A Not So Perfect Crime (24 page)

In the months to come I spent each night trying to relive that funeral I hadn't attended. I imagined the priest, the coffins, the people dressed in black and the laments. I saw my brother and myself receiving condolences, and also the biers being dropped deep inside the dark niche while we all wept miserably. Before falling asleep exhausted, I'd remember what Uncle Faustino had said – “You've got to get over these blows” – and cried and cried until I fell asleep. The idea of doing in the pisshead who'd forced my parents over a precipice on the Garraf corniche also went round my head. I ate almost nothing, refused to go to school and spent every day crying and sleeping.

Once again it was my brother who took hold of the situation. Initially, when he recovered from concussion and was allowed home, he behaved the same way as me. He cried all the time, went round in a sleepwalking daze and wanted to be by himself. Seeing Pep in such a state upset me as much as remembering my parents were dead and would never come back. We were both distraught, but I knew that if my brother, who was the more resilient of the two of us, didn't recover from this blow, I never would. Finally I fell ill and a raging temperature kept me delirious in bed for three days. When I came round, Pep was his old self and assumed, as usual, the role of elder brother. For a few months we dedicated body and soul to trying to find out – quite unsuccessfully – the identity of the drink driver so we could beat him up and return him to his Maker. I suppose that was our first job as detectives, although it was
a disastrous failure. Over time my brother and I managed somehow to overcome the tragedy and get on with our lives, but I've always wondered if that concussion did any lasting damage and what went through Borja's head the three days I was so ill.

He never goes to funerals, he admitted to me one day. Apparently it's the only thing he doesn't feel able to face. This was why he stayed outside the church, a move no one could misinterpret because there simply wasn't room for everyone inside and he wasn't the only one stood in the square during the ceremony. Consequently, when I spotted the man with whom Lídia Font had conversed in the Zurich among the crowds filling the church, I couldn't alert my brother.

It happened right at the end, while I was queuing up to offer the family my condolences. When I spotted him, four or five people were in front of me and I could hardly rush off in hot pursuit in full view of everybody. I waited patiently and enacted the ritual handshake and condolences, hoping I'd be able to catch the man when I left the church. It was my bad luck that the person in front lingered at least a couple of minutes with the MP while I became increasingly agitated, as I saw the man I'd seen in the Zurich slip away into the crowd.

When I emerged, the memory of my parents still churning round my brain, I tried unsuccessfully to locate him among the crowds packing the square. I walked despairingly over to where my brother stood. He was chatting in relaxed fashion to Mariona Castany, but I had no qualms about interrupting their conversation to tell Borja what had happened.

“He's here! I saw him in church!” I said excitedly.

“Hello, Eduard. It's such a tragedy, isn't it? We were just saying to Borja ...” Mariona seemed put out by my impertinent interjection.

I greeted her properly and apologized for my rudeness. Our little group was joined by another of the acquaintances of Mariona, who embarked on the introductions
comme il faut
while I got more and more stressed. In the meantime men in grey loaded the coffin and wreaths into the hearse. People started to drift off and the square soon emptied out.

“But how could you let him get away!” Borja sighed angrily when I finally managed to explain whom I'd spotted. “He's the only lead we have! ...”

“It was just that I was in the queue, and thought it would look rude ...”

“Lluís Font would have understood.”

“Yes, but the other people ...”

“What the hell! You don't even know them! ...” And he was right.

I don't know why I was being such a stickler for decorum. I suppose it's because when I'm in this kind of company I get nervous and try to imitate the way Borja behaves so as not to put my foot in it, which is far from easy when you consider the stacks of unspoken codes at play that are totally alien to me. But I can't deny I'd let our only lead get away and I felt like a real dumbo.

“Well, at least we know he came to the funeral. Someone here must know the guy!” said Borja.

“I expect only Lídia Font knew him. He's probably a nobody ...” I said half-heartedly.

“If he were a nobody, Mrs Font wouldn't have bothered to go down to the plaça de Catalunya to talk to him on a Friday evening, right?” he argued bad-temperedly.

“I suppose you're right,” I conceded. “I'm really sorry, you know.”

“OK, let's forget it. It's history now. And we've got work to do.”

My brother may not have any other virtues, but he never bears a grudge. When I make a mistake, which is more often than I would like, he'll first react like a harpy but he doesn't let it smoulder on. As far as I can recall, he's never really rubbed my face in my mistakes, and some have been quite scandalous.

While I'd been acting the fool in church and letting our main suspect escape, my brother hadn't wasted his time. At nine, after we'd been home for a change of clothes, we met Mariona in Flash Flash, a laid-back restaurant that's managed to retain its Seventies Pop-Art style without seeming old-fashioned. It's near the centre of town and specializes in omelettes, hamburgers and salads. It's a haunt of the well-heeled classes of Barcelona and has the advantage that you can't book a table. Borja wasn't sure whether Mariona had made an rendezvous with him there in order to confide some juicy titbit or to extract one from him, but he insisted I should accompany him and use the opportunity to give him a detailed description of the man I'd seen in the Zurich and now at the funeral.

“Poor Lídia, what a coincidence!” Mariona opened fire. “It's less than a month since we were talking about her. Do you remember?”

“Yes, of course. A real coincidence! The world's going from bad to worse ...” said Borja trying to handle the situation without showing his cards. “There are so many lunatics out there! ...”

“She ate some poisoned sweets apparently ...” Mariona let slip casually.

The police had told journalists they were sweets not
marrons glacés
.

“So the newspapers said,” I said, knowing full well my brother's tactics when he felt like taking people on a wild goose chase.

“It's rather strange, you know ...” continued Mariona. “I mean it must have been a lunatic ...” And she added sarcastically, “I didn't know nutcases were that sophisticated.”

“Yes, it is very peculiar,” Borja allowed.

By that time there was only one table free in Flash Flash and it was quite noisy. Even so, Mariona lowered her voice.

“So? How did it all turn out? Did or didn't she have a lover-boy?”

She'd finally decided to ask the question that was burning her lips.

“You were right, Mariona,” said Borja as he tucked into an aubergine omelette. “Lídia had nothing going on. Her husband dreamt up that little drama all by himself.”

“I reckon it wasn't quite a drama, you know, more a ... I suppose you found out. As I see you're on such good terms with Lluís ...”

“What do you mean?” he asked feigning surprise.

“Shall we ask for another bottle of wine?” suggested my brother's friend rather than replying to his question. “I don't know why,” she smiled regally, “but funerals always make me thirsty.”

As the model gentleman, Borja asked the waiter to bring a second bottle of vintage wine with a price tag to stand your hair on end. It was delicious. My brother waited patiently for the wine to be poured before resuming the conversation. He didn't want to appear impatient.

“I don't know what you meant by whether we knew ...” Borja returned gently to the matter in hand.

“Well, just that Lluís is seeing Sílvia, his sister-in-law. But that's not news to anyone, of course. It's common knowledge.”

This was totally unexpected. Our client's confused confession had led us to think that the affair was still a well-kept secret and that, except for those involved (and obviously more recently the police) nobody was aware of the MP's incestuous little fling. Mariona Castany's revelation – a woman who never ceased to astonish – changed everything.

“He doesn't seem to think that,” Borja ventured boldly. “In fact, he's convinced nobody knows he and his sister-in-law ...”

“Poor Lluís is a little ingenuous at times! ...” she smiled. “Sílvia made sure she broadcast it to all and sundry. That's why she fell in with him, so she could spread the good tidings and undermine Lídia. Sílvia knew full well what an interest Lídia took in her husband's career.”

When she saw the dumbfounded looks on our faces, she added: “Sílvia's had it in for her sister for years. I reckon she's never forgotten the nasty trick she played on her over Carlitos Carbonell. The poor girl must be very much in love, but fancy having the patience to wait all these years ...”

“Now I really don't know what you're talking about, Mariona. I've been living abroad for so long ...” whispered Borja.

“I'm referring to Sílvia and Carlitos, the heir to the Carbonells. Of course the Carbonells were practically bankrupt, so ‘heir' is purely metaphorical. The fact is Sílvia Vilalta and Carlitos were about to get married. There'd not been any formal engagement, but everyone thought it was serious and they'd soon be officially betrothed. The Vilaltas were pleased enough, because although Carlitos wouldn't come into money he was a nice young man and his family was still well connected, particularly in Madrid. And as Sílvia had always been a rather strange girl ...”

“That's right,” I said, remembering the incident with the Cuban.

“Lídia carried on until silly Carlitos became completely besotted, broke up with Sílvia and began going out with her. Sílvia couldn't compete with a stunningly beautiful woman like Lídia. Not that Sílvia was ugly, but, of course, Lídia was much cleverer and far more scheming.”

“But that's ancient history,” I said. “Besides, Mrs Font and this Carlitos never married.”

“Of course they didn't! They lasted a couple of months. She sent him packing without even a goodbye. But naturally after Carlitos had treated Sílvia so badly, it was impossible for them to get back on speaking terms.”

“Sílvia must have really flipped,” Borja suggested.

“Apparently,” she said almost whispering, “she tried to commit suicide by swallowing her mother's sleeping pills. The family covered it up, of course, and she's had it in for her sister ever since. I don't suppose for one minute that she was the only one.”

“In other words, Lídia Font has her enemies,” concluded Borja.

“As many as she has admirers.”

When we were eating our desserts, Borja asked me to describe to Mariona the man I'd seen in the Zurich. I did as I was told, but she didn't seem to recognize him. The initials “S.M.” didn't mean anything to her either.

“I'll give it some thought. You two are obviously on to something, aren't you,” she asked inviting us to let her in on our secrets.

“I'll let you know one of these days,” Borja replied with a wink, “but not right now. Trust me.”

Mariona seemed disappointed but didn't persist. She wasn't the kind of woman who goes around prying into everyone's secrets, although she made it known that we owed her a favour. We'd clearly aroused her curiosity.

As it was getting late and we were tired, we asked for the bill. Mariona went as if to search her bag for her elegant Hermès wallet where she keeps a single exclusive card with no limit. Borja stopped her and quickly took out his wallet, which was thicker than usual that night.

“No, no, Mariona. This one's mine.” And he put several notes on the table. “And to change the subject to something that has nothing to do with your cousin, do you know a painter by the name of Pau Ferrer? I've been told his paintings are a good investment.”

I assumed Borja wanted to find out if by any chance Mariona was up to speed on the portrait and the MP's suspicions.

“Pau Ferrer? Well, naturally ... I was introduced to him once at an exhibition. But I didn't buy anything. I suppose because I didn't really like his work.”

“And what's your opinion of him?”

“Ugh, middle class! ...”

And she looked at me rather embarrassed, knowing she could never go back and amend that ever so sincere, spontaneous answer.

19

Eudald Masoliver, Lluís Font's contact, was a Mosso d'Esquadra, one of our very own home-grown Catalan policemen. Borja had phoned him, and, after deliberating and trying to put him off, he'd finally agreed to meet us on Tuesday at 8 p.m. He didn't seem overenthusiastic about spying for Lluís Font, and even less so about having to do so through us.

Masoliver was waiting for us at the time agreed in the cafeteria in the Corte Inglés on the plaça de Catalunya. My brother had refused point blank to go in the Smart because it's always impossible to park in the centre and so we'd taken a taxi. It was only three days to January 6 and that part of the city was crammed with people buying presents and with gawping tourists in shorts clogging up the pavements. There wasn't room to swing a cat in the Corte Inglés and not a single empty table in the cafeteria on the top floor. A few years ago, while the champions of independence burned buses in the square and fought it out with the riot police, that cafeteria had turned into an improvised box at the opera from which bystanders – and I suppose the secret police – gazed down on the spectacle.