A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

  I wondered if there was anything that wasn’t delicate in all this.

  “To do with your wife’s murder?” asked Borja.

  “Perhaps.”

  I glanced warily around to check no one near us was taking an interest in our table. The beautiful people sat near us were too preoccupied with themselves and their respective conversations. Everybody was whispering. Some were talking quietly on their mobiles while others leered over the woman sat next to them. Four aggressive executives were arguing over business matters while, on the adjacent table, some women dripping in jewels openly criticized their respective husbands. The waiters had trained their ears not to hear, or at least to simulate that they didn’t. The place reeked of good wine, American cigarettes and expensive eau de colognes.

  Lluís Font decided to tell us what hadn’t yet appeared in the press.

  “The police,” he began, “discovered that Lídia had kept files on various people in the house, containing, let’s say, compromising information ...” He paused and lit a cigarette. “I knew nothing about this, I promise you. If I had, I’d have got there before the police did.”

  Borja didn’t flinch at this new revelation. “You mean that there were people who had very good reason to eliminate your wife.”

  “Exactly. That’s what the police think,” he replied despondently.

  “What have they done with the files?” Borja continued.

  “They took them away for further examination.”

  He explained how his wife kept the reports in one of her desk drawers. The police had broke into them and scrutinized the contents. Apart from cash and papers related to her work, they found some files that were highly suspicious.

  “I deduce,” said Borja, adopting his newly cultivated detective tone of voice, “that basically they contained dirty linen ...”

  “You could put it that way.” The MP sighed. “Luckily there were only three files. But there were no names, only initials and they were quite short. I identified the initials that appeared on two of the files, but I don’t recognize those on the third. And I’ve been turning it over in my mind for days,” he admitted.

  “Whose initials have you identified?” I asked. “They might give us a lead.”

  “One set belong to Nieves Dalmau, the woman you probably saw in the Sandor. She’s Enrique Dalmau’s wife,” he clarified, in case we didn’t know. “We are the two candidates for the post of party secretary-general. He is more rightwing and is much more popular than me with some sectors of the party, especially outside Catalonia. But of course that’s not where the votes will be cast ...”

  “And the other files?”

  “One carries the initials “S.M.”. It contains a very short report which just says they hadn’t found anything. There wasn’t even an address or telephone number. Nothing to help identify the individual concerned, as with the others. I can’t think who it might be.”

  “It’s probably the man we saw in the Zurich,” I suggested, prompted by the association of ideas. “It really looked as if your wife, may she rest in peace, had thrown a bucket of icy water over that poor guy,” I said, warily remembering that exchange.

  “Yes, but the report said he was clean. It seems very unlikely that he was the murderer,” the MP retorted.

  “You’re quite right,” I had to admit. “What about the third file? You say you recognized those initials.”

  Lluís Font said nothing and looked down at the floor. I also noticed he was gritting his teeth.

  “It was about you, I suppose?” murmured Borja.

  “Yes,” he nodded laconically.

  Borja looked at me and sat up in his chair looking pleased with himself. He’d hit bull’s eye. Lluís Font finished his whisky and spoke even more softly.

  “The truth is that Lídia knew her sister and I ...” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “Good heavens!” I exclaimed, taking pains not to blurt out a “fuck” or a “shit” in such a refined watering hole.

  “This makes life even more complicated,” was Borja’s comment. “I suppose the police have now added you to their list of suspects.”

  “You suppose rightly. They seem to think the odds are now stacked against me,” he sighed.

  The three of us sat in silence and Borja ordered another round while we tried to fit that fresh information in the puzzle the case was turning into. The waiter made a mistake, and also brought me a whisky rather than another beer. I must have looked as if I needed one.

  “I take it that we can discount “S.M.”, whether it’s man or woman, since your wife had no way to blackmail him.”

  “Now just listen up, I didn’t kill my wife!” he whispered, clearly rattled. “I didn’t even know she suspected that Sílvia and I ... I give you my word.”

  I didn’t know whether to believe him.

  “The fact is, poisoning is a very female method,” noted Borja. “The police must know that.”

  As my brother doesn’t read the newspapers, he didn’t know that poisoning people is back in fashion with the Russians.

  “The thing is, I know Nieves Dalmau!” the MP confessed. “I find it hard to believe that her intellect is up to it. One has to plan a thing like that and have at least one accomplice. Remember how a man delivered the parcel and he didn’t belong to any messenger service; Yanbin is sure about that. And naturally it wasn’t Enrique because he’d have found disguising himself as a motorcyclist a little difficult. He weighs almost a hundred kilos!”

  “I expect she contracted somebody to do that. A professional,” I suggested.

  Borja shook his head.

  “We know,” my brother replied, showing the fruits of our week spent trailing the victim, “that Mrs Font didn’t have a bodyguard. A professional would have shot her in the middle of the street or put a bomb in her car. He wouldn’t have risked delivering personally a box of marrons glacés from one of Barcelona’s most famous patisseries with a poisoned chestnut and a few handwritten words on the kitschiest of Christmas cards.”

  “No, you’re right ...” I had to concede.

  Borja was becoming a dab hand at making deductions.

  Lluís Font was right: this was a delicate matter and got more complicated by the day. What had begun as innocent suspicion about a possible cuckolding was turning into a crime that was tricky for the police and juicy for the press, not to mention the fact that it could destroy our client’s political career. The way things were going, all we needed was Alfred Hitchcock mixing a cocktail behind the bar.

  “I’m very worried,” he confessed in a cold sweat. “If the police persist in thinking that I was involved in ... I need your help.”

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Borja solicitously.

  “I want you to go and talk to my contact. He will tell you how the investigations are going and what the police have been able to find out. He promised me he would. He owes me a favour.”

  He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and jotted down a name and telephone number. Borja put it in his pocket.

  “We’ll ring today and arrange to see him.”

  “One last thing: we’ll bury Lídia on Monday. The judge has at last given us permission to hold the funeral. I would like you to be there and keep an eye out for any strange behaviour. The murderer may come to the ceremony.”

  “You can rely on us,” said Borja. “Where will it be held?”

  “In the church in Sarrià, at five.”

  And he added apparently sincerely: “I swear I had nothing to do with Lídia’s death. I agree we weren’t the happiest of couples, but we had lives and interests in common ...”

  “The police may be thinking that a divorce wouldn’t have done your political career much good ...” said my brother, playing devil’s advocate.

  “If Lídia was upset because she knew I ... I mean we’d have found another way to sort that. We,” he was referring of course to people of his social class, “do not divorce just like that. The family is holy.”
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  “You bloody hypocrite!” I thought to myself. I’m not one to moralize, but at least I don’t put on a performance every Sunday at mass and wave little flags in the cathedral when the Pope pays a visit.

  “All the same, I don’t understand why in the circumstances you decided to contract us to investigate whether your wife was branching out ...” I responded provocatively.

  “I thought that if Lídia did find out some day that her sister and I were ... that is ... I mean”

  “That you thought it would be useful to have an ace up your sleeve?” said Borja trying not to sound too cruel.

  “Well, put that way it seems very unpleasant ... Sometimes when one has a certain standing, things are not so simple ...” he replied, looking for sympathy from my brother.

  One of my legs had gone to sleep from so much sitting and I could hardly feel my bum. It was past three o’clock and my belly had been demanding fodder for some time: I didn’t even want to think about the storm waiting for me when I got home a day later than I’d promised Montse. Luckily, our client decided to end the meeting there and then and asked for the bill. By this time, there was hardly a soul left in the bar.

  Once out in the street, our client insisted we should speak as soon as possible to his contact and keep him up-to-date with how the investigation was going. Whether or not he’d killed his wife, it was obvious the MP wasn’t willing to bet on a roll of the dice.

  17

  As the following day was Saturday and we were still worn out, Borja and I decided to give ourselves a day’s holiday. Besides it was New Year’s Eve, and Montse had been broadcasting for days that we’d have a special dinner party at home. She’d invited her mother who always fell asleep before the clock chimed twelve, her sister and two married couples of our age, her friends rather than mine. After a short restorative siesta, I spent the rest of the afternoon doing penance helping her in the house. Luckily, the present I brought her from Paris – a very pretty, lilac silk shawl, that Borja helped me choose – and the promise that we’d both soon spend a long, romantic weekend there helped defuse her anger.

  “I think you’ve miscounted,” I told Montse as I was laying the table. “There’s a plate too many.”

  Borja, obviously. Lola had invited him. Merche would be eating grapes with her husband, to keep up appearances, so Borja was free. On the one hand, I was happy to see in the New Year at home with my brother, but on the other I worried about my sister-in-law’s reaction. Borja didn’t know, but Lola had renewed hopes regarding the feelings she aroused in my brother.

  The two appeared, very elegantly dressed, at nine-thirty sharp. Borja seemed rather tense and had brought a bouquet for Montse; Lola was also on edge although there was a big smile on her face. She was less made up than usual and looked really pretty.

  “At least take off your slippers and put your shoes on! ...” whispered Montse, who’d also dressed up for the occasion, while we headed to the kitchen to prepare the drinks.

  I took off my cords and checked shirt and put on something more stylish – though still no tie – in order to please my wife. The dinner was delicious and we had a wonderful time. Thanks to the good offices of the cava I managed to forget the complicated tangle embroiling my brother and me, even with him sat there opposite me and next to Lola. After choking on our grapes as we watched the clock strike twelve on Channel 3, we all rehearsed our New Year good intentions: I was set to give up smoking and Montse (who doesn’t smoke, or so she says) was going to be more patient and take life more philosophically. Borja declared that he would read the newspapers from time to time to find out what was going on in the world, and Lola promised she’d finally get round to throwing away all the clutter she’d accumulated at home (I don’t know whether Borja realized, but I saw this as her way of insinuating she was making room for the new clutter about to arrive).

  We enjoyed a peaceful soirée, the only moment of tension arising at four minutes past twelve when my brother’s mobile rang and he got up and went into the lobby to answer the call discreetly. Lola tried to ignore him, and Montse gave me the evil eye, as if I were to blame. Borja came back after a couple of minutes and explained quite naturally that it was his aunt from Santander who always called to wish him a Happy New Year. Neither Lola nor Montse nor I believed a word of it, but it was thoughtful of him to invent an excuse so Lola would feel less upset. Merche’s untimely call was all forgotten when Borja put his hand around her waist and said something to her that made her smile.

  Lola and Borja disappeared around half past one. Montse’s friends soon followed them. My mother-in-law was already asleep, and my wife and I went straight to bed. I slept like a log and the next day, when I woke up, it was gone twelve. Montse had been thoughtful enough not to wake me up.

  I heard nothing from Borja or Lola for the whole day. It seemed like a welcome burst of normality after a month beset by sudden surprises. We listened to the usual New Year Vienna waltzes on television – while I breakfasted, Montse and my mother-in-law ironed and folded clothes – and, just before two we all put our coats on to go out for lunch (thanks to the generous payments courtesy of Lluís Font we could allow ourselves that luxury this year). Later in the afternoon, the twins, keen to stake their independence, went to a friend’s house, while we accompanied my mother-in-law home and took Arnau to the cinema. On our return, Arnau soon fell asleep, and Montse and I frolicked on the sofa while we made plans for the Easter holidays, now that our finances seemed to be in a better state and the bills weren’t piling up.

  Only one episode with my mother-in-law slightly upset the New Year’s Day peace. It was just before we went out to eat, when the issue of the painting in the passage re-entered our conversation (the previous day we’d told her the frame had broken and it was being repaired). Joana hadn’t swallowed this and I could hear her fussing as she walked by the empty wall on her way to the kitchen. Hoping to avoid any awkwardness I mentioned casually the way her initials, J.M., happened to coincide with the famous painter’s. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.

  “Of course I knew!” she said, raising her voice in a mildly surprised tone. “Why do you think I sign my paintings like that?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked not sure where this was all heading.

  “Well, you know, I imitate Joaquim Mir’s signature!” she said, as if it were obvious.

  My heart almost gave up on me. I don’t know if I went white or red, but I was baffled for a moment trying to pretend I’d not heard what I’d just heard. I had no desire to deal with the consequences of what my mother-in-law was insinuating, but finally I took a deep breath and asked her: “What do you mean ‘I imitate Joaquim Mir’s signature’? You aren’t suggesting ...”

  “Well,” she started, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, “I didn’t know how to sign with a paint brush ... And as our initials coincide and the picture I gave you is a copy of one of his ...”

  “The picture is what?!” I exclaimed.

  “But I told you ...” she protested. “You never listen to me ...”

  My mother-in-law sighed deeply and looked at me as if I wasn’t right in the head.

  “We once went to the museum in Montserrat with the people from the academy” – she was alluding to the art workshop in her neighbourhood, where she’s been going twice a week ever since she was widowed – “and I bought a postcard of one of his pictures. Naturally, as the postcard was very small, I couldn’t make an exact copy, but I got his signature from the big poster in the academy.” And she added, “I did practise a bit though, you know, because I wanted it to look right.”

  “The last straw,” I thought as I imagined the little scene there’d be when I recounted this surreal mess to the Honourable Lluís Font MP.

  Nonetheless, after the initial shock and thinking it over for a few seconds, I decided not to give too much importance to my mother-in-law’s confession. I reckoned that any art expert would realize that the canvas painted by Joana was no Mir,
however well she’d imitated his signature. It was absurd: completely ridiculous. As I could do nothing about it right then, I put Joana’s surprise revelation to the back of my mind and concentrated on celebrating New Year’s Day like a normal human being, that is, by stuffing my gut in a good restaurant with my wife, my mother-in-law and the children. The following day I’d have to go to the funeral of a woman I didn’t know, and that prospect hardly thrilled me, then on Tuesday we had to meet a Mosso d’Esquadra off the record following the instructions of an important politician who had perhaps done his wife in and who’d had a painting confiscated – a painting that bore the fake signature of a famous painter. I waxed nostalgic momentarily for the uncomplicated life I’d led as a boring bank clerk, until I observed Montse humming as she got ready to go out, and thought I’d not seen her looking so happy for years, with her plait down to her waist, her long skirt and first wrinkles, about which she had no great complexes. I asked Joana to look after Arnau for a while, went into our bedroom and drew the curtains. Before Montse had time to put her tights on, I slowly locked the door and slipped them off her, giving her no time to protest.

  18

  The rich are even lucky with the weather, I remember musing while I was eating breakfast and looking out of the window to see what kind of day was in store and deciding what clothes to put on.

  The day had dawned with a cloudy sky the morning of Lídia Font’s funeral, but it was a light grey that didn’t threaten to unleash a storm. It drizzled from time to time, enough to persuade people to take their umbrellas out, but not enough to spoil anyone’s hair. It was a sad, tranquil day, the weather best suited to funerals, I reckon. A sunscorched day doesn’t really go with this kind of ceremony and a black stormy sky can transform a burial into a much more macabre ceremony than is reasonable. The day we buried my father-in-law, may he rest in peace, it chucked it down and there was thunder, lightning and a hurricane that turned the procession to the Montjuïc cemetery into a grim queue of cars and taxis in which the mourners cowered, sheltering from the ravages of the blackened sky. The day we buried Aunt Júlia, on the other hand, fell in August, the sun shone very brightly and the ceremony was rather lacklustre because as soon as it was over we all rushed to the nearest bar for drinks to avoid dehydrating and ended up having aperitifs, with olives and tapas. That’s why I reckon wintry weather is much more appropriate: a solemn image of black umbrellas being raised over dark suits, but not a violent downpour forcing people to run hither and thither, and no bearers rushing to place the bier in the hearse as a curtain of water descended, afraid the coffin might slip from their hands and slide along the ground (which must have happened more than once).