A Not So Perfect Crime (27 page)

“Bah, don't take any notice! It's not such a bad idea to get high marks, I can tell you,” I said thinking of our twins.

“They hate me,” she said moving from grief to rage, “because Mummy spent her time bribing my teachers to give me high marks ... As if I didn't know! Everybody knows about it at school, and everybody hates Mummy, and I do too, of course. It's horrible. Horrible! I don't want to set foot there ever again! ...” And she burst into tears yet again.

A small light flashed at the back of our heads. Perhaps it had been a good idea to talk to the daughter of the deceased after all.

“What do you mean exactly when you say she bribed your teachers?” asked Borja tactfully. “Do you mean she gave them money or presents? That she made generous donations?”

“I don't know how she did it. I expect she gave them money ... I don't know. All I do know is that my marks were far too high. I'm not that clever ... but not that stupid either.”

“I'm sure she only wanted the best for you,” I said trying to console her. “I don't think she wanted to upset you. She wanted you to study in one of the best universities in the world. Lots of people would like to go there.”

“You know,” she said rather woefully, “she liked all that business of gowns and ceremonies, and being able to put on those ridiculous hats ... She thought Oxford was full of aristocrats and dreamed I would land one and we'd go to live in a castle, with butlers and all that. I could just see her bowing and curtseying to that old bag” – I assumed she was referring to Elizabeth Regina. “And she was obsessed by my accent, which she said was awful. I hate English!”

“Couldn't agree more!” Borja confessed. “Between ourselves, it's a language of savages. Wherever French exists ...”

“Ugh, no way! I'd rather continue with English than have to study French,” she retorted. “At least it helps me understand my favourite song lyrics.”

I thought of the brilliant students, children of less well off families, who'd give their right hand to study at a university like Oxford. What was a dream beyond the realms of possibility for some, was a nightmare that this young woman had just shaken off. You couldn't reproach her in any way. Who'd brought up that skinny girl? I wondered. Her extremely busy, important parents or a set of foreign maids to whom they'd paid a pittance?

“Do you know whether your mother had a really close friend? A woman she might have confided in?” asked Borja, returning to our concerns now Núria seemed to have calmed down.

“Mummy had no women friends. Last year she befriended our philosophy teacher, but I think she screwed that up.”

“Really?” I said encouraging her to continue.

“She even came to spend a weekend with us in Cadaqués,” she explained, “but I don't know what happened after that. Mummy must have bribed her. She gave me an A star for her course, but never liked me. My exam was a disaster ...”

“And what's that teacher's name?”

Perhaps we'd be lucky and her initials would match those on the file we'd still not identified.

“Elisenda. Elisenda something or other ...” She paused, straining to remember. “That's right, Rourell, I remember now! Elisenda Rourell. As far as we were concerned she was
a complete slag.
” And she added. “They reckon she's had it off with every single teacher.”

Our bad luck. The initials didn't match, but if all that blackmailing and bribing was right and Lídia had bullied the teacher into passing her daughter with top honours, perhaps her victim had decided to take her revenge by sending her a box of poisoned chestnuts. The idea seemed, nonetheless, slightly over the top.

“So, your mother was always around at school ...” I insisted.

“She was always on my teachers' backs. My tutor was fed up with her.”

“What was her name?”

“Vilardell. Assumpta Vilardell. We call her ...”

“Yes, I can imagine what you call her,” interjected Borja, pre-empting the joke about that famous brand of suppositories.

Lluís Font came in just then. We'd been talking to his daughter for twenty minutes and he must have considered that was time enough. Núria went back to her room with Yanbin and we told our client what her daughter had confessed to us.

“Yes, Lídia had got it into her head that the girl should study for a degree there,” he confirmed, “and she may have put too much pressure on her about her studies. Some of our friends' children are studying at Oxford ...”

“If your wife put pressure on the teachers to give your daughter top marks ... there may be other things we don't know.”

Borja was referring to the fact that other files might exist.

“Are you insinuating one of Núria's teachers preferred to kill Lídia rather than accept an envelope and give my daughter a high mark?” He smiled, “You clearly don't know what these teachers earn! ...”

I did know, and also how most were too disillusioned to act heroically in the presence of all-powerful, fawning parents. The most likely scenario was that the teacher concerned accepted the bribe and thanked her.

“Yes, if she had one backed into a corner ...” agreed Borja. “We still haven't identified the mysterious man your wife met in the Zurich. And we must take into account that he didn't seem like anyone belonging to your circle, judging by his appearance.”

“Frankly I don't know what to think,” our client said. “But as things stand, with me as suspect number one, it wouldn't be a bad idea if you did identify this man and talk to him. I give you
carte blanche
.”

“I'd just like to say that we've run up considerable expenses these last few days. You must understand we've had to put other cases to one side, and obviously ...”

“I'd imagined as much.” He took an envelope from his pocket that, as ever, Borja put away unopened.

“Thank you. Are you sure you can't think of any reason to link Mariona Castany with your wife's murder? She's the only name on the list that doesn't fit,” Borja insisted.

“I really can't. I have no idea at all. It's very strange. Mariona is an old friend ...” And he added with a smile, “She's a peculiar woman. Of course with the current account she enjoys she can allow herself the luxury of being whatever she feels like.”

“That's all right, then. We'd better be off,” said Borja bringing the conversation to an end. “We won't take up any more of your time.”

Once we were in the street, I asked Borja if he'd considered the likelihood that the girl was implicated in her mother's murder. Perhaps she'd done something stupid because she couldn't stand the idea of having to go to Oxford. There are adolescents who commit suicide over all sorts of things that appear ridiculous to adults, such as getting bad marks, a romantic upset or not having many friends. Behind that bereft exterior, perhaps Núria Font was one of those who chose to act rather than to suffer.

“You can rule that out,” declared Borja confidently. “If this girl had been intelligent enough with the knowledge necessary to plan and carry out such a thing, her mother wouldn't have had to bribe her teachers to give her top marks.”

“I'd not thought of that,” I admitted. “Maybe we can discount that possibility then!”

I couldn't help feeling sorry for that unhappy, abandoned girl, and was pleased that my twins, for all their defects, didn't resemble her in the slightest.

21

It was still early, so when we left the MP we decided to go straight to see Mariona Castany. We knew she would be in Barcelona until after the Day of the Kings, because she belongs to that tiny cluster of privileged beings who don't have to wait for Christmas or August in order to go on holiday. She'd mentioned that, once the festivities were over, she intended to go to the Caribbean for a month, to one of those places that don't appear in travel agencies' bargain offers. Since we couldn't think of any other way to clear up her possible involvement in the case, we decided to take the bull by the horns and tell her what we'd found in the police reports.

“What a surprise! I wasn't expecting to see you today!” she smiled when Marcelo announced we were paying her a visit.

“Do forgive us for appearing like this, Mariona, but it's urgent. Can you spare us a moment?” said Borja pretending to be very upset.

“Martini or whisky?” asked Mariona. “Better a whisky at this time of day, I should say.”

And before we could say no, she'd started to pour the drinks.

Without more ado, we confirmed we were unofficially investigating Lídia Font's death on instructions from her husband, as she'd suspected the night we'd had dinner together at Flash Flash. Although we'd no idea as to what had
really happened, we'd been shocked to discover she was one of those suspected by the police, even though, Borja added prudently, her name wasn't among the first on the list.

Mariona Castany didn't flinch. What's more, she smiled half coquettishly and half mischievously like the self confident, self-possessed woman she was. In fact, she seemed to find it amusing, as if at heart she was flattered by the idea she might be suspected of murdering her cousin.

“And you'd like me to tell you why I'm on that list? ...” she responded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, while savouring a generous gulp of scotch.

“Well, sooner or later we're bound to find out,” said Borja. “We only want to help as much as we can. The police are a bit slow on the uptake, obviously. We thought it better you knew, and that if there is anything that justifies their suspicions . . .”

“I see now. You've come to give me a helping hand,” her tone couldn't have been more ironic.

“It's the least we could do,” I interjected playing her at her own game.

She lit a cigarette and sat back. She was dressed in white, which made her eyes seem an even deeper shade of blue.

“Well, if someone has told the police (I can imagine who it may have been), it's of no matter. It's hardly a secret. Half Barcelona must be in the know.”

The half of Barcelona that is north of the Diagonal, I thought, because once you cross that frontier I don't think many people are aware of the subtle scheming the city's wealthy ladies are so fond of. In fact, I doubt most of my fellow citizens have even heard of Mariona Castany.

“There was an incident in the club,” Mariona began, “about a year ago. Lídia was annoyed with me because I didn't commission her to refurbish my house in the Empordá. Only a few small changes ... She was furious because everybody had assumed that she'd redecorated my country house, and naturally when someone congratulated her, she was forced to admit it wasn't her work ...” She failed to suppress a catty grin.

“I understand,” said Borja.

“So, we were in the club one day and Lídia started to make uncalled for remarks about my friendship with Isidre Vidal in front of other members, without mentioning his name, naturally.” She was referring to the well-known architect who'd been Mariona's lover for years. “Isidre's wife, who was with another little group, heard what she said, because Lídia made sure she did. That would have been the end of the matter if that dimwit Sonsoles Pallarés, who never remembers the gossip she hears or considers who's in the vicinity, hadn't started to crack jokes about him. Roser, Isidre's wife (with whom, by the way, I'd always been on the best of terms), got up and strode out in a huff, hugely insulted. Lídia and silly Sonsoles had humiliated her. There are things nobody likes having rubbed in their faces. I was livid and I warned Lídia that a fellow from Marseille might come knocking on her door. And added, for good measure, that Marseille was a fascinating place where I had several good friends.”

I didn't have a clue what she meant but my brother got it straight away.

“My God! ... You publicly threatened her with murder!” he exclaimed.

Apparently, the reference to the “fellow from Marseille” was a euphemism for a contract killer.

“Bah, I heard that in a film! Obviously everybody knows that if I wanted to ... But I only said it for the sake of it.”

“The police must have taken you at your word, although apparently you aren't the only person who wanted to take revenge on your cousin,” Borja went on. “People were queuing up.”

“I'd told you so. Although, in fact,” she purred mysteriously, “I'd already had the pleasure.”

“You're not suggesting ...” he said rather taken aback.

All we needed was for the mighty Mariona Castany to confess she was involved in Lídia Font's death.

“That I sent her a box of poisoned sweeties! For Christ's sake, of course not! What happened was that after the episode in the club that day, poor Lídia got very few commissions.” Out slipped another self-satisfied feline smile. “Lots of my very rich, very close friends decided to go elsewhere to contract their interior designers ... and she suddenly dropped out of fashion. In the end she was forced stoop to the middle classes. Can you imagine?”

“She bloody deserved it,” said Borja, ever the gentleman.

“And, obviously she didn't get an invite to the Prince's wedding either. Although she and Lluís were originally on the list ...”

“You are devious, Aunt Mariona,” quipped Borja in the most fawning of tones.

You don't play around with a woman like Mariona Castany. Borja and I were confident after that exchange that it was highly unlikely Mariona would have bothered to take Lídia Font out of circulation. If what she wanted was revenge, Mariona had no need to go to Marseille for a solution. She only had to trip her up from time to time and shut a few doors in her face. Mariona held lots of keys and she used them at will.