A Shortcut to Paradise (27 page)

“We're here to help throw light on the murder of Marina Dolç,” he said with surprising sang-froid as he accepted the Inspector's invitation to sit down. “Is my name that important?”

“That depends,” the Inspector replied in that same soft tone. “What do
you
think?”

“I think that if you had believed my name is important and I'd infringed the law in some way, you would have arrested me by now,” he replied very intelligently.

“I suppose, Mr Masdéu and Mr Martínez, that some day the taxman will scare the pants off you.” The Inspector acted as if he was about to smile but it came to nothing. “We're too busy here for the moment. Tell me what I can do for you.”

“In fact,” my brother boasted, “we're the ones who can do something for you. We know who killed Marina Dolç.”

“Oh, so that's it, is it? You're on the late side, because we know too. Indeed, Mr Masdéu, we not only know who it is, but we have him locked up in the Model. Or don't you read the newspapers?”

“You are wrong. It wasn't Amadeu Cabestany. If you have five minutes, we'll tell you why,” my brother retaliated.

“Five minutes sounds about right,” said the Inspector with a hint of a smile. I felt he was playing with us.

Borja took a breath and told him succinctly that we were working for Clàudia Agulló, that we'd reconstructed the events at the Ritz the previous day and had drawn a few conclusions. He told him the theory developed by Lluís Arquer (without mentioning his name), and how we'd reached the conclusion that Oriol Sureda was guilty. Borja said nothing about the call from the mugger. I suppose he was keeping that card up his sleeve as a last resort.

“Yes,” replied the Inspector, “we are aware you are working for Clàudia Agulló. And that you were also a decisive factor in wrapping up the Lídia Font murder case,” the Inspector continued unperturbed. “The truth is, Mr Masdéu, that we know lots about you both after your involvement in that case. Right down to the colour of your underpants.”

Borja turned red again and swallowed. I saw myself handcuffed and on my way to the Carrer Entença and my legs went all wobbly. Fortunately the Inspector didn't seem at all interested in me and only spoke to Borja.

“The colour of my underpants,” retorted Borja, recovering from that cheap jibe, “is irrelevant. We can discuss that later, if you so wish, but what I just told you is that we have discovered who killed Marina Dolç.”

Inspector Badia smiled, clasped his hands above the table and rested his chin on them. He was like a teacher about to give a student his end-of-term mark.

“I might agree that everything you've just told me is eminently reasonable. Indeed ingenious and reasonable. But you have no evidence. Not a shred.”

“That's why we are here.”

“And besides” – the Inspector wasn't at all amused by that interruption – “your point of departure is that Amadeu Cabestany is innocent. We start from the opposite hypothesis.”

“Yes, a hypothesis that is simply based on the statements from a number of witnesses who say Amadeu Cabestany was incensed by the fact he'd not won the prize.”

“That and the fact he threatened her in front of everyone,” the Inspector reminded us.

Borja hesitated for a few moments. He'd no choice but to produce the ace from his sleeve.

“Do you think any of that would change if I told you we have a witness who can corroborate Amadeu Cabestany's alibi?”

“A witness?” Now the Inspector did seem interested.

“We have the man who mugged Amadeu Cabestany at around 2 a.m.,” Borja purred, waiting for the Inspector to react.

“The mugger? You know the mugger?” the Inspector blurted out. This time he did seem to be taking us seriously. “Mr Masdéu, you are a constant source of surprises.”

“We don't exactly know him, but I've spoken to him by phone,” my brother continued. “As it would appear you know everything, I suppose you will be aware that Amadeu's agent, Clàudia Agulló, put some ads in the daily papers to try to track down a witness who'd seen Amadeu that night.”

“I seem to recall that the contact mobile number was in the name of one Josep Martínez Estivill,” he corroborated sarcastically. “We decided it wasn't necessary to ask the judge's permission to tap your phone.”

“So he phoned me. The other day. The mugger phoned me. But I don't know what his name is or how to find him.”

“It could have been anyone,” the Inspector replied, shrugging his shoulders. “And if the only evidence you have is that a stranger you can't locate telephoned you and told you he was the person who perpetrated the robbery…”

“He told me what he was wearing on the night and his statement matches the one Cabestany made to the police.”

Inspector Badia looked serious. He and Borja were level pegging.

“I'd rather not know how you got access to the police reports. Using a pseudonym is no crime but spying on police activities could cost you dear, Mr Masdéu.”

“He isn't a professional criminal,” my brother continued, ignoring that subtle threat. “That's why he phoned. He was in dire straits, he needed money and he had the bright idea of going to Up & Down to mug someone. He says he used a toy pistol. He thought Amadeu Cabestany was a wealthy man.”

“I can see you are on the same wavelength,” observed the Inspector ironically. “Mr Masdéu also wants to live north of the Diagonal.”

“The individual in question is ready to give himself up if he has no other option, but the fact is I really feel for him. I assured him I would find Marina Dolç's murderer and he wouldn't have to go to the police,” said my brother as if that was a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

Inspector Badia peered at Borja as an entomologist might scrutinize a rare species of beetle and said nothing. It was obvious my brother had aroused his curiosity although he still hadn't managed to classify him. I don't think he was disgusted by him but I'm equally sure he didn't really warm to him. He was simply a representative of a species the Inspector was unaccustomed to seeing.

“So why do you do all this, Mr Masdéu?” he finally asked. “Why do you take pity on a petty criminal? Solidarity amongst thieves?”

“Because he was a poor man.” My brother didn't hesitate over his reply. “If he gives himself up, his life will be thrown into turmoil. And he
is
prepared to do that. But if the police arrest the real murderer of Marina Dolç…”

“And, to follow your drift, Mr Masdéu, what are you suggesting we do?” Our five minutes were long past.

“Search Oriol Sureda's home. You've said yourself that my explanation is entirely reasonable.”

The Inspector hesitated for a second.

“If we accept that Amadeu Cabestany is innocent, and if we accept that Marina Dolç's watch didn't break when she fell to the ground, and if we consider that Mr Sureda's watch battery hadn't run out… Too many
ifs
. The judge won't countenance it.”

“So then you'll fuck up that poor guy's life but you'll still have to release Amadeu Cabestany and Marina Dolç's killer will go scot-free,” Borja challenged him.

“You'd better change your tone,” the Inspector interrupted him drily. “Don't forget you're talking to an inspector of the
Mossos d'Esquadra
.”

My brother can be rash. It's one thing to pull Mariona's leg, who I'm sure is happy for him to do that, but quite another to take on an arrogant, cold fish of a policeman. Just in case, I was saying nothing, just in case, and praying their exchange would soon be at an end.

“So why
do
you do all this, Mr Masdéu?” he asked again. “After all, Clàudia Agulló contracted you to
prove Amadeu Cabestany's innocence. If it's true you have found a witness to back up his alibi, you two have done your job. From what you tell me, you don't know this man. Why all the deviousness? Why risk coming to see me? What do
you
hope to get out of this?”

Borja adopted his offended gentleman's stance and stared the Inspector in the eye.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. This is a question of principles.”

“Oh, principles, is it? I get you, Mr Borja Masdéu Canals Sáez de Astorga,” he said, consulting the papers in a brown folder on his desk. “So it's all down to a question of principles…”

“No.” My brother was almost solemn. “You understand nothing. There are things in life that are important and things that aren't. If we,” he said, referring to me and him, “give the impression we have a company that in fact we do not have in an office that isn't what it appears to be, and if we earn a few euros on the side following the wife of a top executive who goes to the gym too often, or find out what a politician's adolescent daughter gets up to after class, that's not important. You must think we deceive people and defraud the state, but all my brother and I are trying to do is to try to survive. You know perfectly well that the top executive or politician who contracts us defrauds and deceives much more than we ever do, and certainly does much worse things” – the Inspector smiled – “Well” – Borja was on fire again – “if a poor man takes a wrong turning at a difficult moment in his life and we try to ensure he doesn't spend the rest of his life paying for it,
that
is really important. Why do I do this, Inspector? Because I know life isn't easy. Life is only easy for the rich.”

He said nothing for a few seconds. I'd been stunned by the way my brother had harangued the Inspector, who was obviously taken aback. I'd never heard him speak like that, and most surprising of all, my brother seemed to be totally genuine. It wasn't Borja speaking, but Pep, that same Pep who went to political meetings at the age of eighteen and ran in front of the fascist police. The same Pep who went abroad in flight from the dreary, routine life our uncle and aunt had planned out for him.

“Very well, Mr Masdéu.” The Inspector had turned serious now. “It goes like this: today is yours, tomorrow is mine.”

“I'm not sure I understand you.”

“I will secure a search warrant on Oriol Sureda's place and, in exchange, you'll return the favour some day.”

I looked at them both and pinched myself to check I wasn't dreaming. I couldn't believe my ears. The Inspector and Borja were doing a deal.

“And do I have to kiss your ring?” asked Borja with a grin, without sounding impertinent. He'd got all that off his chest and now seemed more relaxed.

The Inspector smiled again and ignored his comment.

“Let's simply agree that I'm doing Mr Borja Masdéu a favour and that Mr Borja Masdéu will be happy to cooperate with us one day when we're in need of a ruined high-society heir. What do you think?”

“It seems eminently reasonable to me,” replied my brother.

“Let's get to the point then,” he said, picking the phone up. “I've always had my doubts about Amadeu Cabestany. He doesn't look like a murderer. But it's also
very likely we won't find anything suspicious in Oriol Sureda's flat and that he won't confess. It's even possible it wasn't him.”

“In that case” – Borja's tone was much less strident now – “I'll ask you to do all you can to help the witness who will come forward and oblige you to release Amadeu Cabestany from prison.”

Inspector Badia nodded. A man of his word seemed to be lurking behind that vinegary countenance. He said goodbye to us as icily as he'd welcomed us and added he would give orders to allow us to be unofficially present during the search. He warned us not to say or do anything, unless the
mossos
themselves asked us to. He must have thought we were so involved in the case we might even be of use.

The next day, at 8 a.m. exactly, a detachment of
mossos
rang the bell to Oriol Sureda's flat, flourishing a search warrant, and, as nobody answered, the
mossos
opted to force the door open. Music was playing, which we later discovered was an aria from
Madame Butterfly
. It was the only sound to be heard. Borja and I nervously followed the
mossos
who were leading the way.

It was then we saw him. Oriol Sureda was in his pyjamas, crouching in a corner of the dining room, looking at us but seeing nothing. His face wore several days' stubble and he'd peed himself, judging by the stench in the room. The
mossos
stared at him, asked him a few questions, and, seeing he didn't respond, called an ambulance. They then searched the flat. It was a large flat, no doubt a family inheritance, and there were books everywhere. Initially nothing caught the
mossos
' attention, except for a locked room they decided to enter by force. This room was also full of books, shelved in double or triple rows, but the titles were very different to the ones in the rest of the house. That secret chamber contained the worst literature from the twentieth century, a surprising collection of the worst kind of best-seller that would give any cultured individual heart tremors. They were in the strictest alphabetical order, and Marina Dolç's works occupied pride of place on a single shelf. There were various editions of each of her books and many of the translated versions.

We shuddered and stumbled out of that room. The ambulance took twenty minutes to come and the nurses removed Oriol Sureda, who simply stared silently into the void, a look of terror on his face. We had now completed our assignment and once more we'd been successful, but it wasn't as if we could feel happy. Few things in life are more disturbing than the terrified gaze of a defenceless lunatic.