17
I got up late next morning. I was exhausted, and Montse, who suspected something dire had happened, let me sleep in and didn’t ask any questions. I was grateful. Borja had also declared he was going to spend the day resting at home, so when the phone rang at one o’clock, I wasn’t expecting it to be him.
“The Inspector has just phoned,” he fired away. “He wants to see us this afternoon.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes. He asked us to go at around five. He said he wants us to do him a favour.”
“A favour?” I repeated, slightly nonplussed.
“He was all over me. I don’t know what it’s all about.”
“Something to do with what happened yesterday in Poblenou?” I suggested. It was the most logical conclusion to draw.
“I hope not. He said it was to do with the murdered doctor.”
“You mean Horaci Bou, of Zen Moments fame?” I responded, rather surprised.
“That’s what he said. He wants to talk to us because we were at the centre the weekend of the murder and we know the course participants.”
I huffed and puffed.
“I don’t like the sound of it.”
“Nor do I.”
We both knew the Inspector was too wily to try to pull a fast one and that we had no choice but to go along with his request. We said nothing for a few seconds, our mobiles silent next to our ears, and then I asked, “So where shall we meet?”
My brother drove by in the Smart at half past four and we went to Les Corts together. This time the Inspector saw us straight away.
“Good heavens, Mr Masdéu! Whatever happened to you?” he asked, as he invited us into his office, with a broad smile I thought verged on the sarcastic.
“I tripped on a street where there were roadworks…” Borja started to explain.
“Which street?” asked the Inspector, looking at him incredulously over his spectacles.
“All right…” Borja smiled wanly. “Perhaps I was too familiar with a lady whose husband happened to be a prizefighter,” he continued, hoping that explanation would satisfy the Inspector.
“I’m with you,” nodded the Inspector, inviting us to take a seat.
“Well, here we are, Inspector,” began Borja. “You said it was in connection with the death of Dr Bou, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. And I am extremely grateful you were able to come so promptly,” said Inspector Badia, doing his best to sound pleasant.
“So, what’s the problem?” asked Borja, who, like me, was beginning to lose his patience because the Inspector was playing cat and mouse.
“My problem is that the case remains unsolved,” the policeman said, becoming very serious all of a sudden.
“You’re joking?” I exclaimed. “I thought the mossos arrested the guilty party on the day of the deed!” I added, recalling the sight of the miserable Alícia sobbing as she left the Centre in handcuffs.
“Yes, but the judge let her go. And we are sure it wasn’t in fact her.”
“How come? Her bag was full of paint sprays and more besides. I saw all the stuff she had!” I replied.
“Yes, so she could leave that graffiti and play all those practical jokes, as one might call them. She has confessed to that. But she did not kill Dr Bou. In fact, the doctor was already dead when she was plastering the walls.”
“Can you be sure of that?”
The Inspector shut his eyes and nodded.
“The forensic investigator has put the time of death between twelve and one a.m., and Alícia Cendra was on the phone from half past eleven to half past one. She did her paint spraying after that, when Dr Bou was already dead.”
“So, who was she on the phone to for all that time?” I asked, remembering that the use of mobiles was banned at Zen Moments and realizing I was the only one who’d taken the ban seriously.
“Oh, to loads of people!” said the Inspector, who had opened the dossier on his desk and started flicking through the papers it contained until he found what he was after. “First she spoke to her ex-sister-in-law, that was for fifty-six minutes; then she called a tarot number for them to read the cards for her – twenty-seven minutes; another girlfriend she spoke to for a mere twenty-two minutes and finally, at one twenty-five, she phoned back the friend she’d first spoken to, who had put the phone down on her.”
“Couldn’t she have killed him while on the phone?” Borja asked.
“No,” the Inspector shook his head. “Mrs Valèria Camps was in the room next door with her window open and heard the conversations. Indeed, at one o’clock she went and complained and asked her to stop shouting so much because she couldn’t get to sleep. Alícia Cendra has confirmed that. In fact,” the Inspector added, “they are the only people with cast-iron alibis.”
“What do you mean?”
“That currently we have a bunch of suspects who were asleep in their bedrooms without alibis!” exclaimed the Inspector with a deep sigh. “Including you two, naturally.”
“So, you see us as suspects?” asked Borja, shocked. “You can’t be serious?”
The Inspector stared at us for a few seconds with those cold, steely blue eyes that make me so nervous.
“Not really,” he said in the end, unable to avoid smiling at our reaction. “We’ve carried out a number of investigations, and, in principle, I don’t think either of you had any reason to murder him.”
“That’s lucky!” I yelped, relieved.
After all we’d been through over the last forty-eight hours, it would have been the last straw to be included on a list of murder suspects.
“We barely knew Dr Bou,” clarified Borja. “And if it hadn’t been for that assignment on behalf of Teresa Solana…”
“I know, I know. That’s why I want to ask you to do me a favour,” said the Inspector gently.
After a rather theatrical pause, the Inspector closed the dossier, sprawled back in his chair and wrung his hands.
“You won’t believe this but we, too, are affected by the new government’s cutbacks,” he began.
“Oh, really?” said Borja.
“I’ve lost staff who haven’t been replaced and have people off sick, and at the moment the murder squad can’t cope. I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot this spring. And to cap it all, I don’t know if you heard about the battle royale in the Poblenou the other day that ended in a total free-for-all…”
“I think I got a whiff of that,” replied a deadpan Borja.
“The truth is we’re not coping, and I thought you two could give us a hand. Quite off the record, of course.”
“Us?” I asked, astonished.
“Come, come, Mr Martínez, don’t be so modest.” The Inspector shook his head. “Additionally, I must declare a personal interest in this case.”
“Could I ask what that might be?” enquired Borja, as perplexed as I was.
“Dr Bou was the younger brother of Dr Virgili Bou, who saved my life years ago on the operating table – no need to go into the sordid details. I am very grateful to him and am keen to solve this case as soon as possible. It’s an open secret they couldn’t stand each other, but Dr Virgili has been quite shattered by his brother’s murder. Family is family, particularly when murder is involved…”
“So where do we come in?” I asked, not seeing what the Inspector was driving at.
“Unfortunately, as I’ve explained, my men can’t cover everything. What with people on sick leave, unfilled vacancies, the bloodbath in Poblenou and gender violence against women, we’re chasing our tails. And most of the eyewitnesses the detectives have interviewed clam up: nobody wants to talk to the police, let alone be mentioned on the television news.”
“I find that really odd,” Borja piped up. “People nowadays kill to get on TV.”
“Be that as it may,” the Inspector continued, “I’d thought that as you got to know these people when you were in the meditation centre the night Dr Bou was murdered, perhaps you could as
k them a few questions and see what you get out of them.”
“In what capacity would we do this?” I objected. “They are under no obligation to talk to us. Besides, as you know, we’re not even licensed detectives…”
“Dr Virgili Bou is aware of that. Indeed, it was his idea to have recourse to a private investigator, because I am quite against bloodhound agencies. But you are different: you aren’t professionals and don’t have any of their vices. All you have to do is talk informally to all the suspects and see if you can find anything out.”
“And all gratis et amore, I suppose,” I asked.
The Inspector smiled slyly.
“I thought I wouldn’t need to mention the fact that you and I have a deal: quid pro quo, or have you forgotten?”
I turned bright red.
“Could we please let Latin rest in peace?” Borja pleaded in irritation. “Which suspects do you want us to interview?”
“Well, the people who spent the weekend in the clinic, Dr Bou’s partner, his wife…”
“So his wife is a suspect as well?” I asked.
“Currently we are investigating everybody at the centre when the murder was committed, with the exception of Alícia Cendra and Valèria Camps, who appear to have good alibis, and those who know the alarm codes and had access to the building. On Dr Bou’s side, there are five individuals who knew him,” he continued, reopening the dossier and reading aloud. “The yoga teacher, who spent the night in the centre, Dr Bernat Comes, Sònia Claramunt, the receptionist and the young woman who cleaned and cooked.”
“Iolanda,” I added.
“Sure, but what were their possible motives to kill him? Couldn’t they help us reduce the list of suspects?” asked Borja.
“My men haven’t come up with much. To start with, it seems Dr Bou owed that Sebastià money, and that one of the young women, Mònica, had had a fling with Dr Comes ages ago and it went badly wrong and she blamed Dr Bou. Iolanda complains she was paid a pittance and that he was a complete clown, and the gay couple… Well, it seems the younger guy was jealous of Bou. Bernat Comes has an alibi, thought it’s quite weak. As for Dr Bou’s wife, her horns reach as far as the Port Olímpic.”
“Is that it?” asked Borja sardonically.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” added the Inspector. “There is one final suspect, an American sculptress we might describe as Dr Bou’s official mistress, one Edith Kaufmann. Mrs Kaufmann claims she didn’t know the alarm codes, but we can’t be sure she’s telling the truth. Besides, Dr Bou himself could have let her in.”
“An attack of jealousy and a lovers’ quarrel that ended badly?” asked Borja.
“Very possibly. That’s what I want you to find out!”
“You still haven’t told us how he was killed,” I reminded him. “Was it a blow to the head?”
“Several, actually. The forensic investigator reckons he was hit three or four times.”
“But, Inspector, do you really think we’ll be more successful than your men?”
“At the very least, I think your findings will speed us on our way to a conclusion. I may not approve of the way you make a living, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize you have a certain talent for sussing people out.”
“There’s still one thing you’ve yet to clarify in terms of the suspects,” I said. “Cui bono?”
“For fuck’s sake, can’t you pack in the Latin?” growled Borja.
“His wife inherits the lot,” explained the Inspector, “but it’s no huge fortune. Indeed, they were still paying off the mortgage on the clinic and there are more debts than anything else.”
“And what about his partner, Bernat Comes?” asked Borja.
“He gets nothing. What’s more, it does him no good that the widow now becomes the clinic’s main shareholder. Obviously there are rumours about them being lovers, but they have denied it…”
“In other words, this is just one huge pile of shit…” Borja concluded graphically, with a sigh. The Inspector smiled.
“Here are the witness statements and everybody’s telephone numbers and addresses.” The Inspector handed over a sheaf of paper from the other side of his desk. “Of course, this is all highly confidential. Theoretically, I called you in to question you as witnesses, but quite off the record. The judge, who is leading the investigation, must remain in the dark concerning our little accord.”
“And if he finds out?” I enquired.
“He won’t. What’s more, please remember you’ve been contracted by Dr Virgili Bou. I simply acted as an intermediary, because the doctor is very busy and doesn’t have the time to see you.”
“By the way, have you checked out his alibi?” I persisted.
“Yes, Mr Martínez,” smiled the Inspector. “He was on duty from eight p.m. and spent nearly all night in the operating theatre.”
“And does he suspect anyone?”
“He never really took to the widow.”
“Fine. We’ll talk to all the suspects and tell you what we think,” said Borja, getting up and shaking the Inspector’s hand.
As he was about to open the door, Borja turned to the Inspector and asked, “On another front, have you found out who killed Brian, our neighbour?”
“We’ve got one or two leads,” the Inspector replied laconically, terminating our exchange.
We couldn’t say no to the Inspector. We both knew that. When we’d walked a good distance away from the police station, we went for a beer.
“After all we’ve been through, I’d completely forgotten about the doctor’s murder,” I told Borja.
“Me too. Frankly, we could have done without this…” came his reply.
“You know, lately we just seem to have been treading in shit.”
We were silent for a time, chomped on the crisps we’d ordered with our beers and put up with the deafening racket in the bar. Two tellies were switched on, broadcasting different channels on different sides of the bar. If that wasn’t enough, a radio was droning on as well. A bad habit shared by lots of bars in Barcelona.
“Look at it from another point of view,” Borja said finally, always looking for the positive side. “The Inspector’s assignment will help us flesh out the report we have to write for Teresa Solana.”
“So what do we do now?”
“What the man said: talk to the people on his list.”
“Do you really think we’ll find out anything new? Do you think the Inspector has got a screw loose?”
Borja shrugged his shoulders.
“How should I know, bro? In any case, we didn’t have much choice.”
We finished our beers and retraced our steps to get to the Smart. Borja offered to drive me home and, when we’d almost got there, he looked for a place to park the car.
“You want to come up for a moment?” I asked, bemused, because I thought he was keen to get off home.
“No, it’s just that there’s a very big Chinese bazaar near here.”
“You’re going shopping in a Chinese bazaar?” I asked again, even more bemused. The last thing I expected my sybarite of a brother to do was yield to the temptation of the cheap goods on sale in the Chinese bazaars.
“I’ve had an idea for a hiding place for the statue,” he said. “I can’t carry it around with me all the time.”
“You mean you had it on you in the police station?”
“Of course I did. And Brian’s keyring too. I’m not happy about leaving that at home.”
“So what’s your bright idea?” I asked, not daring to imagine what might have happened if the Inspector had suspected Borja was carrying on his person a valuable, smuggled statue and a CIA spy’s pen drive.
My brother smiled and said I should go to the shop with him, if I wanted to find out. We went in, and Borja grabbed a basket and filled it with lurid objects with one thing in common: they were all more or less the size of the statue in his pocket. A total of eight euros and seventy cents of junk in bad taste.
“What are
you going to do with all that?” I asked.
“I’ll clear out one of the drawers in the dining-room sideboard and put these objects in there next to the statue. So, if anyone opens the drawer, they’ll think they’ve found the odds and sods.”
“The odds and sods?”
“Yes, you know, the odds and sods,” he repeated as if it were obvious. “The presents you say are just more ‘odds and sods’ because you don’t know where to put them. So you make a special place…”
“I suppose that might work,” I admitted grudgingly. “And what are you going to with the keyring?”
“For the moment, I’ll take it with me, as we don’t know what’s in the pen drive.”
“But what if it’s some kind of secret formula? Or the plans for a horrific weapon?” I said, contemplating the possibility that information that was vital to world safety had fallen into our hands.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” responded my brother, throwing the bag of junk into the Smart. “If it were really important, Brian would never have entrusted it to a complete stranger.”
PART III
Iolanda leapt out of bed when she woke up, without any prompting from an alarm clock. It wasn’t quite seven a.m. When she realized she was out of work and had no reason to get up early, she slipped back in between the sheets, though she knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep. Her six-month contract at Zen Moments had run out and not been renewed, and she was too angry with herself to turn over and snooze as if her life was continuing as normal. She kept telling herself she had only herself to blame. Why the hell hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut? Would she never learn?
Iolanda had fixed her CV to get that cleaner’s job at the meditation centre. Bitter experience had taught her that putting down her degree in biology guaranteed she wouldn’t get any job she went for. At the moment, biologists weren’t in demand, and you didn’t need a university degree to work as a shop assistant, checkout operator, waitress or housemaid. What’s more, Iolanda knew her university years counted against her, because the moment they saw she had a university degree they assumed she was far too clever and sent her packing. For certain jobs, young women without degrees were more vulnerable, and more easily cheated.
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