A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

“Well, then? What is your problem?” asked Borja in that mellifluous tone he sometimes uses.

  “What is at issue is that the portrait ...” the MP wavered once more. “I mean to say the woman modelling is my wife,” he drawled, measuring his words and trying to conceal his unease at his confession.

  “Ah! ...” we both exclaimed in unison.

  Borja and I looked at each other askance. From the way our client was behaving, there was every possibility we had another case of infidelity on our hands. That I find particularly distasteful.

  “Are you suggesting the portrait of your wife in the painting isn’t what you were expecting? That you’re not happy with it?” asked Borja egging him on.

  “No, in fact ... do you see,” the MP finally decided to get to the point, “I had no idea my wife had been modelling.” He paused. “I mean I was very shocked when I came across a portrait of my wife in an exhibition,” he finally confessed.

  “Perhaps there’s nothing more to it, and your wife just wanted to give you a surprise ...” Borja suggested warily. “Perhaps she had it in mind as a Christmas present.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said shaking his head. “I discovered the painting by chance in a catalogue I receive through the post (fine art is a hobby of mine and I subscribe to some gallery publications). It seems the portrait in question was shown in an art-show held in Paris, and indeed the painting merited a whole-page reproduction in the exhibition catalogue.”

  “You don’t say!” whispered my brother.

  “The artist,” the politician added, ignoring his reaction, “is a Catalan painter who is well-known to connoisseurs. From what I have read, apparently he now lives in Barcelona, but that is all I do know. I don’t think he is exhibited much here ... But of course,” he shifted uneasily on the sofa and caught his breath, “you can imagine how astonished I was to discover Lídia in one of his paintings ...”

  And then he added: “Worst of all, the paintings went on show in a very famous Paris art gallery!”

  The MP was furious and his face gradually reddened beneath the fake brown veneer. With good reason. There are many ways you can find out about your partner’s infidelities, but this had to be one of the most original. Borja saw I was making every effort not to laugh and directed one of his thunderous looks at me.

  “I expect it isn’t her. There’s probably just a great similarity between that model and your wife,” my brother suggested very plausibly.

  That seemed like good common sense. I’d also thought we might be dealing with a husband who was at once jealous and paranoid. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “No, and no again,” the politician shook his head. “Apart from the fact that I recognize the shoes (my wife likes to wear the most expensive, extravagant shoes) the woman in the painting is also wearing a gold necklace she is very fond of. Also,” he explained, “Lídia happens to have a small scar on her neck, from an operation she underwent when she was young, and this necklace is the one she puts on every day by way of camouflage. Naturally, she owns more expensive necklaces, but that’s beside the point. It is true that the dress the woman in the painting is wearing is quite unfamiliar. It is dark-coloured and must be from a year or two back, because Lídia never wears a dress more than once or twice ... So do you see,” he sighed, “I am not in the slightest doubt but that it is her.”

  “Yes, the shoes could be a coincidence, but the necklace would be taking it too far,” I agreed. “Are you sure it is the same one?”

  “Absolutely. There are three fine gold threads that intertwine. The clasp is a flower of turquoise stones with a small ruby set in its centre. It is a very special necklace her father commissioned from a famous jeweller. An exclusive design, you understand.”

  “Naturally. Have you spoken to your wife about the painting?” Borja enquired.

  “No, I have said nothing as yet. I didn’t dare, in case it turned out to be a simple misunderstanding,” he said rather nervously. “The painting is in my office. Lídia doesn’t even know that I know of its existence. What really concerns me is whether she is having an affair with the painter ...” he touched his chin. “I expect you are aware of the position I hold in my party and my responsibilities in parliament ... I mean, apart from any personal upset it would cause, you must understand it will not do me any favours at all if the story starts to leak out that Lídia ... Not that someone has painted a portrait of her, do you see, but that ...”

  “I understand,” Borja nodded understandingly, so Mr Font MP realized there was no need to linger on details that might be most humiliating.

  What passed through both our minds was what anyone might have concluded: no doubt his wife was finding an outlet for her frustrations with a younger man, an artist who devoted time to appealing to her vanity by painting intimate portraits like the one in question for who knows what in return. The worst of it was that she hadn’t found a way to be sufficiently discreet in order to keep her husband in the dark about her little affair.

  It was plain that what most terrified the politician was the possibility of scandal. If it emerged that the wife of a future candidate to the Presidency of the Generalitat was carrying on with another man, and what’s more that there was an incriminating work of art out there, it would soon signal curtains for his political ambitions. Being the leader and public face of a long-established conservative Catholic party didn’t marry too well with having a spouse who was unfaithful. In the event, the scandal would no doubt be hushed up. It is still possible in this country, in some cases and under certain circumstances, to prevent such incidents from surfacing, but the final result would be no different. Perhaps there wouldn’t be any big newspaper splashes, but there would be a steady drip feed of gossip and rumour leading to telephone calls and pressure behind the scenes. And that wouldn’t stop till the cuckolded husband ceased to be the visible face of a party that was inspired in equal parts by Vatican ideology and the most vicious variety of neo-cons.

  Mr Lluís Font MP asked us whether we minded if he smoked, lit a cigarette and continued with his tale.

  “A couple of weeks ago I sent my secretary to Paris and got him to buy the painting discreetly. The offending object cost me 18,000 euros ...” he remarked visibly annoyed. “Take a look at this. I have bought you the exhibition catalogue. You will find all the details of the painting here,” he explained as he opened the catalogue and showed us the portrait. “Of course, if you want a closer view, you can come to my office on the Diagonal, by Via Augusta,” he added.

  Borja and I glanced at the catalogue and stopped at the page with the portrait of our new and distinguished client’s wife. The painting in question was an oil on canvas, signed by one Pau Ferrer and measured twenty inches by twentyeight. It portrayed a woman between thirty-five and forty-five years of age, in my estimation, who was contentedly sprawled over a dark red armchair. She wore a dark, possibly black dress, with a generously low-cut, seductive neckline above which the aforementioned necklace glittered. You could see the clasp, a flower of turquoise stones set with a small ruby. Her shoes certainly caught your attention. They were bright red, low-heeled with ankle-straps and very fetching. They would have had pride of place in any shoe fetishist’s wardrobe and it suddenly struck me that perhaps our honourable member of parliament was one such. At least, I thought rather enviously, he had the wallet for it and a wife ready to comply. I’d never be able to persuade my Montse to wear heels, let alone see her spend a month’s wages on shoes like that.

  I revisited the portrait. The woman was on the blonde side, and, although it had possibly seen the inside of an operating theatre, her nose displayed a degree of distinction. Dark, almost black eyes appealed languorously and seductively to the onlooker. Long, slightly unkempt hair fell over the dipping neckline. Her lips pouted, a dark, dark red, though not vulgarly so. It was a mouth inviting a kiss.

  There was no landscape or interior you could identify. The background to the scene was a mass of shades of grey splashed with
a few brushstrokes of blue. I don’t know much about painting, and although I thought the portrait was pretty good, I found it quite disturbing. The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, I had to admit, but the expression on her face was strange in a way I couldn’t explain and it made me feel uneasy. The way she looked out, intense and distant, was the central focus of the painting. I’ve no idea why but I could only think it was a blank look, as if no real life inhabited those eyes when the artist painted them. They seemed – and I sensed that immediately – like the eyes of a dead woman. Montse would have called it a kind of premonition. I’m still not sure whether the chill running down my spine was triggered by looking at the portrait I found quite sinister, or by the frozen polar climate engulfing our office.

  “Your wife is very beautiful,” Borja murmured politely.

  “Yes, Lídia is still a very splendid woman. Perhaps too much so ...” Lluís Font MP paused and extinguished his cigarette. “Look, I just want you to find out what the hell is going on. And I need to know as soon as possible.”

  “Leave it with us,” suggested Borja. “What’s your wife’s name? She’s Lídia? ...”

  “Lídia Font, of course. Her maiden name is Vilalta, if that is what you mean.”

  I was quite familiar with the surname of Vilalta. If I made an effort I’d surely remember why.

  “How does your wife fill her time?” I started on my routine questioning. “Does she work? Travel a lot? Belong to any association? Follow a set time-table?”

  “Lídia is an interior designer. She spends her day visiting furniture and design shops. She also belongs to a club that’s close to home, where she spends a lot of her time ...” And, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “She also likes to do charity work and that kind of thing. She says it’s good for my career ... I mean,” he said hurriedly correcting himself, “that is what people in our position should do to help others.”

  And he added: “She is ambitious. Perhaps even more so than me. That’s why I am surprised she has got mixed up in an affair that might ruin my career. Lídia knows that whatever damages my prospects, will also damage hers. We have always prided ourselves on working as a team!” he declared forcefully.

  “I need to put a question to you, but I’m not sure how ...” Borja hesitated. It was always a touchy issue, but one you had to broach in certain circles. “Does your wife belong to the Opus Dei? Does she belong to one of those religious groups? ... I mean do the two of you ...”

  The question concerned the activities and connections of the said Lídia as much as her husband’s. We knew from experience that it’s better not to tangle with Opus members (or even worse with the whats-its of Christ). They are powerful and, since they have faith, they have no scruples, the one clearly cancelling out the other. Although Borja is rightwing, he particularly loathes this kind of fanatic.

  “We do not belong to the Opus and are not Legionaries of Christ ...” our MP shook his head, somewhat offended. “Of course, we are Catholic, but not that kind. I suppose,” he allowed, “ it is one of the reasons I’m still not our party’s official candidate.”

  “But everything points to you being selected this time round. They don’t seem to have many options,” I said, remembering what I’d read a few days ago in the press. “When does the committee meet to vote on the candidate? Soon, I expect? The elections are almost upon us ...”

  “After the holidays,” he confirmed. “Pressure has been brought to bear from some quarters, but I expect I shall be elected.” And then added, remembering why he’d come to see us. “If all this doesn’t get in the way, naturally ...”

  “No reason it should,” my brother pronounced. “I must thank you for being so frank. It makes our life so much easier. We’ll set to work immediately and will keep you informed.” Borja paused and cleared his throat. “Well, we shall need a modest ...”

  “Of course, of course, I had anticipated paying you an advance,” the MP took a chequebook and a gold Parker from his topcoat pocket. “Will 3,000 cover it?”

  “Our advance is always 5,000,” lied Borja.

  “Not bad ... that’s more than half a million pesetas! ...” spluttered our putative client. No matter he was a rich man. Filthy lucre is always filthy lucre.

  “If it’s not convenient ... We can settle later,” waxed a seemingly indifferent Borja. “We’re in no rush.”

  Our client seemed slightly put out and I felt a small surge of panic. Of course we were in a rush: we were both broke! Borja had surpassed his own arrogance by asking for so much, though I’d got used to my brother’s swagger many moons ago. I’ve never understood how he can uphold the notion he has no money worries when he’s without a cent to his name, and I’m still surprised how his insouciant manner always gets him his way. I sweat, stammer and go red in the face, and that’s why I prefer to keep my mouth shut when it’s time to talk money.

  “Who do I make the cheque out to? In your name, Mr Masdéu?”

  “No, ‘to the bearer’. In confidential matters, ‘no names, no traces’ is always my line ...”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” came the reply. You could see from a mile off that he was lying. “Of course I can settle in cash, if you prefer ...”

  “Even better.”

  Lluís Font took an envelope from his topcoat pocket and placed on the table, one on top of another, 100 and 500 notes to a grand total of 5,000 euros. It still left a good wad in his envelope.

  “Don’t imagine I always carry so much money on me,” he explained. “I just happened to collect in an old debt today ...”

  “Of course, of course,” nodded Borja following his drift.

  For the last three years the only money my brother and I had ever seen was what lawyers, notaries and banks like to call “black” money. We don’t worry because it saves us the bother of having to justify to the Revenue income from an enterprise that doesn’t exist.

  “I expect results soon,” he said returning the envelope to his topcoat pocket.

  “And I expect, sir, to have something for you in a couple weeks,” Borja reassured him, and I noted how, perhaps because he was an MP, my brother didn’t dare speak to him in a more familiar tone as he usually would. “I suppose it would best if we called you on your mobile, as soon as we find something?”

  “If I don’t answer, it will be because I am in committee or in a debate. Leave a message and I will return your call as soon as I can.” And he added, half-heartedly: “It may all be a misunderstanding ...”

  “I’m almost sure that’s right,” nodded Borja. “But you’ll feel much better when we’ve got to the bottom of it all. Sometimes women do strange things to draw attention ...”

  “Very strange things indeed!” I corroborated, knowing full well what he was referring to.

  “Have you any more questions for me?” it was obvious the MP was keen to leave our office.

  “What’s your wife’s schedule like?” I asked. “I mean when does she usually leave home and so on? ...”

  I’m generally the one who sees to the more prosaic questions, because my brother Borja forgets the small details the moment he’s pocketed the readies.

  “She usually leaves the house at around ten to go and see her shops and suppliers. It’s another matter in the afternoons. She goes to the hairdressers, the gym, meets with friends ... At least, that is what she tells me. As I divide my day between Parliament, the party and my office, I’m never at home ...”

  “Very well, very well we’ll see what we can find out about the portrait painter and from Monday will start trailing her.” Borja concluded.

  “Do whatever is necessary, but don’t feel you have to inform me of every step you take. The fact is I am not overjoyed by the idea that I’m arranging for you to spy on my wife. Above all,” he said emphatically, looking down, “be discreet.”

  “Don’t worry on that front,” Borja assured him. “We know what we have to do and how we have to do it.”

  Even after he’d
related the embarrassing story of his wife’s likely infidelities and the lethal impact they might have on his career, Lluís Font MP didn’t seem any less powerful. He had no doubt found it a struggle to take this step and put his fate in the hands of complete strangers, but I couldn’t decide whether he was merely worried by the prospect of a scandal or was genuinely jealous. Did the MP love his wife or was it just one more marriage of convenience? He had possessed the necessary cool or sang-froid not to put his wife on the spot and demand she explain the painting, which would have been his most obvious option. At least, that’s what I would do with Montse if I ever found myself, improbably I hope, in similar circumstances. But there is no doubt, as Borja keeps telling me, that life north of the Diagonal is very different to the life that most of us mortals lead.

  We bid the MP farewell like the competent professionals we are not, as we tried simultaneously to suppress the glee sparked by the sight of the small bundle which Borja had hurriedly tucked into his pocket: what was an annoying hiccup for Lluís Font MP brought salvation to our domestic economies. Such is life. When I shook his hand, I noted how cold his hands were. Mine were frozen.

  Wow, 5,000 euros, more than 800,000 pesetas of old! Borja’s eyes gleamed with that special shine buffed by sight of a pile of banknotes. Borja has a really good nose for money; I can’t think where he gets it from.

  “Well, kid, that’s Christmas sorted!” he exclaimed euphorically when we were finally left by ourselves. And added, “And there’ll be more to come.”

  “Thanks. But for the moment, half will do me fine,” Borja had been so kind as to slip me the envelope with its full contents. “ You don’t have a cent either ... If you don’t mind, tomorrow morning, after I’ve been to the bank, I’ll go and buy Montse the earrings we saw. You know she hits forty the day after tomorrow.”

  “Of course! I’ve got a present for my leftist sister-in-law too ...” he laughed. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t keep going on about her hitting forty, particularly in front of her.”