mother-in-law’s painting backwards, I concentrated on the woman. Although she was dressed unobtrusively, her clothes were one size too small for her, thus emphasising her generous curves that must have caused more than one colleague on night duty to look up. The policeman with the Lleida accent said he was an anthropologist while his colleague, who was still scrutinizing the files piled on the table, was, he explained, a mathematician. He’d not said a word since he walked in.

  “If you don’t have any paperwork to certify that this painting is legally yours, we shall have to take it with us,” said the woman after seeming momentarily flummoxed. “You can’t keep a Mir in a corner like that!” And added: “Besides, there were some problems with Joaquim Mir paintings not long ago.”

  “That’s true,” her colleague corroborated.

  “All I needed!” The MP looked at us half in despair, half in anger. “Listen,” he addressed the policewoman, “I had no idea ...”

  I’d had enough and jumped up: “But this painting is the work of!—”

  Borja cut me dead, “Yes, Eduard, we know all that! The woman who gave Mr Font the painting probably didn’t know what it was,” he said, raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes wide.

  “But! . . .”

  “You know that fine art, like elephants, has never been your forte,” he rasped as if to say I should shut my trap once and for all. “I think it would be best if the police took the painting with them and investigate whatever they have to investigate,” he said, seeking our client’s approval. “I’m positive this business will soon be cleared up.”

  “Can you give us the name of the lady who gave you this present?” asked the young policewoman, taking out her notebook and pencil.

  “The fact is ... I don’t really know,” the MP confessed. “A lot of people come to meetings and say hello to me. People I don’t know ... I get given the odd gift ...” he improvised.

  “I see ... in that case we’ll have to take the painting. We need to check one or two things ...”

  “As you wish. But you are quite mistaken ...” Lluís Font didn’t seem very sure of himself.

  The police strode off carrying the painting but took none of his papers. If Lluís Font had another elephant in that office, the police hadn’t found it. Borja’s certainly very clever, but he’s particularly adept when it comes to the business of hiding pachyderms.

  When we were alone once more with our client, who was reaching th
e end of his tether, I explained as best I could that the painting in question was the work of my mother-in-law who just happened to be called Joana Mir. I guessed the MP was thinking we’d used his office to keep a fake or stolen painting out of sight. I don’t know if he found my explanation at all convincing.

  “I didn’t really believe it was a Mir,” he finally admitted. “But that girl thinks it is ...” he said looking anxious.

  “Don’t worry,” said Borja. “An expert won’t certify that it’s a Mir because it isn’t.” And he added in a shocked tone of voice: “I don’t know what universities are coming to! ... Fancy not being able to distinguish a Mir from an amateur’s work! ...”

  “Yes, I don’t know what young people today learn at university ...” I said. Lluís Font looked at us without blinking. “And these young graduates end up joining the police! . . .”

  Borja used the opportunity to side with the MP.

  “This country’s going down the drain. All this autonomy and sodding—”

  But Lluís Font wasn’t in the mood for political chit-chat. It was clear his mind was on other worries and the last thing he wanted was to tangle with Borja in an argument about blueprints for nation-states.

  “What about that other matter you wanted to tell us about?” I asked changing the subject.

  “I don’t know about you, but I need a whisky.”

  Before we could respond, Mr Lluís Font got up and, with a glance, invited us to follow in his wake.

  16

  He steered us to a small, elegant and expensive bar. We sat over in a corner and my brother and the MP both ordered scotch. At that time of day, exhausted as I was by our journey, I opted for whatever they had on tap. However, they only served bottled and imported beer and the waiter scowled at me.

  “The police found something in my house,” Lluís Font announced after downing a big gulp of whisky.

  Borja and I were all ears.

  He went on: “It is,” he paused, “ a rather delicate matter.”