Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing

by Teresa Solana

  “I agree.”

  The waiter came and put the bill on the table.

  “Are you missing your old job?” I asked as I searched for my wallet. “It’s been almost two years since you…”

  “Not at all, and even less so after that little chat with Arnau’s teacher!”

  In the days when I was still earning my bread in a bank, before Pep returned to Barcelona transformed into Borja, Monte worked as a school counsellor thanks to her degree in psychology. She too was bored with her job, and, as soon as she could, she did what I had done and changed her lifestyle. She and some friends opened up the Alternative Centre for Holistic Well-being in Gràcia, close to the plaça de la Virreina where, apart from selling beauty treatments using organic concoctions, they provided anti-smoking group therapy and yoga and meditation courses.

  “I must be off. I have a session,” she said, looking at her watch and putting out her cigarette.

  “I expect I’ll be back late tonight. We’re going for a drink with that girlfriend of Borja’s.”

  “Merche?” she scowled.

  “No, Mariona Castany. It’s to do with our new case.”

  “Your partner’s affair with Lola will end in disaster. You do realize that, don’t you?” she sighed.

  “Don’t be such a spoilsport.”

  5

  As it was still early, I took a leisurely stroll home and had a delicious siesta. When I woke up, it was almost six o’clock. I didn’t want to be late, so I leapt out of bed and scrambled around in the wardrobe for something decent to wear to cocktails with that sophisticate Mariona. I rolled up at Borja’s at a quarter to seven and he, too, looked as if he’d just got out of the sack.

  “You by yourself?” I asked when he opened the door.

  “Yes.”

  “So, was it lunch with Merche?”

  Borja nodded.

  “We went to the Port Olímpic. I think she’s rumbled me.”

  “About you and Lola?”

  “She suspects there’s another woman. And I thought Merche wasn’t the jealous kind!” he sighed.

  “What did you expect? You’ll have to choose sooner or later. You can’t sustain this situation for much longer.”

  “It’s late. I need to have a shower,” he replied, changing the subject.

  While Borja was sprucing himself up, I switched on the TV and zapped for a while. The princess in town was over the moon with her latest face; a footballer had cheated on his teenage sweetheart with a famous model; the octogenarian Duchess of Alba was as happy as a lark with her young, proletarian fiancé. More of the usual. The usual circus programmed to keep our eyes on the box. Our daily ration of fantasy.

  A few minutes later, Borja appeared showered, dressed and scented – overly so, for my taste.

  “Like my shirt?” he asked.

  “Very smart. Where did you pick that up?”

  Borja had opted for black jeans and a mauve shirt.

  “I snaffled it the other day in Gonzalo Comella on the Via Augusta,” he confessed.

  “Pep!…”

  “It cost a fortune.”

  “One of these days they’ll catch you.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m a dab hand at it,” he said, smiling as he admired himself in the mirror.

  I sighed. Designer wear is one of Borja’s vices, but he can’t afford such luxuries, so instead loots expensive shops. His other vice is taking other people’s overcoats and umbrellas from restaurants when he lunches out, and he has an impressive array in his flat. Still smiling, he put on a sea-blue jersey and took another look in the mirror to be sure he liked his ensemble. Then he gave me the once-over and nodded.

  We decided to take the car, but rather than driving straight to the Gimlet we made a detour via the office to look at the lie of the land. The police cars and bystanders had gone, and we didn’t stop. We reached the cocktail bar early and, while waiting for Mariona, ordered a couple of gin and tonics, light on the gin. Our friend arrived at five past eight, in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt that emphasized her svelte body, which remained in good shape. After giving us a couple of pecks on the cheek, she flopped down on a chair and tetchily ordered a Singapore sling.

  “I am up to here with my friends!” she huffed. “All they can talk about is who has just died or who is about to. It is awfully depressing.”

  “You need a boyfriend, Mariona. Or two,” quipped Borja, shaking his head. Mariona has been a widow for three years although it’s rumoured she’s been having an affair with a famous city architect for the past fifteen.

  “Shut up about boyfriends! What are you two into at the moment? A new case?”

  “Not exactly a case, Mariona. You know we’re not detectives,” replied Borja with another shake of the head. “But we do have an assignment. We’ve been contracted to… How should I put this?…”

  “To do some research?” she suggested.

  “Yes, something of the sort. It’s Teresa Solana, that writer I asked you about the other day. She wants to write a novel about alternative therapies and has contracted us to do her field work.”

  “About alternative therapies?” queried Mariona, raising her eyebrows, as if she didn’t understand.

  “Well, the ambience in places that programme these therapies. Or more precisely the feel of one such centre on the upper side.”

  “I get you. And that’s why you wanted to speak to me, I imagine?” she asked, gulping down the cocktail that had just arrived.

  “Well, Mariona rules above the Diagonal. You’re the queen.”

  Mariona burst out laughing and ran her fingers through her long, silvery waves of hair. Then she threw herself back, like a grande dame of the stage, and said, “There’s a centre near my house that is very fashionable. It’s called Zen Moments. By the by, an architect friend of mine designed the building. He even got a prize for his pains.”

  “And what do they do?” I asked.

  “Oh, a bit of everything: meditation, yoga, massage. But it’s a serious establishment, you know? No happy endings. The doctor that runs it is Horaci Bou.” And she added, with a Cheshire-cat grin: “He is peculiar.”

  “This sounds like just what we’re after,” I replied.

  “They rake it in,” speculated Borja, always keen on the financial angle.

  “I suppose they do. They have lots of takers.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  “I have very occasionally accompanied a friend for a spot of meditation, but the truth is I find these things very boring. Besides, I have a gym at home and a personal trainer who is most becoming.”

  “Ah, so you know the people who run the place?” Borja asked.

  “Of course! I bump into Dr Bou and his wife at parties. They aren’t one of us,” she specified, “but are very well connected and never miss an opportunity for self-promotion. What’s more, they belong to the tennis club.” She was referring, of course, to the Royal Tennis Club, that much I knew because I’d been there a few times with Borja.

  “Where is the centre?” Borja asked.

  “It’s on Escoles Pies. I told you it was practically next door to my house.”

  “And do you know if you need a recommendation to get in?”

  “No, it’s not a club,” answered Mariona, shaking her head. “I think you simply need to be well-heeled, as I believe they charge the earth. In any case, if you need endorsing you can mention my name. I am sure they will be thrilled if you say I sent you.”

  “You’re wonderful, Mariona. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  Mariona insisted on ordering another round and, as it was a warm evening, she suggested sitting on the terrace so she could smoke. Borja and I exchanged anxious glances because the advance from Teresa Solana had flown and our current capital amounted to forty euros.

  “Now, that’s more like it!” chirped Mariona after a couple of puffs.

  The second glass brought with it the inside story on various individuals I’d never
heard of and on places that I’d never set foot in. On the other hand, Borja seemed to know the lot and hung on Mariona’s every word with genuine interest while I tried to hide the fact I was bored out of my mind and fought off my yawns. When we finally finished our drinks and the time came to pay, Mariona took the bill and insisted on paying. Borja made gentlemanly noises of dissent, but was sensible enough to be less assertive than usual.

  “All right, this time, I’ll allow you to be an emancipated lady and pay for us,” he said, almost as if he were doing her a favour.

  Mariona paid with her magical gold card and we all three got up from our chairs. As it was her chauffeur’s day off and she had come by taxi, Borja offered to drive her home in his Smart. Initially, Mariona refused, arguing that the three of us couldn’t cram into the car, but I said I felt like a walk and they shouldn’t worry on my account. In fact, I was tired and the gin and tonics had gone to my head, and the last thing I felt like was a long walk home. As soon as they were out of sight I went off to catch the bus, hoping that Montse had taken pity on me and got dinner ready. The bus dawdled and when I walked through the door, the Spanish omelette Joana had cooked was no more and I had to make do with a miserable sandwich.

  6

  The next morning Borja was due to pick me up on the way to visit the centre Mariona had recommended. We had an appointment for eleven and it was a quarter to when the bell rang. I assumed it to be him and I answered “I’ll be down right away!” not thinking to ask who it was, but the second I opened the door, I regretted I hadn’t. The man waiting in the street wasn’t my brother but a young, tall, burly mosso d’esquadra who immediately asked if I was Mr Eduard Martínez. When I finally stammered that I was he, he said that Inspector Badia wanted to talk to me and invited me in a threatening voice to get into the patrol car parked opposite.

  While I walked towards the car, praying that no neighbour was watching and rushing to phone Montse or, even worse, my mother-in-law, I saw Borja was already inside, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, as the English say.

  “Are we under arrest?” I whispered after I’d sat down next to him.

  “No. At least I don’t think so. Apparently the Inspector wants a word with us,” he whispered back.

  “Did they say why?”

  “They don’t know. The Inspector told them to take us to the headquarters on Les Corts, and that it was urgent.”

  “Shit!”

  We were back in it. I scowled out of the window and muttered that this was the last time I took any notice of my brother. How could I let him dupe me like that? I should have known Borja’s bright ideas are never the solution, but simply the quickest way to create more hassle.

  “We still don’t know what it’s all about,” he hissed when he saw me looking so appalled. “So please, let’s not get into a stress. And you leave the talking to me.”

  We didn’t say another word and both of us pretended to look out of the window. I am sure Borja was also speculating that the police might have found out we’d been to the American’s flat on Monday morning and, reasonably enough, deduced that we were involved in his murder. On the other hand, I couldn’t help thinking it was really strange that Brian Morgan had entrusted my brother with the keys to his flat, and that Borja, to complicate our lives even more, had decided to hide an antique there that was surely stolen or smuggled goods.

  “Above all, you have never heard of Brian and have never set foot in his flat,” repeated Borja before we alighted.

  My legs felt weak. It was my second visit to the police station on Les Corts in six months, and I was scared we’d both leave in handcuffs. Inspector Badia’s frosty manner and extreme politeness gave me the shivers. Ever since that day he summoned us to his office to tell us he knew Borja was using a name that wasn’t the one on his ID card, and that he and I were brothers and that the fraud consultancy we claimed we ran was a company that didn’t exist, I knew that sooner or later he’d have it in for us. On that occasion, the Inspector had more important matters to attend to, but the fact he had us taped was hardly comforting. Borja was also stressed out. Quite unawares, he’d started biting his nails.

  The secretary told us we’d have to wait because the Inspector was on the phone and she pointed us towards some chairs. Borja and I obediently sat down next to each other under her beady eye. After ten minutes that seemed like an eternity, the office door opened and the Inspector stuck his head out.

  “Please do come in. I am so grateful you were able to make it,” he said affably, disconcerting us even more.

  “Always ready to be of help, Inspector,” replied Borja, trying to recover his sangfroid and shaking the Inspector’s hand.

  “I hoped you weren’t alarmed because I sent a patrol car,” the Inspector smiled. “I thought it would save time. But do come in, I beg you.”

  When you aren’t sure what it’s all about, best keep your mouth shut. That’s what Borja always said and we both knew we should say nothing until the Inspector showed his cards.

  “I suppose you’ve heard what happened in the building where you have your office,” he began, watching to see how we reacted.

  The Inspector stared at Borja and, immediately afterwards, trained his cold, blue eyes on me. Unlike my brother, I couldn’t stand his accusing look and cowered like a little kid who’d been caught up to no good.

  “What happened?” asked Borja, sounding surprised.

  “Ah, so you didn’t know?”

  “No,” we both chorused.

  “So when was the last time you went to your office?”

  Borja put on his innocent angel face and looked as if he was remembering hard, trying to gain time to formulate a plausible response that wouldn’t make life difficult for us.

  “We were there Monday morning,” he said finally. “We had an appointment with a writer. A friend of yours, I believe, Teresa Solana.”

  “But, of course, Teresa…” replied the Inspector, sprawling back in his chair. “I hope you didn’t mind me mentioning your name to her.”

  “On the contrary,” said Borja. “We are always delighted to help out when we can.”

  “She sometimes drops in when she wants information for one of her books. She told me her new novel is something to do with alternative therapies and I thought you might be able to give her a hand.”

  “Yes, we did see eye to eye,” Borja replied enigmatically.

  The Inspector sprawled back yet again and rubbed his hands together.

  “So you’ve not been back to the office since Monday morning?” he continued.

  “The fact is we were intending to go yesterday afternoon, but in the end we had a drink with Mariona Castany at the Gimlet and it got very late,” explained Borja, reminding the Inspector of his friendship with one of the wealthiest women in Barcelona. The Inspector took note.

  “A neighbour of yours has been murdered,” he let drop. “By the name of Brian Morgan.”

  Borja and I pretended to be shocked.

  “Really?”

  “First I’ve heard of it,” I lied.

  “What on earth happened?” enquired Borja, slightly overreacting.

  “The concierge found him a couple of evenings ago. He’d been dead for over a week.”

  “Poor woman! She must have got the fright of her life!” said Borja, shaking his head as if he was really upset.

  “You didn’t notice anything that morning when you went to your office?” The Inspector’s gentle tone contrasted with his icy glare.

  “No,” we both shook our heads.

  “When the concierge started her afternoon shift, she noticed there was a stink on the staircase. She walked upstairs to see where it was coming from and found the door to your neighbour’s flat wide open. The stink was coming from inside.”

  “Well, we didn’t notice a thing,” Borja replied hastily. “Did we, Eduard?”

  “No, nothing at all.”

  “The concierge says there was no smell in the morning,” continued the
Inspector. “When did you two gentlemen leave the building?”

  Borja stared up at the ceiling, making it plain he was still trying hard to remember.

  “It must have been half past one, because the concierge had gone for lunch,” he said in the end. In fact, we can’t have left the flat until about four, what with cleaning Brian Morgan’s flat and waiting for the locksmith.

  “That means the door to the victim’s flat must have been shut and someone must have opened it between half past one and five,” deduced the Inspector, jotting on a sheet of paper. “That was why the stench had reached the staircase.”

  “Have you caught the culprit?” asked Borja.

  “Not yet. My men are pretty good, but not that good!” the Inspector exclaimed with a smile. “In fact, Mr Masdéu, that’s why I had you brought in.”

  When the Inspector persisted in addressing Borja by his fictitious name, although he knew he was a Martínez and that we were brothers, I felt we were done for. I was sure he had it in for us.

  “Mr Masdéu, a neighbour living in the building opposite swears she saw you opening and closing the windows in the victim’s flat on Monday morning.” The Inspector suddenly changed his expression and looked extremely severe. Borja went bright red. I turned white.

  “Come off it!” was my brother’s immediate reaction. “The only windows I opened were in our office. The neighbour must have mixed them up.”

  “Mixed them up?”

  “Yes, as our office windows are right under the windows in the dining room of that Brian…”

  “So you have been inside Mr Morgan’s flat. Or at least his dining room…” retorted the Inspector.

  “Well, yes, I mean no, obviously not,” mumbled Borja nervously. “I imagined the windows overlooking the street are in the dining room. Or am I mistaken?”

  The Inspector stared through Borja, but said nothing.

  “Did you know the victim?” was his only response.

  “Not really. We may have passed him on the stairs now and then,” said Borja.