A Not So Perfect Crime (22 page)

I'd had enough and jumped up: “But this painting is the work of!—”

Borja cut me dead, “Yes, Eduard, we know all that! The woman who gave Mr Font the painting probably didn't know what it was,” he said, raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes wide.

“But! . . .”

“You know that fine art, like elephants, has never been your forte,” he rasped as if to say I should shut my trap once and for all. “I think it would be best if the police took the painting with them and investigate whatever they have to investigate,” he said, seeking our client's approval. “I'm positive this business will soon be cleared up.”

“Can you give us the name of the lady who gave you this present?” asked the young policewoman, taking out her notebook and pencil.

“The fact is ... I don't really know,” the MP confessed. “A lot of people come to meetings and say hello to me. People I don't know ... I get given the odd gift ...” he improvised.

“I see ... in that case we'll have to take the painting. We need to check one or two things ...”

“As you wish. But you are quite mistaken ...” Lluís Font didn't seem very sure of himself.

The police strode off carrying the painting but took none of his papers. If Lluís Font had another elephant in that office, the police hadn't found it. Borja's certainly very clever, but he's particularly adept when it comes to the business of hiding pachyderms.

When we were alone once more with our client, who was reaching the end of his tether, I explained as best I could that the painting in question was the work of my mother-in-law who just happened to be called Joana Mir. I guessed
the MP was thinking we'd used his office to keep a fake or stolen painting out of sight. I don't know if he found my explanation at all convincing.

“I didn't really believe it was a Mir,” he finally admitted. “But that girl thinks it is ...” he said looking anxious.

“Don't worry,” said Borja. “An expert won't certify that it's a Mir because it isn't.” And he added in a shocked tone of voice: “I don't know what universities are coming to! ... Fancy not being able to distinguish a Mir from an amateur's work! ...”

“Yes, I don't know what young people today learn at university ...” I said. Lluís Font looked at us without blinking. “And these young graduates end up joining the police! . . .”

Borja used the opportunity to side with the MP.

“This country's going down the drain. All this autonomy and sodding—”

But Lluís Font wasn't in the mood for political chit-chat. It was clear his mind was on other worries and the last thing he wanted was to tangle with Borja in an argument about blueprints for nation-states.

“What about that other matter you wanted to tell us about?” I asked changing the subject.

“I don't know about you, but I need a whisky.”

Before we could respond, Mr Lluís Font got up and, with a glance, invited us to follow in his wake.

16

He steered us to a small, elegant and expensive bar. We sat over in a corner and my brother and the MP both ordered scotch. At that time of day, exhausted as I was by our journey, I opted for whatever they had on tap. However, they only served bottled and imported beer and the waiter scowled at me.

“The police found something in my house,” Lluís Font announced after downing a big gulp of whisky.

Borja and I were all ears.

He went on: “It is,” he paused, “ a rather delicate matter.”

I wondered if there was anything that wasn't delicate in all this.

“To do with your wife's murder?” asked Borja.

“Perhaps.”

I glanced warily around to check no one near us was taking an interest in our table. The beautiful people sat near us were too preoccupied with themselves and their respective conversations. Everybody was whispering. Some were talking quietly on their mobiles while others leered over the woman sat next to them. Four aggressive executives were arguing over business matters while, on the adjacent table, some women dripping in jewels openly criticized their respective husbands. The waiters had trained their ears not to hear, or at least to simulate that they didn't. The place reeked of good wine, American cigarettes and expensive eau de colognes.

Lluís Font decided to tell us what hadn't yet appeared in the press.

“The police,” he began, “discovered that Lídia had kept files on various people in the house, containing, let's say, compromising information ...” He paused and lit a cigarette. “I knew nothing about this, I promise you. If I had, I'd have got there before the police did.”

Borja didn't flinch at this new revelation. “You mean that there were people who had very good reason to eliminate your wife.”

“Exactly. That's what the police think,” he replied despondently.

“What have they done with the files?” Borja continued.

“They took them away for further examination.”

He explained how his wife kept the reports in one of her desk drawers. The police had broke into them and scrutinized the contents. Apart from cash and papers related to her work, they found some files that were highly suspicious.

“I deduce,” said Borja, adopting his newly cultivated detective tone of voice, “that basically they contained dirty linen ...”

“You could put it that way.” The MP sighed. “Luckily there were only three files. But there were no names, only initials and they were quite short. I identified the initials that appeared on two of the files, but I don't recognize those on the third. And I've been turning it over in my mind for days,” he admitted.

“Whose initials have you identified?” I asked. “They might give us a lead.”

“One set belong to Nieves Dalmau, the woman you probably saw in the Sandor. She's Enrique Dalmau's wife,” he clarified, in case we didn't know. “We are the two candidates for the post of party secretary-general. He is more rightwing and is much more popular than me with some sectors of the party, especially outside Catalonia. But of course that's not where the votes will be cast ...”

“And the other files?”

“One carries the initials “S.M.”. It contains a very short report which just says they hadn't found anything. There wasn't even an address or telephone number. Nothing to help identify the individual concerned, as with the others. I can't think who it might be.”

“It's probably the man we saw in the Zurich,” I suggested, prompted by the association of ideas. “It really looked as if your wife, may she rest in peace, had thrown a bucket of icy water over that poor guy,” I said, warily remembering that exchange.

“Yes, but the report said he was clean. It seems very unlikely that he was the murderer,” the MP retorted.

“You're quite right,” I had to admit. “What about the third file? You say you recognized those initials.”

Lluís Font said nothing and looked down at the floor. I also noticed he was gritting his teeth.

“It was about you, I suppose?” murmured Borja.

“Yes,” he nodded laconically.

Borja looked at me and sat up in his chair looking pleased with himself. He'd hit bull's eye. Lluís Font finished his whisky and spoke even more softly.

“The truth is that Lídia knew her sister and I ...” He didn't finish his sentence.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, taking pains not to blurt out a “fuck” or a “shit” in such a refined watering hole.

“This makes life even more complicated,” was Borja's comment. “I suppose the police have now added you to their list of suspects.”

“You suppose rightly. They seem to think the odds are now stacked against me,” he sighed.

The three of us sat in silence and Borja ordered another round while we tried to fit that fresh information in the puzzle the case was turning into. The waiter made a mistake, and also brought me a whisky rather than another beer. I must have looked as if I needed one.

“I take it that we can discount “S.M.”, whether it's man or woman, since your wife had no way to blackmail him.”

“Now just listen up, I didn't kill my wife!” he whispered, clearly rattled. “I didn't even know she suspected that Sílvia and I ... I give you my word.”

I didn't know whether to believe him.

“The fact is, poisoning is a very female method,” noted Borja. “The police must know that.”

As my brother doesn't read the newspapers, he didn't know that poisoning people is back in fashion with the Russians.

“The thing is, I know Nieves Dalmau!” the MP confessed. “I find it hard to believe that her intellect is up to it. One has to plan a thing like that and have at least one accomplice. Remember how a man delivered the parcel and he didn't belong to any messenger service; Yanbin is sure about that. And naturally it wasn't Enrique because he'd have found disguising himself as a motorcyclist a little difficult. He weighs almost a hundred kilos!”

“I expect she contracted somebody to do that. A professional,” I suggested.

Borja shook his head.

“We know,” my brother replied, showing the fruits of our week spent trailing the victim, “that Mrs Font didn't have a bodyguard. A professional would have shot her in the middle of the street or put a bomb in her car. He wouldn't have risked delivering personally a box of
marrons glacés
from one of Barcelona's most famous patisseries with a poisoned chestnut and a few handwritten words on the kitschiest of Christmas cards.”

“No, you're right ...” I had to concede.

Borja was becoming a dab hand at making deductions.

Lluís Font was right: this was a delicate matter and got more complicated by the day. What had begun as innocent suspicion about a possible cuckolding was turning into a crime that was tricky for the police and juicy for the press, not to mention the fact that it could destroy our client's political career. The way things were going, all we needed was Alfred Hitchcock mixing a cocktail behind the bar.

“I'm very worried,” he confessed in a cold sweat. “If the police persist in thinking that I was involved in ... I need your help.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked Borja solicitously.

“I want you to go and talk to my contact. He will tell you how the investigations are going and what the police have been able to find out. He promised me he would. He owes me a favour.”

He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and jotted down a name and telephone number. Borja put it in his pocket.

“We'll ring today and arrange to see him.”

“One last thing: we'll bury Lídia on Monday. The judge has at last given us permission to hold the funeral. I would like you to be there and keep an eye out for any strange behaviour. The murderer may come to the ceremony.”

“You can rely on us,” said Borja. “Where will it be held?”

“In the church in Sarrià, at five.”

And he added apparently sincerely: “I swear I had nothing to do with Lídia's death. I agree we weren't the happiest of couples, but we had lives and interests in common ...”

“The police may be thinking that a divorce wouldn't have
done your political career much good ...” said my brother, playing devil's advocate.

“If Lídia was upset because she knew I ... I mean we'd have found another way to sort that. We,” he was referring of course to people of his social class, “do not divorce just like that. The family is holy.”

“You bloody hypocrite!” I thought to myself. I'm not one to moralize, but at least I don't put on a performance every Sunday at mass and wave little flags in the cathedral when the Pope pays a visit.

“All the same, I don't understand why in the circumstances you decided to contract us to investigate whether your wife was branching out ...” I responded provocatively.

“I thought that if Lídia did find out some day that her sister and I were ... that is ... I mean”

“That you thought it would be useful to have an ace up your sleeve?” said Borja trying not to sound too cruel.

“Well, put that way it seems very unpleasant ... Sometimes when one has a certain standing, things are not so simple ...” he replied, looking for sympathy from my brother.

One of my legs had gone to sleep from so much sitting and I could hardly feel my bum. It was past three o'clock and my belly had been demanding fodder for some time: I didn't even want to think about the storm waiting for me when I got home a day later than I'd promised Montse. Luckily, our client decided to end the meeting there and then and asked for the bill. By this time, there was hardly a soul left in the bar.

Once out in the street, our client insisted we should speak as soon as possible to his contact and keep him up-to-date with how the investigation was going. Whether or not he'd killed his wife, it was obvious the MP wasn't willing to bet on a roll of the dice.

17

As the following day was Saturday and we were still worn out, Borja and I decided to give ourselves a day's holiday. Besides it was New Year's Eve, and Montse had been broadcasting for days that we'd have a special dinner party at home. She'd invited her mother who always fell asleep before the clock chimed twelve, her sister and two married couples of our age, her friends rather than mine. After a short restorative siesta, I spent the rest of the afternoon doing penance helping her in the house. Luckily, the present I brought her from Paris – a very pretty, lilac silk shawl, that Borja helped me choose – and the promise that we'd both soon spend a long, romantic weekend there helped defuse her anger.