A Not So Perfect Crime (10 page)

“Come on, it can't be such a big deal ...”

“Not such a big deal? Do you mind telling me why you decided to hop into bed with Lola? Do you know what that means, what she now expects from you, and worst of all, from me?”

“Come on, Eduard, Lola and I weren't born yesterday ...”

“Right, you're old enough not to shit your pants!”

I left it at that. We were driving up Mandri and Borja was going more slowly than usual. It was only twenty to ten and I was afraid we'd miss Lídia Font driving out of her garage. It would be the last straw if that happened on our first day tagging behind her.

While Borja drove and I bit my tongue, the sun had time to put in an appearance among the clouds and I noted it was a cold but magnificent day. Nonetheless, my bad temper was far from going away. Borja could see that and tried to justify himself.

“You know what happened when we left your place,” he said keeping his eye on the road ahead, “Lola asked me to accompany her home in a taxi. I couldn't refuse. You know I'm a gentleman in such circumstances. And then she insisted I went up and insisted I had a drink. It was very late, as you can imagine. And one thing led to another ...”

Borja looked rough. He didn't look as if he'd had a good night's sleep. For my part, what with my hangover, the restless night because of Arnau and the anxiety prompted by this romantic tangle, I'd hardly shut my eyes.

“Do you want to know what it's all led to?” I exclaimed in a rage. “Can you imagine? Well, Lola now has high hopes, and why? You may ask! She and Montse spent the whole of yesterday interrogating me. What did I know about your private life and your girlfriend, what did I think about all this, what's Merche like, should Lola take the initiative and ring you ...”

“OK. So I'm fucked.”

“Yes. Well and truly. Couldn't have put it better myself.”

Lola had been eyeing up Borja for some time: you didn't have to be an Einstein to realize that. Not that I've anything against my sister-in-law, on the contrary, I like her, though I find her a bit scatty and there are days when her neuroses get me down. But she's a good sort, loves our children
and Montse is very close to her. In the end I've come to appreciate her, but it's one thing to be her brother-in-law and quite another, God forbid, to be her partner.

In fact, I think what most bothered me about this business was the fact Borja had always said Lola was the kind of woman he detested: a resentful feminist, fodder for the analyst and a Prozac junkie. He wasn't far wrong but it hadn't stopped him from licking his lips and jumping between the sheets with her.

Lola was thirty-eight, divorced and on the unstable side. She went from depression to euphoria as eagerly as a manic depressive or people who are too well-read on the subject. She'd been psychoanalysing herself for four years and going to parties and soirées in pursuit of the love of her life, none of which stopped her from spending her time criticising men and proclaiming how much she'd like to be a lesbian in order to bypass male tyranny. Ever since she separated from her husband she'd lived alone in a small flat on Princesa, near the Born, that was sometimes neurotically clean and tidy and at others a chaotic mess. As she was childless, she spent hours at our place. In the summer she spent a fortune on adventure tourism, trekking through exotic countries and then had family holidays with us and regaled our evenings with tales of her amorous feats between one gin and tonic and the next. Those trips didn't seem to do her much good and she'd invariably come back more depressed than usual.

According to Montse, she'd liked Borja from day one. She slunk behind him the whole party, as everybody noticed, and I have to agree that Lola looked stunning that night. She wore black from head to toe, and despite the cold outside, made sure her generously low neckline showed off her nipples whenever she leaned forward. She also wore long, square tortoise-shell spectacles (though I don't think my sister-in-law needed them) with lime-green frames and lenses, a mini-skirt and black calf-length boots that gave her a rather martial air.

I couldn't understand how Borja had fallen into the trap. Maybe it was the bubbly, or perhaps he didn't in fact dislike her as much as he pretended. Behind that outlandish façade might there lurk a pretty but gauche woman? Despite her sophisticated pose, I find her quite naïve.

The fact is that between the Saturday night party, Sunday hangover and Monday's spot of bother, Borja and I had had little time to prepare the case we'd been contracted to solve. We still thought this was an investigation that would be as easy as pie. If Lídia Font did have a lover, we'd nail him sooner or later. Our strategy would be the one we always use in such cases, although on this occasion we might have to be more prudent since Lluís Font was a politician in the limelight and his pocket could provide our livelihood for a good while yet. We'd tail his wife, try to muster maximum info on one Pau Ferrer and subsequently, relaxing by three shots of Cardhu, (in the Dry Martini or Gimlet on Santaló, I expect), relate to the MP the results of our enquiries, before suggesting a new line of investigation to be accompanied by a similar brown envelope stuffed with the readies.

We parked the Smart a couple of streets up from where our client lived, and waited in silence. As it's a one-way street, if Lídia Font were driving, we'd see her pass by. If she came out and walked in the other direction we'd have time to drive round and catch her on Bonanova. We didn't wait very long. At five past ten, the garage door opened and out came a small, spotlessly white Mercedes. Although the
windows were tinted, we knew that the striking Mrs Font was behind the wheel.

We followed her along the Diagonal as far as the plaça Francesc Macià. After leaving her car in a parking lot, Lídia Font walked towards carrer Calvet and went into a furniture and interior design shop. It was one of those expensive establishments typical of the area, brimming with objects I found to be in particularly bad taste. After parking our car, and in order not to catch her attention by standing and waiting for her in the middle of the street, we went into a small bar almost opposite the shop and ordered a couple of black coffees with a spot of milk.

“The woman's got class,” said Borja referring to Lídia Font. “You can't deny that. Whatever Mariona says, it's something you either do or don't have.”

“Yes, like an open cheque book in your handbag,” I retorted. “That's what decides it.”

“Hey, forget your prejudices.” Borja knew only too well what my opinion was of most of our clients. “What's more, she's good-looking.”

“I don't deny that. But I tell you she's not my sort.”

Half a minute earlier, trailing her along the street, we'd been able to scrutinize her. It was the first time we'd seen her in the flesh and Borja was right: Lídia Font had class, or style, or God knows what. At any rate, qualities most women in her position didn't have. Being who she was and having what she had, I recognized she seemed fairly sober, at least as far as her dress-sense went.

She was of slender build and walked confidently, like someone who knows she is somebody. Beneath the threequarter, off-white coat she wore unbuttoned we glimpsed a flecked dark grey trouser-suit and high-necked black sweater. She also wore black high-heeled bootees and was clutching one of those huge handbags that can hold half a lifetime. A mauve foulard reaching down to her knees and blonde hair added a touch of colour. It looked as if she was wearing everything for the first time. Borja and I agreed her appearance was both elegant and unobtrusive, as befits the wife of a future candidate for the Presidency. She had gathered her hair into a ponytail and wore enormous Hollywood-star style sunglasses.

She lingered more than an hour in this shop that sold expensive, horrific adornments. While we waited, neither Borja nor I mentioned the small matter of Lola. I'd no idea how I could fix things so as not to get on the wrong side of Montse and her sister. Apart from being my brother, Borja was my business partner, and I wanted to avoid at all costs having to suffer any fall-out from his fling with Lola.

Just after midday, Lídia Font left the shop with another woman and they both went into a cafeteria a few metres from the spot where we'd lodged. Borja and I left our bar, now immersed in a thick smoky haze, and found a table in the same cafeteria. When Lídia Font took her coat off, we both could testify that she wasn't a gram overweight and that Newton's law didn't seem to affect her. Everything was absolutely in its rightful place.

The woman accompanying her was in all probability the owner or manager of the interior design shop and she too wore expensive designer clothes, but her manner was more deferential. She ordered a coffee and gobbled down a croissant, while Lídia Font left her bottle of mineral water half-drunk and smoked a couple of cigarettes. They both talked about a wedding, we deduced of a mutual friend, and issues relating to some patterned cloth from a well-known
Italian company. Nothing caught our attention, although it was difficult to catch what they said when they started to whisper.

Just before one o'clock Lídia Font paid the bill and both women walked out of the cafeteria, kissed and bid farewell to each other. We were getting ready to fetch the Smart when Mrs Font passed by on her way to plaça Francesc Macià. At that time of day, the Diagonal was packed with cars, pedestrians and a few rash cyclists. Lídia Font made her way through the crowds and went into the Sandor that was just beginning to fill up. She took off her coat and sat at one of the small tables by the window. Apparently, she had a rendezvous.

The Sandor is an elegant bar that existed when the square was still named after the fascist Calvo Sotelo. It's the kind of establishment that posh folk frequent for aperitifs or pre-dinner drinks, and our client didn't stand out at all. As we were certain Mrs Font had yet to notice us, we went in engrossed in a discreet business conversation and stationed ourselves at one of the tables at the back. That corner gave us a good view of the whole place, and the bodies of the customers at the bar gave us cover. Lídia ordered a beer and, fed up of coffee, we followed suit.

Mrs Font removed her glasses and the slide holding her hair in place. We could gaze at her against the light and didn't have to worry about being noticed. We didn't need to speak, because both Borja and I then understood why her lover, if that is what he was, had tried to immortalize her in oils although, as we could now appreciate, he hadn't done her justice.

Lídia Font was much more beautiful and sensual than the woman the painter had captured on canvas. When she loosened her hair to remake her ponytail, the Sandor was transformed for a few seconds by her splendidly mature beauty. She was probably not a natural blonde, but her hair shone like gold, or at least I thought so. She was wearing pearl earrings and a diamond ring that would have served her well at the prince's wedding: I became convinced that what Mariona Castany had hinted about her cousin's would-be frigidity was the mischievous comment of a jealous female. Lídia Font emanated the kind of sensuality most women hate in another representative of their own sex: the one that drives men mad. All things considered, she had the feline air of a Fifties Hollywood goddess, the kind to whom I professed perpetual fidelity.

She had large, dark bright eyes, a gaze trained to seduce and a smile that could leave nobody untouched. That look was nothing like the dull expression the painter had created. She used make-up sparingly as befits naturally beautiful women, and didn't flaunt the sun-baked lizard shade of brown that is the fashion in these localities. She took an interior design magazine from her handbag and began to leaf through it and didn't bother to sip her drink.

A few minutes past one o'clock we saw a tall, slim woman come in who must have been in her fifties. She greeted Lídia Font aloofly (downright coldly, I thought) and sat down next to her. The newcomer took her coat off, a mink she'd just bought apparently, ordered a vermouth and glanced around. She seemed relieved to find no one who recognized her.

Her long smooth hair was dyed an unnatural bluish black, and she wore lots of make-up around her small, gimlet eyes and on her lips, which were a strident shade of pumpkin orange. She had a deep tan but the cardboard quality of her
skin and grin was typical of women who've had a facelift. Her lips also looked as if they'd been modified, and though she was thin, her body wasn't exactly svelte. A short, tight-fitting dress emphasised her bony frame. She wore brown knee-length boots with a matching handbag embossed with the letters YSL. Her display of jewellery was far more ostentatious than anything the MP's wife wore. Despite the time she spent every morning in front of the mirror, she was ugly and doomed to wither prematurely.

From our vantage point, Borja and I could hear little of their conversation. They whispered very quietly in Spanish. The dark-haired woman seemed to get angrier and angrier and more distressed, and gesticulated as she spoke. In contrast, Lídia Font remained cold and aloof. My brother and I then began to understand what Mariona had told us about her cousin. She was a beautiful but scheming bitch and we saw how skilled she was at infuriating the other woman. Her attitude revealed a Mrs Font who wasn't the ingenuous goddess with golden tresses whose epiphany we'd just witnessed.

Borja and I deduced a negotiation was under way and that Mrs Font had the upper hand. The other woman gulped down her vermouth and asked for a second. Lídia Font had barely sipped the beer she had ordered when she sat down.

We thought we caught the stranger mouthing the words “party”, “shitty” and “fuck”, but, to tell the truth, neither Borja nor I are expert lip-readers, so that was all we could pick up from where we were sitting. Lídia Font continued unperturbed. We regretted not taking a table nearer to them, but we'd be trailing her for a good few days yet and didn't want to risk arousing her suspicions by bumping into her every five minutes.