How to Kill Your Friends

by Phil Kurthausen

  Adam brought her some tissues and Richard, in his very English way, said he would make them all a cup of tea.

  ‘I just can’t believe she’s gone, and to think they think she was murdered. I mean, what the fuck!’ Adam was pacing the room. ‘And to question us like that, the silly bitch. I mean, turns out apart from Dylan and Richard out on their morning run, we were all in bed, I mean, Christ, who does mornings in Spain? I know this might be too early, but we are going to have to post something.’

  ‘Adam, for Christ’s sake, how can you think about posting at a time like this?’ said Olivia.

  ‘We need to think about The Squad. It’s what Amy would want, you know it.’

  ‘Holy fuck!’ It was Richard and he was looking at his phone.

  ‘What is it?’ said Olivia.

  ‘Amy posted something before she died. Take a look.’

  He showed Adam the phone and then he passed it to Olivia who held it up for her and Meredith to read. It was the ‘Sorry’ picture Meredith had posted.

  ‘Depression? Amy? I don’t think so. She was…’ Olivia gulped hard but carried on, ‘Always so upbeat. It was infuriating sometimes.’

  Adam scratched his head and his expression was one of confusion and grief. ‘But they always say that, don’t they? After the event, people always say, she was never like that, never depressed, we never saw the signs. Maybe we just didn’t see the signs.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Olivia. ‘You heard that Fernández woman. They think she was killed, pushed off the balcony.’

  ‘What are you saying, Olivia?’ asked Meredith, keeping as blank an expression on her face as she could.

  Olivia bit her bottom lip and then looked at them both in turn. ‘What if the killer sent that message and not Amy?’

  Meredith nodded slowly – the worst thing would be to argue the point with Olivia, but all she was thinking was that her carefully laid plan hadn’t survived the day. She felt sick but she was clear on what she had to do next.

  20

  She couldn’t tell what Edu was thinking behind the tortoiseshell Ray-Bans. After the violent independence riot, they had only seen each once more. It wasn’t because she was squeamish or put off by the violence, far from it. She found it one of the most interesting things about Edu, this hidden side. It was because she had wrapped herself up with The Squad as they came together in the face of Amy’s death. The shock was still reverberating within the group and online there had been an outpouring of emoji grief the like of which Adam had said he had never seen before. As a consequence, although they had mainly remained confined to the hotel, they had never been busier posting and getting out ‘grief content,’ as Adam termed it.

  She had a feeling that Amy would have approved.

  She hadn’t intended on contacting Edu again. His fascination with a cause, Catalonian independence, frankly bored her, and in this respect she differed from Amy.

  But yet, here she was, meeting Edu again. Despite the boring political talk and his purpose, there was just something about his childlike innocence that drew her in and made her want to spend time with him. She could be as close to herself with Edu as it was possible for her to be with someone else, and this was a feeling that she enjoyed. And of course, she assumed he was still in contact with Ferran who had yet to turn himself in.

  Maybe he was upset that she had ignored some of his messages. But he had agreed to meet for a coffee at a bar below the W hotel at the far end of the Barceloneta beach, Platja de Sant Sebastià. She had arrived early and sat watching the broad expanse of beach filled with more tourists than she thought humanly possible. They were being preyed upon by the mojito, beer and trinket sellers from all points south. She had chosen this spot because she knew it afforded her, and Edu, a perfect view from the terrace bar of all comers along the esplanade.

  She had just told him everything that she was supposed to know about Amy’s death and the visit from the police. He had expressed sympathy and nodded along as she told him how they were all devastated and how it was imperative that Ferran come in for questioning.

  But now he was silent and looking at her through those damned Ray-Bans that made it impossible for her to calibrate his responses. ‘You must be very sad, Meredith,’ he said in a flat tone.

  Was he mocking her, being serious, or was this one of those conversational placeholders that she always struggled to understand? ‘We are all devastated. It’s been an awful couple of days.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. It just seems so crazy to me and now the police are looking for Ferran. But I can tell you this: he would never kill anyone and never Amy. It’s such bullshit.’

  ‘Do you know where Ferran is?’ She hoped he didn’t. She hoped that Ferran had fallen off the face of the earth. It would make everything so much easier.

  ‘I may and I may not. The political situation is so delicate that he is, and I do not blame him for this, he is frightened that the National Guard may want to say this is terrorist-related. He only wants to talk to the Catalonian force, the Mossos. Once he has guarantees that this will take place, then he will hand himself in. But don’t worry: this should happen today or tomorrow. He’s not stupid – he knows how this looks.’

  This is bad news, thought Meredith. She had hoped he would go on the run to South America. ‘That’s great news. He needs to clear things up. This police officer, Fernández, she thinks that Amy was murdered and I’m sure you’ve seen the news.’

  The local and national news channels had gone big on the death of an Instagram influencer in the city and someone had leaked the fact that the police thought that it wasn’t an accident. Ferran’s photograph had followed soon after.

  ‘The media is always sensationalising things. I don’t know what happened to your friend and I’m very sorry about what happened. But there is one thing I can tell you: Ferran had nothing to do with her death.’

  Behind Edu on the beach, she could see two heavyset men with red faces. Too much drink and too much sun, she thought. They were arguing with a scrawny elderly man who was trying to sell them pieces of coconut. They were getting right into his face and laughing. Edu’s words brought her attention back.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Those Ray-Bans! He was smiling now but she couldn’t see his eyes, and he wasn’t even facing the sun.

  ‘Because I was with him all that morning.’

  Meredith cursed silently. This was not what she hoped for, not at all.

  ‘And you won’t go to the police because you think they are after you and Ferran because you are separatists. And you think the National Guard will insist the Mossos hand the case over if it is linked to any suggestion of sedition or’ – she lowered her voice – ‘terrorism. Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?’

  ‘Pah! The Spanish government thinks the Mossos won’t investigate their own, that they let the votes take place, that they won’t deal properly with independentistas. We need to make some arrangements to make sure we don’t end up as more victims of this fascist government.’

  If Ferran had an alibi then this left her more exposed. She had hoped Ferran wouldn’t come forward for another few weeks. They could have all have left the country by then and it might all just be seen as another unfortunate holiday death plunge. Christ, the Spanish even had an ‘anglo-saxismo’ word for such deaths: ‘balconing’.

  One of the tourists shoved the coconut seller hard in the chest.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Meredith.

  Edu turned round and took in the scene.

  ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’ His fucking sunglasses were driving her wild. Was he happy, upset or angry? Did he believe what she was saying?

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not my fight.’

  Meredith pushed back her chair and strode across the pavement to the beach. She walked up to the taller and broader of the two young men. He had curly black hair and stank of alcohol and cigarettes. He was wearing baggy blue shorts and a vest that showed o
ff plump, steroid bubbles of muscle and fat.

  She prodded him hard in the chest with her index finger and a look of confusion came over his face. ‘What do you’ – another prod – ‘think you are’ – another prod – ‘doing?’

  He held his hands up and leered at her. ‘A fucking yank!’

  ‘Fuck off, yank. This is none of your business,’ shouted his friend.

  She took a step forward so she was in the big guy’s personal space and thrust her face upwards towards his. He took a step back.

  ‘This man’ – she pointed behind her at the coconut seller – ‘is just trying to earn a fricking living and you two jerks think it’s funny to push him around? What’s wrong with you?’

  She was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered, eager to watch a bit of beach drama.

  ‘He’s a fucking Muslim cunt, innit, trying to flog us shitty coconut for €5,’ said the big guy.

  ‘Even a Bounty is only €1,’ said the smaller guy.

  She bit down on an urge to punch him and part of her hoped that he would punch her. The red rage in his face made her think that this could happen. It would open up so many more possibilities to her. It will justify anything, she thought. If only he would hit me, I could kill him.

  ‘Listen you guiri fuckfaces, this man is earning a living, probably supporting a family and you can just say no, you know. So why don’t you just get out of his and my face and go play on the metro line.’

  This drew a loud cheer and some applause from the people who were watching the fracas. She closed her eyes and waited for a blow to land but it didn’t come. Instead, the two guys looked around, saw that it didn’t look good for them, and slunk off.

  Someone touched her arm. It was Edu. ‘That was very brave and noble of you. I was watching just to be sure. If anything had happened you know I would have intervened.’

  She nearly laughed in his face but managed to just about suppress this urge. He looked confused and she wondered how confused he would be if she told him that the only reason she had got involved was because his stupid fucking Ray-Bans had driven her to it. That she had wanted to punch him as much as she had wanted to punch the guiris and that, frankly, she did not care much about the coconut seller who was probably selling out-of-date coconut at severely inflated prices to unsuspecting tourists on behalf of one of the local gangs.

  ‘Sure, Edu.’ And she gave her sweetest of smiles by way of recompense.

  This seemed to please him and he leaned in close. ‘Maybe you should come back to mine? We could relax over a vermouth.’

  She looked at him. She still found him attractive, that much was true. ‘Okay, but on one condition?’

  ‘Sure, name it.’

  ‘You have to take those Ray-Bans off right now.’

  He had, eventually, taken the glasses off and she had enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with Edu but she had been eager to return to Soho House and meet up with The Squad.

  Over the last few days, they had bonded over the death of Amy. Meredith realised that she laughed more with them as they drank and remembered Amy than they ever had before her death. It was as though a blockage to her becoming part of The Squad had been removed. Amy’s death had fast-tracked her acceptance by the group as though one death counted for ten years of shared holidays, parties and experiences.

  Even Olivia had begun to come round. She had invited Meredith for drinks that evening and Meredith was determined to make this a stepping stone to a better relationship. They had shared a drunken group hug the night before when they all became teary whilst remembering Amy and she wanted to build upon that. With Amy out of the way it was Olivia who was the key to her remaining in The Squad.

  When she entered the reception of Soho House Janek called her to the desk. He leaned in and whispered, ‘There is a policewoman waiting for you in the bar. She asked that I send you in as soon as you arrive. She’s been here for forty minutes already, waiting for you.’ Janek raised his eyebrows and stressed the ‘you’ in much the same way he did when telling minor celebrities that a producer was waiting for them in the bar.

  Meredith looked back towards the door. She could leave right away, get the €5,000 from under the floorboards of her flat and catch the afternoon ferry to Tangiers. Maybe she could stay with the artist she had met at the MACBA. There had been a connection with Annik. She had felt it. You didn’t need small talk with a connection like that: it just existed. She should run, leave all this behind. It made sense. The door swung open, allowing in the crystal-clear early evening sunshine which was pouring directly along the Passeig de Colom before the sun dipped behind Montjuïc. She should run, that was the answer.

  ‘Señorita Weaver.’ It was Fernández. One of the staff must have notified her that Meredith had returned. She was standing at the door of the bar. ‘Will you join me for a drink? I would like to make a quick talk with you.’ Fernández held open the door to the bar.

  ‘Inspector Fernández. Of course, anything I can do to help.’ Meredith led them to a quiet corner of the bar and they sat down in two sumptuous green velvet armchairs that faced each other across a small table.

  The waiter approached them and took their order. A cortado for Meredith and a small beer for Fernández.

  Meredith braced herself for small talk and tried to think of some banal topics they could skirt around before discussing business.

  But Fernández didn’t make any attempt at small talk or any kind of talk. She sat back in her armchair and brought her fingertips together as though in prayer.

  She was watching Meredith. Suddenly, the absence of small talk made Meredith’s skin itch and even in the air-conditioned bar she felt herself begin to sweat. This, she thought, is ridiculous. She knew what Fernández was doing so she decided to end it. ‘So, can I help you, inspector?’

  Fernández still didn’t speak and Meredith wondered was it possible that the woman had had a stroke. She was in her late forties at least and stank of cigarettes so it was possible she supposed – but then Fernández seemed to spark into life and she leaned forward. ‘Yes, you can but first I have some good news for you.’

  Meredith expected she knew what that was. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ferran Alba has handed himself in.’ She looked at Meredith, waiting for a reaction. Meredith, unsure of the correct reaction in these circumstances, kept her expression blank and serious. This was murder they were talking about after all. ‘That is good news. Do you think he did it?’

  Fernández’s eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘You know my ex-husband, he always used to sneak cakes and biscuits. One of the reasons I left him was he got so damned fat. Who heard of a fat Barcelonés, eh? I always knew whether he had been taking them because when I asked him if he had, there was something in his voice that just told me when he was lying. I hear that in other voices too. I spoke to Ferran earlier and I didn’t hear that in his voice.’

  Meredith wondered whether she was being serious and if so, what did she hear in Meredith’s voice? ‘I’m sorry but that doesn’t sound the most scientific way of investigating a crime.’

  Fernández patted the arm of her chair in merriment. ‘Indeed, it is not! And you are right, I am a foolish woman sometimes. But still I’ve been catching murderers for some time and I do always rely on this feeling. My male colleagues are horribly sexist about this but they are old, impotent bores so what do I care?’

  She laughed out loud again, drawing some glances from other patrons. Meredith wondered if she had been drinking whilst she waited for her.

  But Fernández’s expression suddenly became serious and she leaned forward and put her hand on Meredith’s wrist. Meredith desperately tried not to show that this had totally freaked her out.

  ‘Of course, Ferran gave me an alibi and we are checking it out but I think it will check out okay, and if it does, it means we need another suspect. And I wanted to talk to you about that, Meredith. Who do you think that should be?’

  Meredith blew out her cheeks and slowly shook
her head. In the corner of the bar, she noticed that Jude Law had walked in and taken a seat. It added a surreal tone to their conversation. ‘I couldn’t possibly think of anyone who wanted her dead. I can’t help wondering whether this is an Occam’s razor situation where the most obvious solution is the truth of the matter.’

  ‘Which would be?’ The merriment in Fernández’s eyes seemed to grow.

  ‘That Amy killed herself. There was the text and I hear it’s quite a common way for people to go.’

  ‘People to go,’ repeated Fernández as though savouring a new delicacy. ‘That is an English phrase I have just learned from you. Thank you. Yes, it does happen, people do go that way, but we have a witness in a room in the opposing block who said he saw some sort of struggle between two women on the balcony and then one fell. He was too far away to identify anyone but he is sure of what he saw. And you mention the text, but no one mentions any sign of depression, not her friends, not you, and there are no medical notes of any mental illness.’

  Meredith immediately felt paranoid. Why had Fernández separated her from Amy’s friends? She was as much one of her friends as any of The Squad. Had Olivia been saying something to Fernández?

  ‘Well, I’m no expert, but people who suffer from depression often don’t mention it, or we miss the signs.’

  Fernández nodded along vigorously. ‘So true, so true, did you see any signs, with hindsight?’

  Meredith sucked in her bottom lip and pretended she was trying to remember.

  ‘Maybe, she was a little sad last time I saw her, I don’t know.’

  ‘A little sad, a moment, por favor.’ She leaned down and dug around in her handbag which she had placed by her feet. Meredith could see two cartons of cigarettes and a vape pen in the bag. Fernández produced her notepad. ‘Here it is! I am such a bad police person, no?’ She began to write. ‘A little bit sad was what you said. This is correct?’