Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  I left the writing, showered and dressed. After I read it slowly. I showed it to my aunt. She read through twice and put it down.

  “Where do you think this is coming from? I have no knowledge of living through this scene. It seems to come from another time.”

  “I experience it as a beautiful expression of a little girl, sitting under a tree, whilst her father works in the field and then they have lunch together. Tomorrow I might read something else into it. You might interpret it differently altogether; perhaps a message about the relationship between the earth and sun, mother and father. It could even be a missive on polarity; the power of opposites and the movement of life between. It does not matter where the text comes from or why, we could speculate endlessly on that, all that matters is what it conveys to each of us now.”

  Dorothy smiled and got up to brew a pot of tea. When she came back I changed to a new topic that had been playing on my mind.

  “I want to see the footage of the man walking to and from the van where I was attacked.”

  “Have you thought of something new?”

  “I notice that Edward continually fiddles with his glasses, particularly when he is nervous. If that was Edward I am sure I would recognise the way he adjusts his glasses.”

  “That man wore sunglasses. Does Edward have a pair of dark spectacles he uses for the sun?”

  “I’ll ask Edwina.”

  Edwina confirmed Edward did have a pair of black framed sunglasses with long sighted lenses. I phone Detective Inspector David Williams and arranged to go to the police station for a viewing of the footage.

  “Whilst you are there you might ask if they have any more information on the woman in that photograph. What was her name?”

  “Oh yes, Claudia.”

  Sergeant Gough met me in the reception area and led me through to a viewing room. A constable then played me the CCTV footage. It started with the man on the train platform, walking through the ticket hall, walking along streets, then running away into a crowd, walking fast back to the tube station and back through the ticket hall. In all that time I did not see the man touch his sunglasses.

  “That’s all we have,” Gough informed me.

  “I don’t think it is Edward.”

  “Why?” the sergeant looked surprised.

  “I have observed Edward closely and I’ve noticed he compulsively fidgets with his glasses. Adjusts them, cleans them, takes them off, puts them back on. You know what I mean. This man does not touch his.”

  “Constable, can you get me the interview footage.”

  Janet brought us cups of tea whilst we waited. The acrid black liquid in a plastic cup was revolting. I put mine to one side. How my tastes had changed. We looked at the images of Edward looking frightened as Williams grilled him with questions. We both saw Edward unable to leave his glasses alone.

  “It’s not conclusive, but it certainly adds weight to the view that we need to keep looking for another suspect. I’ll pass this on to Sergeant Smiley.”

  “Talking of another suspect, I showed Sergeant Smiley a photo where the girlfriend of Mathew’s ex-wife appears to be spying on us. He said he would look into it.”

  “Yes, I think I remember her name. Sergeant Smiley sent me an email about her. Let me see.”

  Janet Gough opened her laptop.

  “Here we are. According to the Italian police she was convicted of grievous bodily harm and assault, I think twelve years ago, and her brother is currently serving a sentence for murder. The whole family was caught up in organised crime. However, Miss Tagliabue has been out of trouble since. I’ve never been to Venice. I think I will arrange to interview her.”

  On the way home I phoned Ruby and arranged to meet her at our café. What had become our preferred table was free and we sat surveying the menus. After we ordered I looked at Ruby. She looked up.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just looking.”

  I smiled and Ruby laughed.

  “And what do you see with those magical eyes?”

  “The most beautiful green eyes. The window to your glowing soul.”

  “Oh God, you’ve turned into a happy-clappy religious nut. Now you’ll stare into people’s eyes wearing that insane grin, dishing out salvation.”

  I laughed.

  “Well, it beats fretting about being attacked, resenting Mathew and thinking myself into an early grave.”

  “Whatever makes you happy, you poor deluded fool,” Ruby quipped, as she put her hand on mine. “You know I’ll still love you.”

  “So how’s life?”

  “Hey, one day at a time. That’s your mantra, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Today is going well and I’m having fun with you.”

  “Would you like another treatment this afternoon?”

  “Now, that would spoil it!”

  We laughed. After Ruby left, I packed for my early flight to Barcelona.

  CHAPTER 23

  The flight to Spain gave me time to think. My motivation was to find out more about Mathew’s past and see if this led me to his killer and the person sending me threatening letters. I dozed listening to “Nothing Compares 2 U” by Sinéad O’Conner.

  I felt the warm, Spanish spring air blow my hair as I stepped out of the plane door. I wheeled my luggage to the waiting bus and stood near the door hanging onto the overhead rail. It felt good to bend my knees and stretch my shoulders.

  I checked into the small hotel I had booked on the Internet. The bedroom was basic but functional for my needs. I showered, changed and set out for a sightseeing tour. Every now and then I stopped to read the street names and reorient myself on my map. I organised my trip to pass Bar Fornos. The bar was set in the old part of Barcelona, about halfway along a busy narrow street full of small shops. Washing lines crossed the street above. Brightly coloured towels, sheets and clothes blowing in the wind against the bright blue background, created the appearance of vivid banners waving from the sky. I looked down and watched their shadows ripple across the cobbles. The walls of the old buildings were a mix of browns, yellows and beige, making a more neutral backdrop for the mass of colourful people in the street.

  I went into Bar Fornos and sat near the street. I ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water. I looked around. The bar had blue and cream tiled walls with a white tiled floor. The floor looked as though it had been recently laid. The small tables and chairs were made of dark wood. The long, mahogany bar ran down the right side of the room. The wall behind the bar supported shelves holding a colourful array of bottles of alcohol. Behind the glass bottles were mirrors, creating the illusion that the room was much wider than it was. Below there was an espresso machine and rows of glasses and cups on the counter. There was a large screen at the back showing a football match.

  My stomach fluttered with a nervous anticipation. Did I really want to know about Mathew’s history? I tried to imagine Mathew standing behind the bar and waiting on tables. Did he wear a black apron and white shirt? I wondered whether he ever was a buyer for a clothing store. Was it all a lie? Was our relationship an even bigger lie? My mind returned to the Swiss postcard. I could feel myself getting upset, so I paid and left.

  I walked back towards the centre to look at some of Gaudi’s architecture. I took lots of photographs and marvelled at the beauty of the curves and free flowing façades that blended into the cubic forms so harmoniously. I found the tiny shops charming. Some were only the width of two doors. I passed a tiny wool shop. I went in and bought deep reds, orange, brown and fawn shades, reflecting the colours of the city. Then I chose a variety of blue and cream balls of wool for Dorothy. I found a pattern that looked simple enough for me and purchased it with a pair of knitting needles.

  In the early evening I tried various restaurants, but nothing opened for another two hours. Finally I passed a Japanese restaurant with signs of life inside and sat down to eat sushi. I smiled at the thought of coming all this way and eating foreign cuisine
. In the evening I sat in my room listening to music.

  I woke feeling rested. My morning started in a nearby café. I surveyed the street. This was Mathew’s city for a while. What would you have recommended, Mathew? What would have been your historical tour? Which cultural centres would you have taken me to? Then I wondered about the other women he must have been with here. Would he have taken them on picnics like he used to with me?

  I set off along the same route as the previous day. I arrived at Bar Fornos around midmorning. It looked quiet. This time I felt calmer and stronger inside. I walked to the bar and asked the young man behind if I could speak to the owner.

  “Sure, you can speak to him, but I don’t think he can speak to you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He doesn’t speak English,” the man said, laughing.

  I smiled and instantly warmed to his friendly face.

  He turned and shouted out, “Josep.”

  A stout, middle-aged man came through the doorway at the rear. He wiped his hands on a white linen cloth that was tucked into his waistband. “Qué pasa?” he cried out impatiently.

  The young man turned to me smiling. “He says, ‘What happens.’”

  I took a photograph of Mathew out of my bag.

  “Could you please ask him if he knows this man? He may have worked here.”

  The barman shouted out to the owner and pointed at the photograph. The owner marched over to the bar and took a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket. He looked at the photograph, then at me and then spoke rapidly to the younger man. I became slightly defensive, drawing my emotions deeper inside me. The young man spoke to me.

  “He wants to know who you are and how you know this man.”

  The older man stared at me intently. I swallowed and stammered slightly.

  “My name is Amanda. I used to be his wife.”

  Josep looked startled as he listened to the translation of this news. He said something to the younger man and then looked at me. He raised his hands, clicked his tongue and looked down. Then he motioned me to a table by the wall.

  “Señora, por favor.”

  I sat down and put my bag on my lap. Josep walked over, followed by the younger man. Josep looked as though he had spent too much time in his own bar. His abdomen protruded and hung over the waist of his trousers. He had bags under his eyes and his round cheeks sagged slightly. Josep did have an impressive full head of black hair. He spoke to the young man.

  “Josep Fornos asks, do you mind if I join you and translate?’”

  In contrast the young man was tall and slim. He wore a white cotton shirt and black trousers. He had black curly hair, a thin moustache and goatee.

  “No, I really appreciate your help.”

  He held out his hand.

  “I am Francesc.”

  We clasped each other’s hand for a moment. Francesc’s palms were hot and dry. He sat down. Josep called out to the back of the bar and a girl came to our table. Josep insisted I had something to drink and eat. I ordered mint tea and an apple. Francesc laughed.

  “This is very strange for us. We like coffee.”

  The girl left. I smiled. Josep spoke abruptly in Catalan and Francesc snapped into a more serious stance.

  “Josep is asking why you are here.”

  “My husband, Mathew Blake, or I suppose Ramon Vilanova, as he was called here, was murdered last autumn.”

  Francesc translated. I listened to the urgent whine of a coffee grinder and smelt the roasted beans. Then Josep looked at me.

  “Si, ya lo sabir. Mi mas sentido pesame.”

  “He offers you his deepest condolences. We know of this. Ramon was Josep’s cousin. Friends in London told us. Ramon used to work here. We are all sad about it.”

  Francesc had to raise his voice over the espresso machine. It felt weird calling Mathew ‘Ramon,’ but I persevered.

  “Since Ramon was shot, I have been receiving threatening letters. I thought I would try and find out more about Mathew’s – I mean Ramon’s – past. See if it helps catch his killer and the person chasing me.”

  As Francesc translated, a dark shadow of tension crossed Josep’s face. He then spoke to the young man. Francesc said something back, gesticulating with big, open movements of his hands.

  “Josep says, ‘Ramon is family. We have friends in London who can make enquiries. We did not know about these threats. Have you been harmed?’”

  The coffees and my tea arrived.

  “Yes, I was attacked in London. The man hit me, sexually assaulted me and stole my money. He had a gun and shot it at me. The same gun that killed my husband.”

  I felt a tightness in my chest as I described the attack again. As Francesc translated, Josep started rubbing his temples as if a headache was coming on. I could hear the sound of the Spanish football commentator in the background. Josep drank a shot of espresso and spoke briefly to Francesc who translated.

  “What did the man who attacked you look like?”

  “About a head taller than me, broader shoulders, smelt of alcohol. I could not see much he was behind me and it was dark in the van. He had a black wool hat, sunglasses and gloves.”

  Before translating, Francesc asked me the man’s age.

  “Hard to tell. Somewhere between twenty and forty.”

  Josep and Francesc then had a fairly long conversation. I wish I had studied Spanish or Catalan. As they went back and forth, Josep became agitated. Francesc seemed to be trying to reason with him. With his sweeping hand gestures Francesc seemed to expand to twice his size. Josep looked constrained. Josep finished his coffee and slammed the cup onto the table. Francesc put his hand on Josep’s upper arm as if to reassure him, but Josep pushed him away. The commentator was shouting and then screamed “Goal” at the top of his voice. Josep turned to face the television. Someone had scored a goal and slow motion replays showed the ball being passed diagonally across the goalmouth, and a player wearing a dark purple top and black shorts run and chip the ball over the keeper. Three men sitting near the screen broke into excited conversation pointing to something they had seen. Francesc touched my arm.

  “It is a repeat. If this was live, the bar would be full and exploded. I am sorry about Josep. He is a family man and your news upsets him.”

  Josep turned back. He looked calmer as he spoke to Francesc.

  “Okay, Josep wants to know how long will you be here in Barcelona.”

  “I return to London in three days.”

  I wondered whether I had just given out too much information. After a brief conversation, Francesc turned to me.

  “Josep will phone family in London and see if he can find out about this man who is hurting you. He says he wants you to come back tomorrow at this time so he can talk again. Maybe he has some news.”

  It sounded like dialogue from a mafia film. Josep, the bar and the turn in the conversation were so distant from the sophisticated, cultured Mathew I knew. I tried to imagine him hanging out here, watching football with Josep. It did not fit.

  “Excuse me, Francesc. Can Josep tell me more about Ramon? I only know him from England. I know nothing of his past. I was hoping he could tell me a little about his life in Argentina and here.”

  This provoked another long conversation. I wondered how one simple translation could turn into such a big discussion. The espresso machine was busy again and I focussed on the smell of coffee whilst I waited for them to finish.

  “Josep says he will try to answer your questions tomorrow. He is sorry, but he must leave.”

  Josep stood up, shook my hand curtly, looked into my eyes and walked to the door at the rear. I turned to Francesc.

  “Did you know Ramon?”

  “Yes, but I was only nine. I think I remember him at the bar here. My mother said he was a good dancer. He played music here sometimes. We did not hear from him for a long time and people say he is snobbish. He does not even see our friends in London.” Francesc put his finger under his nose and pushed it
up as he said ‘snobbish.’ Then he looked embarrassed. “I am sorry, I should not have said that.”

  I remembered Mathew complaining that my friend, Sophie, had the cultural sophistication of a footballer. I smiled.

  “How are you related?”

  “From a long way. My mother’s sister married Josep’s brother. We are not blood brothers but here we like big families, so any connection is good.”

  “Your English is excellent.”

  “Thank you. I live in London for two years. I only came back recently.”

  Francesc stood up and I gathered my things. When I had everything, he clasped my hand, shot me a big smile and I left. As I walked along the narrow street under the colourful washing drying in the sun, I felt disorientated, as though my insides had been jumbled up. Somehow my past didn’t make sense. I looked round suddenly to check I was not being followed. There was something sinister about these friends in London. Perhaps I would have been more comfortable if they had names, or if they had explained how they are connected. I walked to a park and found a bench in the sun. I phoned Dorothy and told her of my encounter.

  “Goodness Amanda, this opens a whole new avenue. Try to find out some of the names of the relations living in London. And how are you feeling, my dear?”

  I tried to describe my feelings.

  “I think I would find a homely café, enjoy a cup of tea,” Dorothy confided.

  “I do have my knitting with me.”

  “Treat yourself to a relaxing afternoon, dear, and enjoy Barcelona.”

  I told her about the wool shop. After we finished talking I walked towards the harbour and found a seafood restaurant for lunch. Then I walked for a while and followed my aunt’s advice. I found a small café and looked at my knitting pattern as I prepared my wool and needles, a woman at the next table smiled. She leant across felt a ball of wool and said something. I told her I did not speak Spanish.