A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

  2

  It all began one morning early in December when we were breakfasting on coffee and croissants in the San Marcos café in the High Street in Sarrià. We hadn’t anything better to do and it was too cold in the office. I had just opened the newspaper when Borja’s mobile rang.

  “He didn’t say who he was, but he repeated the word ‘confidential’ at least eight times. I made an appointment for half-past four at the office,” Borja explained after he’d rung off, then added “You’d better smarten yourself up a bit. I smell a big fish.”

  “That would do us very nicely. Christmas is coming and Montse’s starting to kick up ...”

  “I told you not to worry. You’ll get your double bonus. When did I ever let you down?”

  It’s true. Ever since we became partners, some three years ago, Borja has never let me down. It’s as if he, not I, were the elder brother, even if there were only a couple of minutes in it. I don’t know how he manages but I always end up being paid something before the fifth of every month when our mortgage payment is due. I suspect that when he’s really at his wits’ end he gets money from Merche, his girlfriend, or from Doña Mariona Castany, who has become a kind of aunt to him, but I don’t dare ask. There are five mouths to feed at home, two belong to teenagers, and we can’t make it to the end of the month on what Montse brings in. I can’t allow myself the luxury of refusing Borja’s handouts, wherever they come from, usually a brown envelope stuffed with dog-eared notes.

  “You heard me, make yourself presentable.”

  “But I am really quite ...”

  “For the nth time, please wear your uniform.”

  What he calls “my uniform” is a dark grey Armani suit he forced me to buy (he was paying), a white shirt, also an Armani (I did the honours) and a tastefully striped silk tie my mother-in-law gave me for a birthday present, and which he approves of. It’s what I wear when we see clients or take a dip in the world of the wealthy.

  “And what will you wear?” I asked a touch sarcastically. “Will you dress up to the nines or say you’ve just come from the nineteenth hole?”

  Borja sometimes turns up to our appointments in sports gear (not tracksuits, you understand, but designer polo shirts, cotton trousers and deck shoes), his hair still wet, as if he’d just taken a shower, a big bag of golf clubs or tennis gear slung over his shoulder. I’ve never seen him in action (in fact, as far as I recall, when we were kids my brother detested sport) and I’ve never discovered if he really plays or it’s all a pose.

  “I’m still undecided,” he smiled. I knew he had something else on his mind right then: the advance we might extract. We finished our coffee, which had gone cold after so much chattering, and went our separate ways. It was almost midday and early, so I went home to eat, shower and change my clothes.

  My wife, Montse, is usually very busy at this time of day and never comes home for lunch. She used to work as a professional psychologist, in a state school in the suburbs of Barcelona. When Borja suddenly appeared and our life took a 360 degree turn for the better, Montse soon abandoned her post, which she was sick to death of after years of bureaucracy, threats and disillusion. She and two friends opened an Alternative Centre for Natural Wellbeing in the district of Gràcia, just by the plaça de la Virreina. My wife and her friends were lucky enough to find roomy but decrepit ground-floor premises at a rock-bottom rent since the floor above was home to two dozen or so squatters and their dogs. The trio spent thousands transforming what had been a rag-and-bone man’s shop into a space with the requisite New Age ambience, and I must admit they made it look nice and are doing pretty well. Against a backcloth of pastel shades, subdued lighting, ethnic music and scented candles, Montse and partners offer their female clientele a plethora of alternative therapies, from massages with unpronounceable eastern names and ecologically sound beauty treatments to techniques for defeating insomnia or flab. They also put on courses in yoga, Sanskrit and vegetarian cuisine and over the last few months have organized therapy sessions for smokers who want to give up (which Montse leads, though she herself is not yet an entirely nicotine-free zone). On Thursdays they put on literary get-togethers which usually involve performances by bards who self-publish with the help of a photocopier or by scraping together a public grant thanks to an uncle who works for the Generalitat, the Catalan government, and the gigs extend into the early hours once they transfer to one of the excellent tapas bars in the vicinity. At lunchtime, the Centre is usually going full tilt, so I grab a bite wherever I happen to be, often with my brother. On this occasion I had to come home to change my clothes. There was time enough to prepare myself a salad and a double-egg omelette, which I gobbled down with a couple of slices of bread smeared with tomato and a glass of beer, and have a short siesta and even read the Catalan version of El Periódico. (Borja expressly forbids me to carry this radical rag under my arm in the districts we normally frequent).

  I left home still feeling drowsy at three thirty. The sky was completely overcast and everything pointed to a storm, and that meant the streets would soon be clogged with cars and traffic lights would mysteriously break down. I’d forgotten my umbrella, but as it was getting late I resigned myself to getting soaked if there was a downpour. I had to wait almost fifteen minutes for a bus, but by a quarter past four I was nervously carrying out my duties in our office.

  I proceeded with our customary ritual and squirted around the secretarial perfume, knowing full well that later on Montse would smell the perfume, frown and interrogate me. Montse had become quite jealous, especially as I sometimes had to go out at night and didn’t get back till daybreak. Fortunately, by that time she’d also turned Buddhist and was being more laidback about life. Nevertheless, whenever she felt the need, Montse would swallow a couple of valiums to bolster her worldview.

  It was more than probable that Borja would show up a quarter of an hour late. Making clients wait, impatient people who were themselves usually very punctual, was his way of making them understand we had work coming out of our ears. In effect, at four thirty on the dot, the bell rang, and, as usual, I hurried to open the door. The door to the street was unlocked, as we have a concierge. The first thing I saw was our mysterious client’s sunglasses, which were obviously intended to hide his identity given that the sky was pitch-black and the stairs were a mass of shadows. When he took them off, I realized I’d failed to disguise my startled reaction. You bet he was a big fish; my clever brother’s nose had been on target! I had before me an MP, but not a second or third-rate backbencher, the kind who only warms his seat in parliament while his main contribution to democratic life is propping up the parliamentary bar and keeping liver disease specialists in clover. This man was one who liked to hold forth, hog the headlines and appear in football chat shows on television and radio. I recognized him immediately and prayed Borja would soon put in an appearance.

  “Good afternoon. Mr Masdéu, I presume?” he asked most politely.

  “Eduard Martínez, his partner, at your disposition,” I replied, holding out a hand and ushering him in.

  At first he hesitated, but then he crossed our threshold with considerable determination. Although I’m beginning to get used to such men of power, they still put me on edge, even when they’re the ones with the problem. When faced with their preening, overbearing manner I always feel like a fish out of water.

  “I had an appointment with Mr Masdéu,” he said rather uneasily, seeing I wasn’t the person he was expecting to meet.

  “Yes, but I’m au courant. Please do take a seat. My partner will be here shortly. He had an out-of-office meeting ...”

  At that precise moment the telephone rang on our non-existent secretary’s desk. I was expecting the call and picked up the receiver.

  “Oh, hello. That you? (...) Don’t worry, Mariajo isn’t here. If you remember, she had to take those documents to the lawyers (...) Yes, fine (...) OK. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  “That was him,” I explained. “He’ll be he
re in five minutes. He’s held up in a traffic jam ...”

  “Better if the secretary’s not here.”

  “She won’t be in this afternoon. We usually send her off on errands when we know we’re seeing someone who will prefer complete discretion,” I said without a single blush.

  It’s a lie I’ve rehearsed so often I’m beginning to believe it myself. Sometimes I have the eerie feeling this Mariajo really does exist.

  “What an excellent idea! Secretaries often say more than they should. Though, of course, there are always papers they can peek at ...” he said glancing quickly around.

  I assumed that was a subtle hint as to our methods of working and I reassured him immediately: “Oh don’t worry on that count! Mariajo never finds out anything that’s gossip-worthy. We in fact only employ her to see to the telephone and run the office ... Besides, I suppose you know we prefer paper-free procedures. Believe me, nobody will ever find anything of interest in this office.” Nothing could have been nearer the truth.

  I’d suggested he should sit on the sofa and could now see him looking out of the corner of his eye at our office doors. The moment had come to explain why I didn’t take him into more secluded surroundings rather than keep him in reception like a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman.

  “I do apologize. It’s all topsy-turvy in there. We’re painting and redecorating, and you know how these ...”

  “Oh absolutely. One knows when they will start but not when they will finish ...” he agreed half-heartedly, trying to respond politely to my small talk.

  “What’s more, it’s so cold ... and so damp ... The paint’s taking ages to dry.”

  “Yes, it is rather cold this December. Perhaps we might even have a white Christmas ...”

  “And Barcelona can’t cope with snow ...”

  “Oh absolutely. The city generates so much heat, the snow will never harden and is going to turn to dirty slush ...”

  It was clear the only conversation the man was prepared to pursue with me was weather-related. If Borja delayed much longer, we might get on to the latest Barça gossip, always a good time-filler. I suppose a professional sleuth would have used the time to make a few deductions to nonplus the new client, but I could think only of the obvious, that I was in the presence of an elegant, rather shy, high-society gentleman who was in a foul mood despite all his efforts to look the contrary. But, of course, this didn’t help. I was in no position to admit I’d recognized him, although I suspect that was precisely what he was thinking, and I didn’t dare talk politics or broach the reasons for his visit before Borja showed up. Thank God the telephone rang again to interrupt that derisory dialogue that was enhancing neither of our lives. This time it was my mobile.

  “I’m sorry,” I said taking it from my pocket.

  “Please feel free,” he replied visibly relieved.

  I switched it on and put the tiny apparatus next to my ear.

  “Yes? (...) How’s it going? (...) Seven point twenty-two? (...) Agreed, buy. (...) Fifteen thousand, right. No, our client agrees. (...) Yes, we’ve cleaned up this time. (...) Give me a ring tomorrow, won’t you? Goodbye.”

  These staged calls were also Borja’s idea. After hearing such an exchange, some customers would ask if we also dealt in investments and, occasionally, we’d extract another bundle of bin ladens, as people call them, those ever elusive thousand euro notes we invested on the Stock Exchange. Nothing too risky, to be sure: all very confidential and never any contracts or paperwork. We let them think that for a small commission they’d get a higher return on their money, particularly on the cash they kept undeclared in their desk drawers. It wasn’t true, but in worst-case scenarios the client didn’t earn anything. He recovered most of his investment, made no profit and asked no questions. When a gamble worked, we kept the crumbs.

  However, this time, our client didn’t bite. He was nervous, though it wasn’t undeclared funds that were apparently making him so edgy. I was about to initiate a conversation on Ronaldinho’s virtues and Puyol’s dedication when I heard the sound of keys being poked in the door. The room soon filled with a smell I found only too familiar.

  3

  “I am so sorry I’m late . . .” Borja apologized (in Spanish, to be on the safe side), after he opened the door with his own key. “I had a meeting in San Cugat and the traffic on the ring road was as impossible as ever ...”

  He was looking very distinguished in his stylish navy blue overcoat that would soon reveal a blue pin-stripe suit, a shirt with a thin blue stripe, the kind that comes with white collars and cuffs (the sort I really hate) and a buff yellow tie where ponies pranced.

  Before taking his overcoat off, he went over and vigorously shook our visitor’s hand. I felt he had somewhat overdone the eau de cologne. “Well? Have they finished yet?” he asked looking at me as he went to open the door to his office.

  “No, of course not. The painters aren’t done.”

  “Bloody painters!”

  “Perhaps you already know who I am,” interjected our client, showing signs of wanting to get down to business.

  “Of course,” I responded hastily before Borja put his foot in it. “Mr Lluís Font, Right Honourable Member of the Parliament of Catalonia. And who knows,” I added, trying to flatter, “perhaps one day President of ...”

  I only said that so Borja would understand the class of person we were dealing with. As he only takes the odd glance at conservative papers like El Mundo and ABC, he’s not very au fait with the ins-and-outs of the Catalan political scene, though I suspect he’s no better informed about the Spanish right. My brother justifies his zero interest by saying he finds politics boring and politicians much of a muchness, whether they claim to be on the left or right. On the other hand, if you ask him where Julio Iglesias is holidaying or what stage the Infanta Cristina’s pregnancy is at, Borja will give you chapter and verse.

  While Lluís Font MP and I were exchanging meaningless pleasantries about the weather, I had mentally tried to remember what I knew about the character now perching on our smartish Ikea sofa. The Right Honourable Lluís Font was one of two political leaders battling for the leadership of his party (I won’t say which, only that its Members of Parliament and councillors go to register their votes on the exclusive Avenida Pearson). It was very likely he would soon be put forward as a candidate for the Presidency of the Generalitat, although, the way things were going for his party in this neck of the woods, it was doubtful he would ever win the coveted title. He belonged to his party’s moderate wing and was reputed to be a prudent, judicious man. From what I’d been able to glean from the Spanish press, he wasn’t particularly popular with his own kind. It didn’t help him that he was a Barça fan, but it was common knowledge he had a first-class brain when it came to football despite the fact he’d never dabbled in real estate, unlike the Presidents of most top football clubs.

  He was slim, medium height and extremely refined. The dark grey bespoke suit he wore fitted him like a glove. His hair was on the fair side, and his skin displayed the same suspiciously dark sheen Borja was so proud of. He spoke reasonably correct Catalan, although clearly it wasn’t the language he felt most comfortable with. His eyes were brown, almost honeyed and stared out rather vacantly, but I suppose he wasn’t the fool some people liked to think. He didn’t wear prescription glasses and he reeked of one of those expensive, unmistakably male perfumes advertised on television when the holidays are upon us. He also reeked of money. He sported a gold Rolex, cufflinks and tiepin. Given the tout ensemble, I expect a lot of women would rate him a rather handsome middle-aged man.

  “In our telephone conversation,” he looked solemnly at Borja, “I mentioned that the matter bringing me here is strictly confidential. Some people have spoken most highly of you, Mr Masdéu, particularly of your discretion. I hope I can rely on you in this respect.”

  I noticed he was observing me out of the corner of one eye.

  “You can rely on me. And on Eduard, my par
tner. I suppose you’ve gathered we work together. I may be the more visible face of our firm, but you can trust my partner as if he were myself. In fact, Eduard and I are like brothers.” He smiled knowingly: “Don’t worry. Nothing we discuss here will go beyond these walls. Do tell us what the problem is.”

  “It is a painting,” Mr Font replied laconically.

  “One you want to buy or sell?” asked Borja matter-offactly.

  “Well, neither, really. It is ...” he hesitated before continuing, “... a picture I now have in my office that I bought a few days ago.”

  “Is it an antique? A collector’s item?” Borja was warming to the chase.

  “No, the painter is still with us.”

  “Then you think it’s a fake, perhaps stolen ...” ventured Borja, raising his eyebrows. The same question was on the tip of my tongue.

  “No, nothing of that sort ...” the MP cleared his throat. “The painting is genuine and I purchased it legally through a dealer.”

  It was obvious he found it difficult to explain himself and was getting really agitated. We needed get to the point as soon as possible, because our office heating didn’t work. The wrought-iron radiators looked a treat but they are also part of our act and my feet were freezing. I guess his were too.