A Not So Perfect Crime (17 page)

“Very well,” said the policeman. “You can ring him from the hospital, if you consider it necessary. But at least tell us your name. We'll find out in the end, because we have to include it in our report.”

The woman pulled a face and swore. She was shivering with cold and her face looked shaken. The police had failed to clear the neighbours out, in fact their presence
had attracted several more and they'd formed a whispering circle around us. Some were overtly nosy, and I spotted the woman in the pink tracksuit shift an expensive cut-glass ashtray into her pocket. One of the policemen, now beginning to lose patience, asked the woman what her name was yet again.

“I am Sílvia. Sílvia Vilalta,” she said finally. “I am Lluís Font's sister-in-law. You can check that.” And added, with an exhausted sigh, “
He
is my lawyer.”

12

That unexpected revelation knocked us all sideways. Borja and I looked at each other nonplussed while the ambulance men carried a woman downstairs who was either high or insulted and claimed she was our client's sister-in-law. From what you could deduce from her surname, she was the stepsister of the woman who'd allegedly been murdered the day before. While we recovered from our shocked surprise, one of the policemen, harassed by the neighbours who assumed we were thieves, tried unsuccessfully to phone the MP. His lines were regrettably all engaged and I could see myself spending the night in the police station, or worse still, in a prison cell.

“Would it be a good idea if we drove over to Mr Font's house in the patrol car?” one of the policemen asked graciously. “If he corroborates what you've said, that will be the end of the matter. If we have to go to the station, you could be there for hours. And you've got a small child with you ...”

The fact we were well dressed and cradling Arnau played in our favour. I noted that, unlike the neighbours, the police seemed to believe the story Borja had spun. Nonetheless, the woman in the purple housecoat was relentless and demanded we should be taken to the police station. The police ignored her.

“I would really appreciate that,” said Borja. “I suppose that after last night's misfortune, the MP's phone hasn't
stopped ringing. Condolences and the like. Not to mention journalists ...”

“Yes, they must be happy. The crime pages have got copy for several weeks ... And we've got a real headache!” That extremely polite policeman with a slight squint didn't seem to be a big fan of the press.

“Perhaps we should have left the kid at home,” I conceded. “He's knackered ...”

I'd been ringing Montse so she didn't panic when she got home and found the house empty, but her phone didn't respond. She and her sister must have been conversing animatedly in the company of a bottle of wine, and I expected she'd forgotten to switch her mobile on when they left the cinema. I knew that if Montse came home very late and didn't find us in, she'd be alarmed, would assume something had happened to Arnau and would start ringing round hospitals and making one hell of a fuss. I made one last attempt, and this time Montse answered. She'd just arrived and seemed on the merry side.

“Don't worry. We went for a drive with Borja and Arnau and it's suddenly very late (...) No, nothing's up. (...) Really, I'm telling you (...) Arnau's fine. We're on our way.”

I looked at my watch and saw it was a quarter past eleven. I put Arnau's coat on, he wasn't crying anymore but rubbing his eyes, and went to the lift with the policemen.

“Heavens! We almost forgot the papers we'd come for in the first place! And the present for the twins!” Borja exclaimed with all the sang-froid in the world as we were about to enter the lift.

“What present? I want a present too ...” said Arnau yawning.

Borja turned round and went back to the flat. He picked up one of the folders that were scattered around the office and the Xmas wrapped present.

“Here we are!” he said waving the report in the eyes of the police while he carried the voluminous package with the painting. I saw out of the corner of my eye that it was a report on the impact of liquid manure on farming in the Garrotxa.

“OK, we can go now.”

We got into the patrol car, with Arnau half asleep in my arms, and I had no option but to give them my address. I didn't even want to think about the neighbours crowing about our triumphal arrival in a gleaming patrol car. The police were thoughtful to the point of not using their flashing lights or sirens, but even so, when the car halted outside the main door, I noticed the curtains in flat 2 on the fourth floor half-opened. That flat belonged to the chair of our residents committee, a neurotic spinster who liked to poke her nose into everything and I was reminded of her colleague in the turquoise housecoat. These gossipmongers would have a field day the next morning.

One of the police said he had to accompany me upstairs and that Borja should stay in the car. Arnau had fallen asleep and I was carrying him in my arms. Once more, my brother chanced his luck.

“Hey, we don't need to take the twins' present all over the place. As you're going upstairs, why don't you take it with you,” he said.

“You're right. Don't worry, you see to the boy and I'll look after the package,” said one of the police very considerately.

I tried to swallow but my mouth was dry. I knew the worst was yet to come. When Montse saw me escorted in by that
stout policeman and Arnau asleep in my arms, she'd be alarmed and rightly so. The moment I opened the door, I assured her there was no reason to be worried, that the boy had fallen asleep but was fine. I then explained that Borja and I had to go to take some papers to the MP's house. There'd been a misunderstanding and that's why the police were accompanying us. Montse didn't say a word but was evidently annoyed.

“Nothing to worry about, madam. We're just making a routine check,” the policeman corroborated, throwing me a lifeline.

“And what's this? Can you possibly tell me what this is?” whispered Montse when the policeman put the Christmas wrapped present on the floor.

“It's a present from Borja for the girls. We brought it up now so we're not carrying it about all over the shop ... Just put Arnau to bed and I'll be back in a jiffy. Within the hour, you'll see.”

I preferred not to think of the row and third degree I'd be in for when I did get back. The policeman and I went down the stairs trying not to make any noise, but before we got to the lobby the residents' committee chair had caught up with us. She was wearing a housecoat and was out of breath.

“Is anything wrong?” barked the Rottweiler (the nickname the residents have given her). It was clear she desperately wanted the answer to be “yes”.

“Not at all, madam. Nothing at all,” rasped the policeman. “Good night.”

On the drive to the MP's house, Borja decided to play Mr Nice and joke with the police but I stayed silent. I was thinking it was a big coincidence our client's sister-in-law should be entertaining a young Cuban in a flat precisely situated over the flat belonging to her brother-in-law, and only a day after her sister (stepsister, really, as Mariona told us) had died in mysterious circumstances. I was also worried because of Borja not being Borja but Pep, because of our company that didn't exist and because of that portrait of Lídia Font that a policeman had helped me carry up to my place.

“We're here!” announced Borja when the car pulled up next to the MP's house.

The same oriental girl opened the door, now wearing a less showy light grey uniform. She gave a start when she saw it was the police knocking yet again on the door of the honourable mansion.

“Sir now coming. Is phone,” she said, her voice shaking.

She let us into the lobby and disappeared down the passage. The MP came a minute after, his mobile still stuck to his ear. He was saying goodbye to his interlocutor and thanking him for his condolences. After hanging up, he invited us into a small, very welcoming, much more colourful room than the huge reception room where his wife had dropped dead the day before. It was furnished in colonial style and adorned with cheerful flowery cushions and curtains. There was a parrot in a cage, a cat snoozing on one of the cushions and big pots of tropical plants. Lluís Font invited us to sit down and asked if we wanted a drink, but we all turned down his invitation.

After apologizing for the late hour and giving him condolences for the loss of his wife, one of the policemen asked the MP if he knew us and if it was a fact we worked for him. Lluís Font looked surprised and said we did, that we were his political advisers, and demanded to know what all
those questions were in aid of at that time of night. Despite his calm and collected mien, the MP must have caught the drift of what had happened: we'd been caught in his office carrying a huge package and someone had given an alarm call.

“It's only a routine enquiry,” explained the policeman. “These gentlemen were in your office, but the neighbours said they didn't know them. We tried to speak to you by phone, but you were engaged ...” he justified their actions. “Of course, these gentlemen don't look like thieves,” he smiled to relieve the tension, “and that's why we have brought them here.”

“I personally gave them the keys yesterday and asked them to go and fetch ... something I needed urgently,” our client replied rather nervously.

“Given everything that has happened, I couldn't possibly go to the office myself. You've seen how the phone hasn't stopped ringing!”

“Here's that paperwork,” said Borja, handing him the strange file. And added soothingly, “All in order.”

I prayed neither of the policemen would wonder how a report on liquid manure could be so important the day after Lluís Font had lost his wife and in the middle of the Christmas holidays. But it was obvious that they had another question on their mind. Once they'd clarified the fact we weren't thieves, the young, squinting policeman hurriedly explained that the confusion had arisen because the ceiling to his bathroom had collapsed while a woman, who claimed she was his sister-in-law, was taking a shower in the flat upstairs. The victim, he went on, was injured, the office was full of rubble and the firemen had had to be called. There was a frightful commotion, on the stairs, he added.

The MP looked astonished. I noted how he was gritting his teeth because his facial muscles had tensed. “The neighbours are adamant that nobody lives in the flat above and are worried. Naturally if the lady who suffered the accident is your sister-in-law, there must be an explanation ...” the policeman said prudently.

“Was she hurt? Where is she now?” asked the MP with genuine anxiety.

“In other words, the lady is your sister-in-law,” deduced the other policeman, who hadn't opened his mouth up to that point.

He was older and stouter than his colleague and sported one of those bald heads that's trying to hide behind a combover.

“I suppose so, it must be her,” Luís Font paused before continuing. “My sister-in-law has keys to the flat. But where is she now?” he insisted. “Is she all right?”

“I expect they've taken her to the Clinic. She's apparently broken a leg, but it's nothing serious. The shock more than anything else!” he said, trying to downplay the incident.

Despite his affable tone, I began to suspect that this old hand was starting to smell something fishy.

“You know, really ...” continued the squinting policeman. “Isn't all this rather odd?”

Lluís Font took a cigarette and offered us one. I think he was playing for time. The policeman turned down his offer, although I could see they smoked from their nicotine stained fingers.

“In fact, it couldn't be simpler.” The MP reassumed an air of VIP authority. “This property belongs to a company by the name of Diagonal Consulting. I am the main shareholder. The person in charge is Pablo Mazos, and he's also my
personal assistant. The fact is we don't use the upstairs flat, but we've been intending for some time to turn the two flats, the one upstairs and my office into a duplex in order to gain more space. My sister-in-law has a key,” he continued while he smoked his cigarette slowly as the rich like to do. “Although the upstairs flat needs some attention, Sílvia occasionally shuts herself in there when she feels like being alone and not bothered. She says,” he attempted a smile, “that she's writing a novel or something of the sort.”

“Right. I suppose you can prove this,” the squint-eyed policeman said rather aggressively. “I don't like to do this, particularly in the circumstances, but it's our job ...”

“I've got the documentation in my office. Do you want us to go this very minute?” the MP asked in a tone clearly designed to elicit a no for an answer. “It is on the late side ...”

“Of course not, Your Honour!” exclaimed the balding policeman. “We can drop by in the morning, at a time that suits you, you can show us the paperwork and case closed.” And getting up he spoke to his colleague: “Come on, time to hit the road, it's late. Very sorry to have bothered you.”

“If it would help, we can take you home in the patrol car,” the younger policeman suggested with a smile.

He was trying to win brownie points.

“I know it's rather late,” said Lluís Font addressing us, “but since you are here, there are a couple of things I'd like to discuss. It's to do with this ...” he glanced at the file on the impact of liquid manure.

Borja and I looked at each other askance. I looked impatiently at my watch.

“Perhaps just I could stay behind ...” Borja suggested. “My partner was expected home some time ago, weren't you, Eduard?”