A Not So Perfect Crime Read online

  From the moment Borja discovered he suffers from severe colour-blindness we agreed a secret code. When his disarray threatens to betray him, I scratch my nose discreetly if the colour he can’t recognize is red, while if it’s green, I ostentatiously put my hands in my pockets. I sometimes simply make an innocent remark to alert him, and, ever since we’ve been partners, this has worked a treat because nobody, not even Merche, has noticed his strange sight. On that occasion, it had gone completely from my mind and I’d not given him the agreed signal when we talked about Lídia Font’s shoes.

  “While we’re about it,” I added. “Montse said her sister is coming to the party. Unaccompanied.”

  “I feared as much. Will there be a big crowd?”

  “A good few, apparently ... Naturally lots of Montse’s friends, from her Centre.”

  “So we’ll end up plastered.”

  “More than likely. Lots of alternative this and that but they all like a good piss-up ...”

  “So be it,” he said shrugging his shoulders, “I hope Lola doesn’t have too many high hopes.”

  Montse had long been angling to pair off Dolors, Lola from the day she separated, with my business partner. Dolors, I mean Lola, is Montse’s younger sister, and like us they don’t at all look alike. Lola lives in the Born district near the church of Santa María del Mar and likes to design and produce jewellery, handbags and hats, although I don’t imagine she earns enough to live from this activity. She prefers a very youngish, rather exotic style of designer gear, and I have to admit she’s good-looking. Her hair is short, often dyed a different colour, and she wears square, paste spectacle frames. She rounds it all off with big necklaces and earrings she herself designs, and usually applies a deep red lipstick to her fleshy lips. She sometimes opts to dress in black and adopt airs from Greek tragedy that soon evaporate after a couple of drinks. She’s a heavy smoker and often gives the impression she’s a marble short.

  “I’m sorry,” Borja apologized, “I just can’t stand her.”

  Lola had been divorced for four years (her former husband, who’s an architect, left her for a nymphettish draughtswoman), and ever since she has drifted from one shoulder to another, or, to be more precise, from one bed to another and from one disappointment to another. Fortunately, as her ex was well heeled, she got a hefty divorce settlement. She liked her brother-in-law Borja, and Monte was convinced they’d make a perfect item. I thought she was wrong.

  “Why not bring Merche along?” I suggested half-heartedly. “You don’t need to say anything about her being married.”

  If Lola saw him in other female company, she’d probably desist.

  “No way,” he cut me short. “Come on, put your coat on and let’s get moving. I parked the Smart outside, and I don’t know about you, but I need a coffee before I can look Mariona’s martinis in the eye. Bugger this weather ...”

  We went to the bar on the corner to warm up and kill time smoking and drinking coffee. Borja used the time to flick through the society pages of the ABC and I got depressed reading about the disasters afflicting the universe. After a while, we got into the Smart and headed towards our friend’s mansion. We had to drive round a while to find a parking space, but it was barely a couple of minutes past one when we strolled up to the front door of the hugely rich and most distinguished Doña Mariona Castany.

  6

  My brother’s aristocratic friend lived alone in one the few modernist mansions still surviving intact on the Bonanova in the upper reaches of Barcelona, with a chatterbox Argentine butler and a shy Philippine maid who never said boo to a goose. It was a vast, tastefully and expensively decorated pile you reached via a splendid garden that extended behind the house into a small wood. An enormous bougainvillea spread over one of the walls of the house that, in summer and autumn, was covered in purple flowers that gave the small palace a fairy-tale aura. A thick vegetal tapestry of dark-leaved ivy, as old as the house, completely isolated the mansion and the garden from the outside world.

  Doña Mariona Castany had inherited the house and the whole family fortune on the death of her father. The one and only heir to a patrimony that the next five generations of Castanys would be hard put to pare down – not for want of trying – she refused to contemplate the sale of her palatial abode, even though estate agents were continually knocking on her door and offering veritable fortunes. In another era, the exclusive parties and concerts she held there were the envy of her female friends and enemies, but, ever since her husband died, Mariona hadn’t staged a single event. She’d say sadly she thought it would be in bad taste.

  She’d been widowed seven years ago. Her three daughters, in their day excellent catches that every fortune-hunter in the city chanced their luck with, were now married and had given Mariona six grandchildren – two a-piece – and three less wealthy but quite arrogant sons-in-law she only tolerated in small doses. Apart from being incredibly wealthy herself, Mariona was intelligent and didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  When we were approaching the door, we passed a familiar face beating a quick retreat. He didn’t look up but grunted a polite “Good day”.

  “I recognize that face,” said Borja as the man walked off.

  “Of coursed you do. It’s Enrique Dalmau, the politician. You must have seen him on the telly.” And I added, “He’s an MP, and belongs, by the way, to the same party as our client.”

  “I see ...”

  Marcelo, the Argentine butler, greeted us as effusively as ever and accompanied us to a spacious drawing room adorned with art-deco lamps and furniture, every one an original. Mariona was waiting for us reclining on a kind of settee, in a rather theatrical pose. She was more or less the age our mother would have been, a well-preserved sixty-five year-old, and she’d adopted Borja as if he were a nephew. Borja would sometimes call her “Aunt Mariona” half affectionately, half in jest. I didn’t dare, but Borja would not just peck her on the cheek (I limited myself to a respectful, firm handshake) but venture a gallant, sensual kiss to her hand too.

  She was tall, thin and dynamic. Her silvery, almost white curly hair reached down to her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkled as she chain-smoked Winstons. Now and then she gave a little cough. Her narrow, pointed nose, accustomed to exquisite fragrances as well as to the two packets of cigarettes she polished off daily, supplied an aristocratic air that snub noses, for whatever reason, never do. She wore the latest fashions which made her look more youthful, although she had the good taste at her time of life not to attempt to wear anything low-cut. Mariona Castany had money and class. That day she’d donned stiletto-heeled black boots to highlight her long legs, tight-fitting leather trousers and a short-sleeved white T-shirt with the word “Chanel” splashed at breast level in letters of mother-of-pearl sequins that glinted like fish scales. Her dark skin contrasted with her pale pink lips and nails. It wasn’t hard to imagine Mariona in her heyday driving men crazy.

  “So Lídia is two-timing her MP ...” she smiled as she served up our dry martinis, adding a few drops of gin and a slice of lemon peel.

  “I never said we’re working for her husband,” replied Borja, winking at her after he’d sipped his martini. “I only asked you what you know about Lídia Font.”

  Doña Mariona Castany is the kind of woman who knows the low-down on everyone. She and my brother met by chance at the opening of a Tàpies Foundation exhibition and soon became friends. Mariona’s positive that one of the girls at the exclusive Swiss finishing school where she studied was Borja’s fictitious mother. It turned out that one of the Spanish pupils was from Santander. Mariona couldn’t recall her surname. She was a María Eugenia and, from that day on, Borja’s mother assumed that name.

  “What a pity your mother died so young ...” she sometimes tells him. “It’s not as if we spent a lot of time together, because my parents soon brought me back to Barcelona, when they saw that living away from home didn’t suit me, but obviously I knew her. She was so shy, such a shrinking ...”
r />   “Yes, she was ever so,” Borja always replies, remorsefully but never blushing. “She didn’t enjoy the school either and soon returned to Santander. She would reminisce about you ...”

  Mariona and my brother finally created the fiction that she and the so-called María Eugenia had been good friends. After a few martinis Borja will sometimes regale us with anecdotes about the finishing school Mariona had previously told him and she laughs her head off. I suppose she clings to her relationship with Borja because he reminds her of her childhood.

  “This is Borja Másdeu, son of María Eugenia from Santander,” she explains when doing her introductions. “We studied together in a private college in Switzerland. Poor dear, she died very young at the age of forty. Cancer ...” And adds: “It’s as if Borja were a nephew of mine. Look after him, won’t you?”

  Mariona has opened many doors for Borja and is an endless fount of information, though I’m not sure she doesn’t smell a rat in relation to the tale of Borja’s mother. I get the impression she’s sufficiently intelligent, has the sense of humour and savoir-faire to follow his drift with a straight face and amuse herself into the bargain. We always have recourse to Mariona when we need to get the latest on the gossip circulating among Barcelona’s upper classes that constitute the fulcrum of her intense social life. But far from being a gossipmonger, she’s a past master in the art of chasing the latest news and putting two and two together. She’s discreet, well informed and efficient. At any given moment she knows what to say, how to say it and to whom. She’s up-to-speed on everyone’s ups and downs, but never one to run and pick up the phone and gossip with her woman friends when she’s just come across a juicy titbit. They say her discretion and advice have saved more than one marriage.

  “Mariona, we’d like you to tell us what you know about Lídia Font,” Borja asked her. “You do know her, don’t you?”

  “Do you know what you’re getting into?”

  Her question, expressed in a tone of voice that wasn’t at all innocent, alarmed us. All we wanted to know was what people were saying about our client’s wife on Barcelona’s upper side. What kind of person she was, whether she’d a reputation for having affairs with other men, whether she got on well with her husband ... If at the end of the day it was all down to infidelity and a jealous husband worried about his political future, as seemed to be the case, Mariona’s comment seemed quite uncalled for.

  “Yes, but do you know her?” Borja persisted.

  “Of course, I know her!” She sighed. “Do I have any choice? She’s one to look out for. Lídia is also a kind of second cousin of mine. Didn’t you know that?”

  We shook our heads and she sipped on her drink before launching into an explanation.

  “Do you see, I had a cousin on my mother’s side, who was older than me and rather dim-witted, and she had a daughter ... My cousin, poor thing, died quite young – she died from a broken neck one winter skiing in Cortina – and her husband, Esteve Vilalta, we called him Estevet, remarried, this time to Ernest Pou’s daughter, one of the Sabadell Pous, the textile manufacturers, when everyone thought she’d end up dressing saints in church – Rosa, I mean, the Pous’ daughter, because she was so wet and without a spark ... But who’d have thought it, she married Estevet, who now looked at her as if she were a supermodel, and they had another daughter, Lídia, although Rosa was getting on by this stage ... Obviously, in fact, Estevet and I aren’t family, but Lídia is a kind of second cousin, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” I replied trying to digest the whole story.

  “Properly speaking, there is no blood link, but given that Lídia is step-sister to my other niece, she is in a way, you know, what English people would call my second cousin-in-law ...”

  Borja interrupted her genealogical disquisition: “You must have things you can tell us,” he insisted. “I believe Lídia is married to a politician who’s now an MP. I bet she likes the busy social round.”

  Doña Mariona Castany smiled again, offered us a second martini and lifted a cigarette to her lips and waited for Borja to offer her a light. My brother was quick to show off the gold lighter Merche had given him for his birthday. After a couple of drags, Mariona settled down on the sofa, toyed with a cushion, and began holding forth.

  “Dear old Lídia is a nasty piece of work. And you know how I hate to run anybody down, but ...”

  “You know that nothing you tell us will go beyond these walls,” Borja assured her.

  “Yes, though everyone knows whatever I can tell you. Let’s see, where should I begin ... You could say Lídia is the sort that mistreats her staff and looks down on all and sundry. She doesn’t dare try that on with me, naturally ... She’s hoping one day she’ll wheedle me into letting her redecorate this old house of mine. She’s ambitious, much more so than her husband Lluís. And always has been.” Then added, as if confidentially: “When she was a youngster, she played that dirty trick on her step-sister Sílvia. The poor girl even attempted to commit suicide ...”

  “Good heavens!”

  “Lots of people are gunning for her, and lots try to keep out of her way. She has a vicious tongue on her ...” She paused, as if pondering what to say next. “I can only say that when she has something in her sights she won’t stop till she gets it. But you know what people are like. Everyone panders to her. Well, almost everyone ...” she smiled.

  “I see your cousin is not exactly your cup of tea,” I countered politely. “And as I don’t have the privilege of being your putative nephew, I’ll not probe any further.”

  Mariona Castany directed a second withering look at me that translated into “You idiot, how dare you interrupt me.” She’d aimed the first at my feet when she realized I was wearing dark shoes and light, though not white-coloured, socks. An unforgivable faux pas.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you ... She comes from a good family background obviously ... Her husband as well, I mean, in their case, neither married for money ... Of course they’re not the wealthiest couple in Barcelona, by a long chalk,” she added contemptuously.

  “She’s also clearly interested in politics,” interjected Borja.

  “Bah! She hasn’t the slightest idea about politics,” Mariona exclaimed, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s the limelight, not politics she’s after. She’s dedicated tooth and nail to ensuring her husband makes it to the Presidency of the Generalitat one day. Poor Lluís! He’s not what you’d call thick, but he’s hardly a genius.”

  “Well, that’s never been an obstacle to political success,” I suggested not at all maliciously.

  Both Mariona and Borja turned a deaf ear to my wit.

  “I imagine,” continued Mariona, “she already sees herself playing the role of first lady. Appearing in newspapers and magazines, organizing receptions, entertaining celebrities and bowing to the King and the Pope ... She excelled herself trying to wangle an invitation to the Prince’s wedding, because she apparently knows the Infanta Cristina. Failed in the attempt, obviously.”

  “Does she set her sights that high?” I enquired.

  “She’s not short of contacts. Her line of work – interior design – helps her to earn money and hobnob with the high society. She’s no fool.”

  “It’s clear she knows the design business and charges the earth,” said Borja trying to dig more dirt. “They say she’s got first-rate taste and knows a lot about painting.”

  “It would really be too, too much if she didn’t, given the sums she’s charging! With the budgets Lídia works with, anyone can have good taste,” she riposted, pretending to be scandalized and ignoring the subtle comment connecting Lídia Font and the world of fine art.

  “I’ve always thought good taste and elegance were at odds with money. That they’re something innate,” I said continuing on the same line that Borja had initiated. “Or so everybody says. Naturally artistic sensibility has to be cultivated, going to museums and art galleries ...”

  “Stuff and nonsense!
Good taste depends on your pocket. It’s a business, like any other. When they say that someone has good taste, it’s either because he’s rich or because he’s trying to ape the rich.” Our hostess still hadn’t bitten on the hook we were casting in her direction.

  It wasn’t the first time the conversation had drifted on to such issues. My brother’s friend liked to expatiate on her vision of the world and pontificate from her pedestal as the wealthiest of Catalan women. It is very simple according to her: the world is divided between rich and poor. The rich have enough money to follow their every whim, be it a Van Gogh, a house on the Riviera or a seat in Parliament. The rest of us are the poor. Mariona doesn’t distinguish between those who live in a cardboard box in the metro and those inhabiting six hundred square feet of real estate south of the Diagonal.

  “Look, Eduard,” she added, as if clinching the issue, “the only thing elegance is at odds with is poverty.” And instinctively, but this time not all maliciously, her eyes focussed back on my shoes.

  Borja decided the time had come to take a risk and put his trust yet again in the discretion of this woman who was an institution in certain spheres of city life. He cut to the quick.

  “But does your cousin have a reputation for acting like Mata Hari? I’m asking whether she’s happy with her husband,” he asked lowering his voice.

  “Do you see, Borjita? I was right first time! I knew it had to do with bed-hopping!”

  “So she does have her lovers,” suggested Borja.

  “Well, the fact is she’s not famed as a man-hunter,” Mariona admitted reluctantly. “A nasty upstart, certainly, but no affairs have been registered so far as I know. And that’s quite odd ... I’d always assumed her to be quite frigid,” and then she whispered: “Poor Lluís always looks as if he gets poor service. In any case, if Lídia does have a lover out there, she’s very discreet. But I’ve not seen her for some time. I can ask after her, out of casual curiosity, you know,” she said condescendingly.