Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing
Page 15
Iolanda felt guilty when she got the job at Zen Moments: she kept thinking her lies had allowed her to beat off an immigrant girl who, unlike her, had no academic qualifications and no chance of aspiring to anything better. She had been to university, but how did it help? All the effort made by her parents to give her a good education and university place, so she would have a better future than them, had been a complete waste of time. Everyone said that her only option was to study for an MA, but MAs were expensive, and her parents’ savings had disappeared long ago. Iolanda was prepared to work at anything, except whoring, to pay for a course, but her big mouth had now lost her that job.
And she’d been very lucky because it was a doddle. As the building was new with decor designed according to the latest minimalist aesthetic, all she had to do was go round with the vacuum cleaner, dust the few objects on display, clean the windows, change the linen and clean the rooms of residents on Monday mornings. This was the most onerous part, but all in all it didn’t amount to very much. She was young and energetic enough, and her job left her a few hours to go and clean a couple of houses a girlfriend had found for her.
Even so, the fact they’d contracted her because she was Catalan and spoke Catalan had annoyed her from the very first day at the centre. Lots of cosmic harmony and smooth talk, she thought, but, at the moment of truth, they preferred a local girl to anyone from India or speaking with an East European accent – and at the same low rate of pay. Iolanda had noticed that, apart from the gardener, who was Peruvian – and, naturally, never moved from the garden! – not a single employee was foreign. Then there was the centre’s atmosphere of good karma and fake cheeriness that she couldn’t stand. Iolanda was sick to the back teeth of that jumble of second-rate mysticism and Eastern philosophies, so sick that when they found the corpse of Dr Bou in his office with his head smashed in and someone had said Dr Comes ought to be alerted, she had simply felt the need to shout out something that was quite true: Dr Comes, however skilled he was with Bach flower remedies, or however handsome, wasn’t a medical doctor, but a doctor of philosophy. Naturally, her comments soon came to the ears of Sònia Claramunt via Cecília, and Sònia Claramunt, apart from being Dr Bou’s wife, was also the centre’s financial director, and she soon informed her that her contract had run out, good riddance and adéu.
She soon tired of lazing in bed and got up at a quarter to eight. She’d agreed to meet Maribel, the receptionist, for a drink that morning. As they always caught the bus together after work and in the end had become friends, Maribel was annoyed Iolanda’s contract hadn’t been renewed. Maribel had worked at the centre for a year and a half and knew all the gossip; even though she was on holiday, she still had first-hand, last-minute information.
“They’re going to make lots of changes,” Maribel told her in that secretive tone she adopted when talking. “To begin with, they intend installing a spa and beauticians’ rooms in the basement. And they will charge more for weekend courses that will now include massages and beauty treatment.”
“I don’t think the old director would have liked these changes one bit,” commented Iolanda.
“Oh, they’ve also cancelled the rubbish vegetarian catering. Sònia wants to contract one of Ferran Adrià’s protégés as a chef. And you can drink wine with your meals, because she says research has shown that a drop of alcohol is good for you.”
“In other words, now that the old witch has sacked me it’s getting lively!…” Iolanda lamented, sighing as she spoke.
“Well, you did stick your neck out…”
“So what? What I said was true!” she retorted, trying to act the innocent and not succeeding.
“Yes, but you said Bernat wasn’t a doctor so sarkily,” replied Maribel, who was no fool.
It was true. She had been very sarcastic. But the fact was that Bernat was an idiot. All that homeopathy and Bach flower remedies was nonsense. All the same, the bastard was handsome. Far too handsome. With that glowing tan and bright eyes, he was handsome in a virile kind of way that was quite genuine, and brought tremors to Iolanda’s tummy whenever she bumped into him in the centre’s corridors. What’s more, Dr Comes (he’d never told her to call him Bernat) always smelled sweet and had the prettiest feet Iolanda had ever seen: Greek feet in line with classical ideals of beauty, with an index toe that was longer than the big toe. Iolanda also wondered whether his svelte body would be like those young bodies she’d seen sculpted in marble in books and museums, with the difference that Bernat was no downy adolescent, but a fully grown man who, unlike a lot of boyfriends Iolanda had suffered, would surely know how to run his expert hands over her body and excite her to an ecstatic climax. Iolanda got the shakes whenever she speculated about Bernat’s amorous dexterity.
“The fact of the matter,” said Maribel in a gentle, commonsense tone of voice, “is that you’ve got the hots for Bernat!”
“You’re crazy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Fancy him? How could she fancy someone who spent his time cheating people?
“Homeopathy and Bach flower remedies are one big piss-take,” continued Iolanda.
“That’s what you think, darling. There is scientific proof that they work,” retorted Maribel, who didn’t share her friend’s scepticism.
“There is no scientific proof, Maribel. The homeopathic belief in similia similibus curantur, that is, like is cured with like, is based on the medical ideas of Hippocrates, a Greek doctor who lived in the fourth century BC, in an era when they had only the vaguest notions about how our bodies work and doctors did what they could.”
“You mean Hippocrates was a nincompoop?” asked Maribel. Her only contacts in the world of the ancients were Gladiator, Brad Pitt disguised as Achilles and a television series based on the exploits of Hercules.
“No, Hippocrates was a pioneer and many people think of him as the father of modern medicine because he transformed it into an independent discipline, separate from philosophy and religion, the opposite of today’s homeopaths who think they are his descendants.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Maribel, who’d lost the thread.
“Curiously enough,” continued Iolanda, “Hippocrates was the first person to reject the idea that illnesses were caused by supernatural or divine causes, and he sought their causes in environmental factors, diet or way of life. It’s true he believed that illness derived from an imbalance of bodily fluids, that is, blood, black bile, yellow bile and phlegm, what he called ‘humours’, but to continue to think all his theories are valid, without taking into account the discoveries and advances made over twenty-five centuries by his followers, is really ridiculous. Hippocrates himself must be turning in his grave.”
“You are so knowledgeable,” said Maribel with genuine admiration. “I am sure you’ll get a job as a secretary. But, in the meantime, why don’t you ring Bernat and apologize? He might persuade them to give you your job back…”
It was quite unfair the way they had sacked her. And, besides, she needed the work. Although she didn’t go along with that philosophy for the idle rich they peddled at Zen Moments, she had to recognize it wasn’t the worst job in the world. Considering she’d only been able to save six hundred euros towards the MA from the wretched pittance they paid her, it would be worth her while making the effort to apologize. Perhaps Maribel was right and she could persuade him she had only said he wasn’t a doctor in all good faith, to stop them from swamping him. She’d go to the hairdresser’s, spend an afternoon shaving and applying creams, put on a low-cut dress and on a work pretext phone him and arrange to meet for a coffee in a quiet café where she would tell him she was a biologist and not merely the girl who did the cleaning. After all, Bernat couldn’t possibly be as nasty as he seemed, and, you never know, with a bit of luck and the right kinds of hints, they might end up dining together.
18
Two days after we escaped safe and sound from our kidnappers, the dailies and television news were still talking about the spectacula
r police raid in Poblenou, though fortunately the reports said nothing about any kidnapping. In fact, what struck me most was the way politicians and commentators said the mossos had gone too far, while others reproached them for not going in hard enough. Afraid an angry spy might retaliate if he handed the pen drive Brian had given him over to the authorities, Borja had decided to keep it hidden at home. In the meantime, my brother still hadn’t heard from the person he was supposed to deliver the statue to, so the antique and the keyring had ended up in the drawer with the junk made in China he’d bought in the bazaar near our flat.
We thought the investigation the Inspector had assigned us was slightly peculiar, but in the end found it comforting because it meant Badia didn’t think we were involved in Horaci’s murder, or in Brian’s, and didn’t suspect we’d escaped by the skin of our teeth from the shoot-out at the film studio on Monday. On the other hand, we couldn’t refuse his request because, if he wanted, the Inspector could really land us in it, so we had decided to forget the other business and focus on his list of suspects and eyewitnesses.
Sònia Claramunt, Horaci’s widow, was the first person we had to speak to. She lived in Tres Torres, which is closer to Borja’s neighbourhood than mine, so we agreed to meet at her flat. I rang the bell a few minutes before eleven, and Borja, who was waiting for me, came downstairs straight away, flourishing the keys to the Smart.
Tres Torres was in the well-off part of Barcelona, north of the Diagonal. Sònia Claramunt lived in a flat in a modern, three-storey building surrounded by a garden area that was unambiguously cultivated for aesthetic effect; it wasn’t designed for children to play in or for neighbours to sunbathe or enjoy the cool shade in. The report the Inspector had given us indicated it was a building the Bous acquired before the property boom began, even though the price the Bous paid at the time was well beyond the budgets of most ordinary citizens. A uniformed porter in the lobby asked us which flat we were visiting, and before letting us in, rang Sònia Claramunt to check that we were welcome.
“Tell her we’ve come on behalf of Dr Virgili Bou,” Borja told him.
Sònia Claramunt gave us the green light and the porter pointed us to the lift.
“Don’t you think we should have phoned her before coming?” I asked Borja, as we zoomed up to the third floor.
“No way. I’d rather catch her by surprise and not give her time to prepare her answers!”
“Sure, but the police have already questioned her,” I replied.
“It’s hardly the same,” countered my brother, very self-assured and confident of his skills as a detective. “You let me do the talking.”
An uncombed Sònia Claramunt opened the door: in her dressing gown and in a temper. She wasn’t made up, and I hardly recognized her because the widow in dark glasses I’d seen walking into Zen Moments with Bernat Comes had looked to be an elegant beauty much younger than the woman standing in front of us now. When I inspected her from close-up, I saw she was well past the forty mark and had undergone a facelift: a pert little nose, full cheeks, puffy lips and a hieratic glare that betrayed the work of a plastic surgeon who’d meddled with her face and made a fine mess. She was tanned, but her skin was coarse and singed by the hours she spent in fake-tan establishments preserving that perpetual summer shade of brown. She was barefoot, and I was shocked to see that her two little toes were missing.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about your husband’s death,” remarked Borja after expressing his condolences. “Your brother-in-law has contracted us to give the police a hand in their investigations.”
“Virgili?” she snapped, unable to hide the bad feeling the sound of his name provoked. She invited us to step into the lobby, but didn’t seem about to offer us even a glass of water.
“His brother’s death has left him distraught,” continued Borja in the same mournful tone. “That’s why we would like to talk to you —”
“Oh, really,” interjected Sònia, assuming the same haughty air she’d displayed in the clinic on the day of her husband’s murder. “Well, tell Virgili to leave well alone and let the police get on with it!”
“Surely, but the fact is —”
“Are you two policemen?” she asked, looking as if she was about to send us packing.
“Well no, but —”
“Then I have nothing to say.” She opened the door. “Have a good day!”
She was adamant and we could hardly create a scene because the porter looked every inch a nightclub bouncer, and Borja and I had used up our annual quota of fisticuffs with thugs, so we left her flat, tails between legs and offering no resistance. Although Sònia Claramunt was under no obligation to talk to us, we were shocked by her hostile attitude and total lack of interest in helping to clear up her husband’s murder.
“What a waste of time!” I sighed when we were out in the street.
“On the contrary,” Borja contradicted me. “Her attitude was extremely eloquent. I bet you anything her brother-in-law is right and that she was the one who did him in.”
“I’m not so sure. You like rushing to conclusions… Besides, the fact she can’t stand her brother-in-law simply means the dislike is mutual. That doesn’t make a murderer of her.”
“In any case, I think she did it,” insisted Borja, very sure of himself.
I looked at my watch.
“Half past eleven. What are we going to do now?”
“Ring Alícia,” suggested my brother, smiling like Mephistopheles. “It would be interesting to hear her opinion about what happened to Horaci.”
During our stay at Zen Moments, Borja and Alícia had only exchanged a few polite words, so we thought it would be better if I called her. Alícia was at home, depressed and on sick leave, and she sounded so pleased to hear my voice she said we could go to see her whenever we liked. As she lived in Sarrià and her flat was relatively near to where Sònia Claramunt lived, I suggested going that same morning. She was delighted by the prospect and invited us to come for pre-lunch drinks.
Alícia welcomed us, all spruced up and with the dining-room table all ready. Crisps, olives, strips of ham and a bottle of Martini Rosso were set out on serviettes. She asked us whether we preferred beer or Coca-Cola to Martini, but we were both happy with Martini.
“I got very angry when I realized Horaci had led me such a dance,” she announced, telling us about her suicide attempt with homeopathic pills, which we knew nothing about. “How can medicine cure you, if it doesn’t kill you when you take an overdose? And you know, I took one hell of a lot of pills that night!” she added, shaking her head.
“It’s quite natural you should feel angry,” said Borja.
“That’s why I enrolled on the weekend course at Zen Moments. I wanted revenge, to ruin Horaci’s reputation with all those annoying jokes. But I never thought of killing him. In fact,” she continued, “I am sorry he is dead. I know I am naive, but I did have such high hopes. And when I saw him in the Dry Martini, with that woman, and when I went into hospital and the doctor said the blotches and itches weren’t nerves, but a case of mange…”
“I’m not surprised you wanted to get back at him,” I replied. “I imagine I would have reacted no differently.”
“Do you have any idea how much money I spent at Zen Moments? I could be enjoying new tits and an unwrinkled face right now!” she mused.
“But you look wonderful…” soft-soaped Borja. “Most women would do anything to be like you when they’re past forty!”
Alícia smiled gratefully because she was now well past fifty. Even so, Borja was right: she looked very well preserved for her age.
“If I have understood correctly,” she went on, “you are detectives and investigating Horaci’s death on behalf of his brother.”
“That’s right,” said Borja, not wanting to enter into details.
“Where do I come in?”
“Tell us all the centre gossip. Anything that might give us a lead on who killed Horaci and why.”
“But I don’t think he is,” she added, sounding quite definite. “The fact he’s such a handsome hunk doesn’t mean he’s necessarily queer. And I don’t believe he’s been carrying on with Sònia. In fact, it was Pietat, one of Horaci’s students, who started to spread that gossip. Simply because she saw them together in the street one day…”
“What can you tell me about Cecília, the yoga teacher?” Borja then asked. “Do you think she had any reason to feel resentful towards Horaci?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders. “Though everybody knew she was in love with Bernat. That stuck out a mile,” she continued, lowering her voice and leaning forward.
“So what about Horaci? Did he have, shall we say, a special relationship with any of his pupils?”
“Horaci’s admirers were legion,” Alícia smiled sadly. “Admirers as silly as I am, I imagine.”
“Do you have any theory about who killed him?” I asked.
“If I were to lay a bet on it, I’d go for Sònia,” she said. “She must have found out Horaci was having an affair with that American artist and must have been afraid he was going to leave her and take everything with him. According to Maribel, Sònia is one of the shareholders in Zen Moments, with Horaci and Bernat. She must now own Horaci’s shares!”
The rest of the gossip she told us wasn’t connected with Horaci’s murder, but Borja and I listened politely and pretended to be genuinely interested. We finished our drinks, said no to another round and that we had to leave.