“Montse will be furious,” I said.
“It won’t go on until late, you just see.”
The house-cum-workshop Sebastià had in Sant Joan Despí was impressive. The first thing he did when Borja and I arrived was to show us the sculptures he’d made and those made by other artists he collected. He didn’t look like a man with financial problems, and Borja asked him some straight questions.
“I’ve been able to devote myself to sculpture thanks to the fact that my father made a lot of money,” he explained. “And I’m doing very well as a sculptor,” he said with a wink.
“But I thought Horaci had owed you money for some time for the sculpture he commissioned for the Zen Moments lobby,” Borja continued. “The police might think you were angry and split his head open.”
“Do you really think so?” he asked, seemingly taken aback.
“Well, they’re not discounting any possibility. You know how they work…”
“I don’t in fact,” he said, as if he genuinely didn’t. And then laughed and said, “It would be really idiotic for me to kill Horaci because he owed me for that sculpture! I’ve had a load of commissions because of the one he displayed in the lobby.”
“Bernat claims that’s why you go at the weekends: to get customers.”
“Yes and no,” said Sebastià. “It’s true I do a bit of self-promotion, public relations, as the Americans say, but the fact is…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
“The fact is what?” Borja asked.
“Well, you know, Zen Moments is a good place to get to know ladies of a certain age and status who haven’t let their figures slide. My wife died two years ago and you’ll understand I’m not the kind of man to sign up to one of these Internet agencies that help you find a partner. Valèria, for instance, is an interesting woman and we’ve met a couple of times since that weekend.”
“I thought as much,” said Borja.
As it was past ten o’clock and the temperature had dropped, Sebastià lit a fire and served us a supper of cold meats, cheeses, pâtés and bread with tomatoes. The bottle of red wine my brother and I had brought was soon dispatched.
A few more bottles bit the dust. I got home at four a.m., after Sebastià persuaded Borja to park the Smart in his garage and call a taxi. According to Sebastià’s theories, Sònia was also the chief suspect, since she and Horaci had been more than living separate lives for a time, and divorce was on the cards. Now only Edith Kaufmann remained on our list, the mysterious lover whom only Sònia and Alícia knew. But we’d have to wait until Monday to speak to her.
21
After a quiet weekend when Lola and Borja smoked a pipe of peace or two, we went to see Edith Kaufmann on Monday morning. The painter had forgotten about our appointment and looked surprised to see us.
“Oh, yes… It’s true we’d agreed to meet today,” she said, swathed in a gauzy turquoise tunic, with an absent-minded expression on her face that struck me as sincere. “You’re here on behalf of Horaci’s brother, I take it?”
Although she was American with a strong Chicago accent, she spoke Catalan well.
“Yes,” nodded Borja. “We are collaborating with the police to try to find the murderer.”
“I thought the murderer had been arrested. As that all happened almost a month ago…”
“Well, three weeks, to be exact,” I noted.
“So, who do you think they arrested?” asked Borja.
“I don’t have a clue. I rarely read the newspapers. I’m not interested in current affairs.”
“Don’t you want to know who killed the man you were in a relationship with?” I asked, rather shocked.
Edith looked at me in amazement as if she couldn’t see why she should be interested in discovering who had killed her lover.
“I spoke to an Inspector,” she finally confessed. “Do you know how long I had known Horaci? Eight months. We got on well and occasionally went out for a drink followed by a fuck. No commitments or mals rotllos, as you Catalans put it. I am very sorry he is dead, obviously, but, to be frank, I wasn’t that interested in the guy. I don’t know if the person who bumped him off had a decent motive or not, but the fact is I find the whole issue quite boring.”
“Didn’t it bother you that he was a married man? Weren’t you jealous of his wife?” asked Borja.
“That was his business, not mine,” she replied with a shrug of the shoulders. “And in any case, I’m not after a husband, if that’s what you are insinuating. I’ve had four, and I can assure you there won’t be a fifth. Whether Horaci was married and was or wasn’t happy with his wife was no concern of mine.”
“What kind of paintings do you paint?” I asked, pointing to a big canvas that dominated her lounge.
“Oh, no… That’s by Yves Tanguy. Another surrealist painter.” And she added with a smile, “I’m not that good yet.”
“I think we can wrap this case up,” said Borja as we left Edith’s house. “It is obvious Horaci was killed by his wife.”
“I think ‘obvious’ is too strong…” I replied. “Edith doesn’t have an alibi either.”
“I know, but you’ve seen how almost everyone has plumped for Sònia. And that lie of hers confirms it was her.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We’ll give the Inspector a call and tell him what we’ve discovered and what we’ve concluded.”
“But the Inspector will want proof.”
“I know. And I’ve got an angle on that: we’ll ring Sònia and blackmail her. And if she falls for it…”
“So, you are definitely discounting Edith?” I asked.
“Well, if you want we can blackmail Edith as well, and see which of the two we catch out… But my money is on the widow,” he said.
The Inspector arrived at Harry’s punctually, at eight on the dot, and ordered an alcohol-free beer. Borja and I, who’d got there early in order to land a table that was out of the way, were already on our gin and tonics that the Inspector was looking at askance. I’m not sure whether it was disapproval or envy.
“Do you think this place is discreet enough?” he asked, looking suspiciously around at the tables, most of which were still empty.
“Oh, definitely!” Borja hastened to soothe him. “There’s never anyone here at this time of night.”
“Yes, but the waiters…”
“They’re real professionals,” responded Borja. “And they prepare great cocktails! You should order one.”
The Inspector looked around again and sighed.
“If you say so,” he said finally. “I suppose the off-the-record nature of our encounter justifies meeting up in a cocktail bar, though I can tell you for nothing that I don’t like bars. So what have you found out?”
“We’ve spoken to all the suspects and eyewitnesses and boiled the list down to two,” said Borja, smirking.
“And?”
The Inspector couldn’t hide his impatience, and Borja, who wanted to savour every moment of our little victory sitting opposite the man who’d caused us more than one upset in recent weeks, took his time finishing his sentence.
“The front-runners are Sònia Claramunt, the widow, and Edith Kaufmann, the lover. But we plump for the widow, don’t we, Eduard?”
“Yes,” I agreed, nodding my head.
The Inspector sighed, raised his eyebrows, and then sprawled backwards. He’d yet to taste his beer.
“Well, Deputy Inspector Alsina-Graells also comes down on the side of the widow,” said the Inspector. “Though it is only an intuition, because she has no proof. Might I ask how you reached the same conclusion?”
“Quite simple, really: if we take the list of suspects and put to one side those who don’t have an alibi, and, on the other, those who have a strong motive and we think capable of the crime, you’ll see that the names that select themselves are Sònia and Edith,” said Borja.
“That’s not enough,” replied the Inspector. “Maria del Mar reached the same conclusion
days ago. But judges want proof, not intuitions.”
“Oh, but I think we have something the Deputy Inspector failed to find out,” said Borja.
“What might that be?” asked the Inspector, raising his eyebrows.
“Sònia Claramunt said she was at home watching Titanic the night her husband was killed.”
“That’s why she has no real alibi,” interjected the Inspector.
“Yes, but we’ve caught her lying. The lady did not see Titanic,” said Borja, beaming all over. “It would have been quite impossible.”
“So what?”
I felt the Inspector was beginning to lose patience.
“Well, it just so happens they didn’t show Titanic that night on the TV. They showed an Elizabeth Taylor film instead,” explained Borja.
The Inspector stared through him as if he didn’t understand.
“The fact is they decided to pay homage to Elizabeth Taylor that night, because she’d recently died, and changed the film at the last minute. According to the newspaper they were going to show Titanic at ten o’clock, but at the last minute they decided on Cleopatra. I know because my wife and mother-in-law adore Titanic and organized dinner so they could see it afterwards.”
“And that means Sònia Claramunt lied!” added Borja in case the Inspector couldn’t see what he was getting at.
“Maybe.” The Inspector shook his head. His reaction was less enthusiastic than we’d anticipated. “But I don’t think that will convince any judge. She can always say it was a mistake, or that she was watching another programme, like Big Brother or a porno film, but was too embarrassed to say so. This is hardly incriminating stuff. Lying about the film or programme she saw on TV is no crime,” he said.
“There’s another argument in favour of her candidacy for the chief-suspect spot,” revealed Borja.
“What might that be?” asked the Inspector, sitting up in his seat.
“All the people we have spoken to think she is the murderer. If they were members of a jury, they would undoubtedly declare her guilty. And so many people can’t be wrong, can they?” asserted Borja.
“Even so, this is no proof,” I piped up.
“Well, such unanimity is remarkable…” retorted Borja as if the power of his logic couldn’t be challenged.
“No, your brother is right,” said the Inspector. “The opinions of eyewitnesses must always be treated with a pinch of salt. And, by the way, what about the remaining suspects? I’d like to know why you discounted them so rapidly.”
Borja gestured to me and I took out my notebook.
“There are in fact only three people who were in the centre that night who don’t have an alibi: the sculptor, the yoga teacher and the woman who says she has cancer.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Mònica and Marta, the two who are close friends, were chatting in their room into the early hours. Mònica eventually confessed to her friend that she’d had a fling with Bernat Comes. In fact, she’d persuaded her friend to accompany her on that weekend in Zen Moments with a view to seducing him. Marta, who didn’t know Horaci from Adam, swears they were chatting in her room until three a.m. And Marta is currently feeling too resentful towards her friend to lie to the police just to give her an alibi.”
“What about that married couple? The husband was jealous of the doctor, wasn’t he?”
“They both say they spent the night in the wife’s room,” I replied.
“They might have agreed that in order to have an alibi,” objected the Inspector.
“To be frank, I don’t think Carme has it in her to take the pressure such a crime would bring. Besides, Xavier was grateful rather than jealous of Horaci,” said Borja. And he added, “That is a long story.”
“So what about the sculptor and the yoga teacher?” asked the Inspector.
“In truth, neither had any motive to want to kill Dr Bou, or at least any motive with substance. Sebastià,” I said reviewing my notes, “had been chasing Horaci for months for payment for the stone Buddha in the lobby, but he also wanted to take advantage of the contacts Horaci and Bernat had to sell his sculptures to Zen Moments’ clientele. As for Cecília, the yoga teacher, gossip has it that she is in love with Bernat. She had no motive to want to kill Horaci.”
“And the woman with cancer?” asked the Inspector.
“You mean the woman who says she has cancer, because it is all down to self-diagnosis. She is not all there, Inspector,” I explained. “Frankly, I can’t see her smashing Horaci’s head in and then getting rid of all her fingerprints. Nor did she have any motive, as far as we know. In fact, Isabel admired Horaci, and her theory is that the pharmaceutical companies did him in.” The Inspector raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Besides, she was in the room next to me and I can vouch I heard her snoring all night.”
“That leaves the lover, Edith Kaufmann, who has no alibi, but a possible motive,” recalled the Inspector, sighing yet again. “Even if the Deputy Inspector is convinced she is not the kind of woman who would waste time on killing her lover.”
“I agree,” said Borja. “Edith belongs to another class. She is far too sophisticated a lady to commit such a vulgar crime.”
“It’s strange, you know,” remarked the Inspector. “Maria del Mar, who also questioned her, was very struck by Edith Kaufmann. She said she wished she could be like her.”
“I think Horaci was merely a momentary diversion for her and that she couldn’t have cared less if he was married or involved in lots of affairs. Inspector, I know my women, and I can’t see her tracking him down to the centre to snuff him out,” said Borja.
“Even so, she had a motive and can’t be discounted,” objected the Inspector.
“Well, I wouldn’t waste more time on her,” said a supremely confident Borja.
The Inspector finished his beer and looked at his watch.
“Thanks for your help,” he said as he made a move to get up. “The Deputy Inspector will be pleased you agree with her. I will tell her everything you’ve just told me…”
“Just a minute, Inspector,” said Borja, grabbing his arm to stop him getting up. “Where are you going?”
“Well, I thought we’d finished…” said the Inspector, sitting down again, rather upset by my brother’s imperious tone.
“Eduard and I have come up with a plan to catch Horaci’s murderer. That is what you are after, isn’t it?”
“Though I’m not so sure it’s a good idea,” I muttered.
“I’m all ears,” said the Inspector, ignoring what I’d just said.
“Given the circumstances,” Borja began, conscious we had to capture the Inspector’s attention, “our only option is to trap one of the two women into incriminating herself. Consequently, we thought blackmail would do the trick.”
“Blackmail is a crime,” retorted the Inspector.
“Yes, but if we do it with your agreement…”
“I don’t think I really understand.”
“Oh, come on, Inspector! You know perfectly well what I mean. Eduard and I will ring Edith and Sònia and say we are in possession of a videotape that proves they went to Zen Moments on the night in question.”
“Well, I presume you mean a diskette,” the Inspector corrected him. “People don’t use tapes any more.”
“All right, whatever,” said Borja.
“But the building doesn’t have security cameras, and they are both aware of that,” objected the Inspector. “Or at least, his widow must be.”
“Yes, but what they don’t suspect is that the mansion opposite does have hidden cameras that you can’t see from the road and that are filming twenty-four hours a day,” said Borja with a smile.
“And is that so?”
“No,” said Borja calmly. “But they don’t know that. And if we sound persuasive enough…”
Inspector Badia stayed silent for a while, deep in thought. He was a strange guy, not quite your usual ignorant, foul-mouthed cop that I’d met in p
revious eras. With his longish grey hair, intellectual spectacles and Antoni Miró suit, he could well have passed himself off as a lawyer, politician or executive. If you didn’t know he was an Inspector in the mossos d’esquadra and bumped into him in the street, you’d never have guessed his line of business. Nonetheless, we couldn’t forget that the Inspector was a man of the law and that we were fakes with our office fit for operetta and Borja’s false identity. Finally, after a long pause that enabled Borja and I to finish our gin and tonics, the Inspector said, “For any confession to be legal, it would have to authorized by a judge and you would have to use a microphone.”
“That’s fine,” said Borja, keen to seem cooperative.
“Naturally, if I talk to the judge and then neither of them gives in to blackmail, or they take out a writ… I will look a complete fool,” argued the Inspector.
“So the best way to play this,” said Borja with a grin, “would be to call them and test the waters before speaking to the judge, don’t you agree?”
Before the Inspector could raise further objections, Borja took his mobile out and called Edith Kaufmann. He threatened her, saying he had a video that showed her going in and out of Zen Moments on the night Horaci was killed and that if she didn’t pay him sixty thousand euros he would hand it over to the police. Edith insulted him in English, threw shit at him in Catalan and hung up.
“You see, Inspector?” said Borja. “It’s clear Edith knows it is a trick, because she didn’t go to the centre on the night in question. I told you it wasn’t worth wasting time on her.” And, as he dialled another number, he added. “Now let’s see how the widow reacts…”
Borja phoned Sònia and told her the same story. Sònia listened to him attentively and, a few seconds later, said she didn’t believe him and that he didn’t have any such video.
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