A Not So Perfect Crime (26 page)

“Well, well, so now we know! ...”

I wasn't in the mood for sly digs. I'd agreed with Borja that I'd pass by his place at around eleven and we'd go together to see the MP. It was gone twelve and Borja was giving no signs of life, so I was starting to get worried. I called him on his mobile several times, but he'd either switched it off or was out of range. No, it wasn't at all like Borja. Lack of punctuality was not one of his shortcomings.

“You know what? I might as well head over to his place.”

“Will you be back for lunch today?” grunted Montse.

“Hmm ... I'll call you later.”

I caught a taxi and when I arrived, my heart gave a turn. Two fire engines, a city police car and an ambulance were parked outside the entrance to the building where my brother lives. The street smelled vaguely of burning.

I looked up and saw smoke coming out from one window and that some bits of the façade were sooty. The window belonged to Borja's flat.

“Take it easy, Eduard. It's OK ...” he said putting his hand on my shoulder before I realized he was standing next to me.

I felt relieved to see that my brother, although looking pallid, was safe and sound. He was in his dressing gown and slippers and also smelled of smoke. I hugged him, and began to calm down. My heart gradually resumed its normal rhythm.

“God! What's happened?” I whispered.

“OK, all clear. We're off,” said one of the firemen. “Wait for all the smoke to go, right? And next time be a bit more careful ... Tell your girlfriend to e-mail her letters to you. And then you won't need to burn them ...”

“Don't worry, it won't happen again. And many, many thanks!” exclaimed Borja shaking the fireman's hand warmly.

The ambulance and fire engines disappeared in a flash, unlike the small group of onlookers that had gathered around us. Smoke was no longer coming out of the window.

“What the hell happened?” I repeated.

“Let's go for a coffee and I'll tell all. You heard what the man said. We've got to wait a bit before going back up,” said Borja.

“But you're wearing your dressing-gown and slippers!”

“So what, half the neighbourhood has seen me in this state,” he replied resignedly. “At least it's all Calvin Klein!” he said as if that detail made all the difference.

I said nothing and we went into the bar on the corner. Rather than straight espressos, we ordered two laced with cognac to help get us over our fright.

“It was a stupid accident,” Borja started. “This morning I took the photocopies Masoliver gave us into the bathroom, to burn them, but when I lit them, the paper started shooting off in all directions, including into the wastepaper basket. The tissues and plastic bag there caught fire, then the curtain ... I tried to put the fire out, but only made it worse because I poured on the bottle of massage oils and the silk dressing gown hanging behind the door flared up ...” He sighed. “In the end, the firemen had to come to sort it out.”

“But are you OK? You haven't hurt yourself?”

“I think I've singed a few hairs,” he said, touching his locks. “I'll have to pay my hairdresser a visit.”

“What about those papers? What did the firemen say?” I asked, rather alarmed. “Did they realize what you were up to?”

“I told them I was getting rid of some very compromising private letters ... That my fiancée would be back in the morning, and that she's very jealous, and as she'd not written them ...”

“Did they believe you?”

“The papers all went up in smoke. Besides, what else could I say?”

“You tell me. The scrapes you get into ... You didn't have to take Masoliver's words so literally. You could just have torn the papers into little bits and thrown them in the rubbish,” I retorted.

“Anyway, what's done is done. It was nothing serious in the end ... Just a scare. Come on, drink up your coffee.”

We waited a quarter of an hour before going to see what state the flat was in. Luckily only the bathroom had been ravaged. The rest of the flat was intact although the parquet floor was still swimming in the foam the firemen had used to put the fire out. Borja got dressed and, as it was lunchtime, I suggested he come to my place to have a shower and some lunch. We could see Lluís Font later.

“What are you going to say to Merche about the fire?”

“I don't know. How about I was running a bath and lit one of the candles she gave me as a present ...” he said brazenly.

“Don't make her feel guilty into the bargain ...”

“No need to worry on that count. Merche is no cherub.”

Montse looked pleased to see us and, predictably, the small matter of the fire took up most of the conversation. We ate macaroni and pork escalope, and for dessert, a lemon cake that Borja had insisted on buying in order not to appear empty-handed. Lola wasn't around and Montse took the opportunity to drop a few hints to my brother.

“So your fiancée is skiing in the Alps ...” she dropped casually into the conversation.

“What fiancée? You mean Merche?” he said, ignoring the thrust of the word “fiancée”. “We're just friends ...”

I bet Borja had got that response ready days ago.

“Just good friends, you mean?”

“By the way, Montse, as Lola's not here now, I'd like to ask you something. How come such a fantastic woman like your sister is single? Why did she get divorced?” enquired Borja, as if he had a real interest in my sister-in-law's amorous past.

Montse wasn't expecting such an outburst. Nor was I. But it meant Montse forgot all about Merche and rattled on to Borja about her sister's virtues. Lola was sensitive, intelligent and self-confident, was besieged by a host of suitors and had a brilliant professional career. Listening to her, even I'd have fallen for her sister.

“So how's it going between you two?” asked Montse. “You've been seeing a lot of each other recently ...”

“Well, I think we hit it off ... Heavens. Look at the time!” Borja glanced opportunely at his watch. “Eduard, I think we should be getting a move on ...”

“Come on then!” I said, standing up. “We've got a meeting and people will be expecting you, you know?” I explained.

The moment had come to scarper. Though it was true the MP was expecting us. Montse wrinkled her nose but said nothing. She was in a hurry too: it was anti-tobacco therapy day and she still had to shower and wash her hair to remove all trace of the smell of nicotine.

Lluís Font ushered us into his drawing room. Someone had changed the layout: a glass-topped table with a vase of yellow roses and a new carpet now occupied the space where his wife's body had once lain. The Christmas tree had disappeared and large, flowery cushions were scattered over the settees and armchairs. Various pots with tropical plants stood by the windows.

We told him about our meeting with Masoliver and the information his friend had handed on, which was all the police had to go on. There was nothing new of any substance in it except perhaps for the presence of Mariona Castany's name on the list of suspects. We asked him what motive Mariona might have to murder his wife, but he assured us he didn't have a clue.

“So I am the first on the list ...” he said shaking his head. “I expect that was inevitable.”

“Well, someone has to be first. But that doesn't mean they have any proof,” said my brother. “It's normal for the husband to be the main suspect in a case like this.”

“Particularly if he's also the will's main beneficiary ...” I added.

“They can have no evidence because I didn't kill my wife!” he shouted visibly angry. “And as for the money, I
don't need it. What do the police think? That I'm some upstart living on his wife's income? Please, don't make me laugh! ...”

“If your wife had asked for a divorce, that would have changed your financial situation ...” I insisted.

Borja glared at me and I gathered it was better not to pursue that line. On the other hand, the MP had barely reacted to my comment. I don't know if he was refusing to condescend to answer or was at a loss for words.

“We'd like to ask you something,” said Borja, changing the subject. “We'd like to speak to your daughter for a moment, if you'll allow us. I'm not sure, but we thought she might know something ...”

“Núria?” asked our client rather surprised. “I don't think so ...”

“The fact is that just before Mrs Font spoke to that man in the Zurich” – Borja preferred not to mention we'd also seem him on the day of the funeral – “they spent the afternoon together shopping. Perhaps she confided in her, told her something ... That's if you want us to continue on the case, naturally,” my brother added.

“Of course,” the MP replied hurriedly. “Núria is in her room. She's still not got over it.”

“Would you let us talk to her by herself for a few minutes?” Borja insisted.

“I'm not sure ... If you think it's important and she's in the mood ... But I hope you will be tactful. I mean there are things my daughter doesn't know and it's better if it stays that way.”

He was probably referring to her father's affair with her aunt and the fact that her mother used to go around bribing all and sundry in order to get her own way.

“Don't worry. We only need to ask her about two very small matters. Whether your wife had mentioned she was afraid of anyone, and whether she was worried by anything ...” Borja continued.

“Very well, I'll tell Yanbin to inform her, although she's probably asleep ... She's been shutting herself up in her room of late.”

Núria Vilalta soon appeared leaning on Yanbin's arm. She was pale and wan. She wore flared jeans and a sky-blue T-shirt that exposed her navel and didn't seem the most appropriate garment for this time of year. She was also very thin. A bag of bones, I mean.

“Núria, these gentlemen want to speak to you for a few minutes. They are trying to find out what happened to Mummy.”

“All right,” she replied.

The girl and the maid whispered a few words to each other in a language I couldn't identify but which I didn't think was European. Then Yanbin kissed her on the cheek and stroked her hair like a loving mother before making a discreet exit.

“If you like, you can use the time to make those calls ...” Borja suggested to Lluís Font.

“Yes, of course. I'll be back shortly.”

Núria Font eyed us unenthusiastically and flopped on the settee. She looked pretty out of it.

“You are the detectives Papa contracted,” she said.

“More or less,” I answered.

“And how can I help you?”

“We want to know,” Borja took the initiative, “if your mother told you anything that might relate to what has happened. Whether she was afraid, or worried about anything ... Do you know if somebody wanted to hurt her?”

“The police have already asked me all this,” she said forlornly. “I don't know anything. Nobody ever tells me anything ...”

She suddenly lost control and began to sob her heart out. I felt wretched making her suffer like that.

“I can't stand any more. I can't stand any more ...” she muttered between sobs.

“Don't worry,” I said genuinely moved. “We won't bother you now. Do you want us to call your father?”

“You don't understand ... Nobody does! ... I hated her! I wanted her to die! ...” she said shaking and crying. “And she did!”

With two daughters around her age, I'm more used than Borja is to this kind of adolescent outburst and attack of rage and sincerity. I decided to take control of the situation before Yanbin appeared and chased us out with her broom.

“All girls of your age hate their mothers and think like that,” I said, remembering the rows Montse and the twins used to have sometimes. “It's normal,” I said trying to look like an understanding doctor. “You mustn't feel guilty.”

“I hated her ... And now I hate the fact she's not here!” she confessed falteringly.

It can't have been easy being Lídia Font's daughter, I thought to myself. That girl hadn't inherited her mother's natural charms or her personality. Though who knows what Lídia Font was like as a fifteen-year old and before she'd passed through the operating theatre? She was probably as insecure and wilting as her daughter.

“At least now I won't have to study at Oxford,” she said, drying her tears.

“Were you thinking of going to Oxford to do a summer English course?” Borja asked affably.

“No ...”

“You know in a few months this ... Of course now everything seems like a new mountain to climb, but in time ...” Borja insisted sympathetically.

“Mama wanted me to
study
at Oxford University ... Three or four years.” And she added, “Literature or something similar ...”

“
Caramba
, not everybody can get into Oxford ...” I said. “That's really good.”

The Fonts' offspring looked at Borja and me as if we were two old fogeys from another galaxy. The generation gap is doubtless one of the most difficult to straddle, even more so if it goes with the social abyss between the classes that some reckon no longer exists.

“It's a load of shit!” she grimaced. “This Oxford business was all down to Mummy. Papa couldn't care less ... She was the one who had set her heart on me studying
there
.” From her tone of voice it was obvious that going to Oxford appealed more to the mother than to her daughter. “I had to spend every day shut up at home studying in order to get high marks. They all hate me at school ...”