A Not So Perfect Crime (3 page)

“Yes, but I'm
au courant
. Please do take a seat. My partner will be here shortly. He had an out-of-office meeting ...”

At that precise moment the telephone rang on our non-existent secretary's desk. I was expecting the call and picked up the receiver.

“Oh, hello. That you? (...) Don't worry, Mariajo isn't here. If you remember, she had to take those documents to the lawyers (...) Yes, fine (...) OK. We'll be waiting for you.”

“That was him,” I explained. “He'll be here in five minutes. He's held up in a traffic jam ...”

“Better if the secretary's not here.”

“She won't be in this afternoon. We usually send her off on errands when we know we're seeing someone who will prefer complete discretion,” I said without a single blush.

It's a lie I've rehearsed so often I'm beginning to believe it myself. Sometimes I have the eerie feeling this Mariajo really does exist.

“What an excellent idea! Secretaries often say more than they should. Though, of course, there are always papers they can peek at ...” he said glancing quickly around.

I assumed that was a subtle hint as to our methods of working and I reassured him immediately: “Oh don't worry on that count! Mariajo never finds out anything that's gossip-worthy. We in fact only employ her to see to the telephone and run the office ... Besides, I suppose you know we prefer paper-free procedures. Believe me, nobody will ever find anything of interest in this office.” Nothing could have been nearer the truth.

I'd suggested he should sit on the sofa and could now see him looking out of the corner of his eye at our office doors. The moment had come to explain why I didn't take him into more secluded surroundings rather than keep him in reception like a door-to-door encyclopaedia salesman.

“I do apologize. It's all topsy-turvy in there. We're painting and redecorating, and you know how these ...”

“Oh absolutely. One knows when they will start but not when they will finish ...” he agreed half-heartedly, trying to respond politely to my small talk.

“What's more, it's so cold ... and so damp ... The paint's taking ages to dry.”

“Yes, it is rather cold this December. Perhaps we might even have a white Christmas ...”

“And Barcelona can't cope with snow ...”

“Oh absolutely. The city generates so much heat, the snow will never harden and is going to turn to dirty slush ...”

It was clear the only conversation the man was prepared to pursue with me was weather-related. If Borja delayed much longer, we might get on to the latest Barça gossip, always a good time-filler. I suppose a professional sleuth would have used the time to make a few deductions to nonplus the new client, but I could think only of the obvious, that I was in the presence of an elegant, rather shy, high-society gentleman who was in a foul mood despite all his efforts to look the contrary. But, of course, this didn't help. I was in no position to admit I'd recognized him, although I suspect that was precisely what he was thinking, and I didn't dare talk politics or broach the reasons for his visit before Borja showed up. Thank God the telephone rang again to interrupt that derisory dialogue that was enhancing neither of our lives. This time it was my mobile.

“I'm sorry,” I said taking it from my pocket.

“Please feel free,” he replied visibly relieved.

I switched it on and put the tiny apparatus next to my ear.

“Yes? (...) How's it going? (...) Seven point twenty-two? (...) Agreed, buy. (...) Fifteen thousand, right. No, our client agrees. (...) Yes, we've cleaned up this time. (...) Give me a ring tomorrow, won't you? Goodbye.”

These staged calls were also Borja's idea. After hearing such an exchange, some customers would ask if we also dealt in investments and, occasionally, we'd extract another bundle of
bin ladens
, as people call them, those ever elusive
thousand euro notes we invested on the Stock Exchange. Nothing too risky, to be sure: all very confidential and never any contracts or paperwork. We let them think that for a small commission they'd get a higher return on their money, particularly on the cash they kept undeclared in their desk drawers. It wasn't true, but in worst-case scenarios the client didn't earn anything. He recovered most of his investment, made no profit and asked no questions. When a gamble worked, we kept the crumbs.

However, this time, our client didn't bite. He was nervous, though it wasn't undeclared funds that were apparently making him so edgy. I was about to initiate a conversation on Ronaldinho's virtues and Puyol's dedication when I heard the sound of keys being poked in the door. The room soon filled with a smell I found only too familiar.

3

“I am so sorry I'm late
. . .
” Borja apologized (in Spanish, to be on the safe side), after he opened the door with his own key. “I had a meeting in San Cugat and the traffic on the ring road was as impossible as ever ...”

He was looking very distinguished in his stylish navy blue overcoat that would soon reveal a blue pin-stripe suit, a shirt with a thin blue stripe, the kind that comes with white collars and cuffs (the sort I really hate) and a buff yellow tie where ponies pranced.

Before taking his overcoat off, he went over and vigorously shook our visitor's hand. I felt he had somewhat overdone the eau de cologne. “Well? Have they finished yet?” he asked looking at me as he went to open the door to his office.

“No, of course not. The painters aren't done.”

“Bloody painters!”

“Perhaps you already know who I am,” interjected our client, showing signs of wanting to get down to business.

“Of course,” I responded hastily before Borja put his foot in it. “Mr Lluís Font, Right Honourable Member of the Parliament of Catalonia. And who knows,” I added, trying to flatter, “perhaps one day President of ...”

I only said that so Borja would understand the class of person we were dealing with. As he only takes the odd glance at conservative papers like
El Mundo
and
ABC
, he's not very
au fait
with the ins-and-outs of the Catalan political scene, though I suspect he's no better informed about
the Spanish right. My brother justifies his zero interest by saying he finds politics boring and politicians much of a muchness, whether they claim to be on the left or right. On the other hand, if you ask him where Julio Iglesias is holidaying or what stage the Infanta Cristina's pregnancy is at, Borja will give you chapter and verse.

While Lluís Font MP and I were exchanging meaningless pleasantries about the weather, I had mentally tried to remember what I knew about the character now perching on our smartish Ikea sofa. The Right Honourable Lluís Font was one of two political leaders battling for the leadership of his party (I won't say which, only that its Members of Parliament and councillors go to register their votes on the exclusive Avenida Pearson). It was very likely he would soon be put forward as a candidate for the Presidency of the Generalitat, although, the way things were going for his party in this neck of the woods, it was doubtful he would ever win the coveted title. He belonged to his party's moderate wing and was reputed to be a prudent, judicious man. From what I'd been able to glean from the Spanish press, he wasn't particularly popular with his own kind. It didn't help him that he was a Barça fan, but it was common knowledge he had a first-class brain when it came to football despite the fact he'd never dabbled in real estate, unlike the Presidents of most top football clubs.

He was slim, medium height and extremely refined. The dark grey bespoke suit he wore fitted him like a glove. His hair was on the fair side, and his skin displayed the same suspiciously dark sheen Borja was so proud of. He spoke reasonably correct Catalan, although clearly it wasn't the language he felt most comfortable with. His eyes were brown, almost honeyed and stared out rather vacantly, but I suppose he wasn't the fool some people liked to think. He didn't wear prescription glasses and he reeked of one of those expensive, unmistakably male perfumes advertised on television when the holidays are upon us. He also reeked of money. He sported a gold Rolex, cufflinks and tiepin. Given the
tout ensemble
, I expect a lot of women would rate him a rather handsome middle-aged man.

“In our telephone conversation,” he looked solemnly at Borja, “I mentioned that the matter bringing me here is strictly confidential. Some people have spoken most highly of you, Mr Masdéu, particularly of your discretion. I hope I can rely on you in this respect.”

I noticed he was observing me out of the corner of one eye.

“You can rely on me. And on Eduard, my partner. I suppose you've gathered we work together. I may be the more visible face of our firm, but you can trust my partner as if he were myself. In fact, Eduard and I are like brothers.” He smiled knowingly: “Don't worry. Nothing we discuss here will go beyond these walls. Do tell us what the problem is.”

“It is a painting,” Mr Font replied laconically.

“One you want to buy or sell?” asked Borja matter-offactly.

“Well, neither, really. It is ...” he hesitated before continuing, “... a picture I now have in my office that I bought a few days ago.”

“Is it an antique? A collector's item?” Borja was warming to the chase.

“No, the painter is still with us.”

“Then you think it's a fake, perhaps stolen ...” ventured Borja, raising his eyebrows. The same question was on the tip of my tongue.

“No, nothing of that sort ...” the MP cleared his throat. “The painting is genuine and I purchased it legally through a dealer.”

It was obvious he found it difficult to explain himself and was getting really agitated. We needed get to the point as soon as possible, because our office heating didn't work. The wrought-iron radiators looked a treat but they are also part of our act and my feet were freezing. I guess his were too.

“Well, then? What
is
your problem?” asked Borja in that mellifluous tone he sometimes uses.

“What is at issue is that the portrait ...” the MP wavered once more. “I mean to say the woman modelling is my wife,” he drawled, measuring his words and trying to conceal his unease at his confession.

“Ah! ...” we both exclaimed in unison.

Borja and I looked at each other askance. From the way our client was behaving, there was every possibility we had another case of infidelity on our hands. That I find particularly distasteful.

“Are you suggesting the portrait of your wife in the painting isn't what you were expecting? That you're not happy with it?” asked Borja egging him on.

“No, in fact ... do you see,” the MP finally decided to get to the point, “I had no idea my wife had been modelling.” He paused. “I mean I was very shocked when I came across a portrait of my wife in an exhibition,” he finally confessed.

“Perhaps there's nothing more to it, and your wife just wanted to give you a surprise ...” Borja suggested warily. “Perhaps she had it in mind as a Christmas present.”

“I don't think so,” he said shaking his head. “I discovered the painting by chance in a catalogue I receive through the post (fine art is a hobby of mine and I subscribe to some gallery publications). It seems the portrait in question was shown in an art-show held in Paris, and indeed the painting merited a whole-page reproduction in the exhibition catalogue.”

“You don't say!” whispered my brother.

“The artist,” the politician added, ignoring his reaction, “is a Catalan painter who is well-known to connoisseurs. From what I have read, apparently he now lives in Barcelona, but that is all I do know. I don't think he is exhibited much here ... But of course,” he shifted uneasily on the sofa and caught his breath, “you can imagine how astonished I was to discover Lídia in one of his paintings ...”

And then he added: “Worst of all, the paintings went on show in a very famous Paris art gallery!”

The MP was furious and his face gradually reddened beneath the fake brown veneer. With good reason. There are many ways you can find out about your partner's infidelities, but this had to be one of the most original. Borja saw I was making every effort not to laugh and directed one of his thunderous looks at me.

“I expect it isn't her. There's probably just a great similarity between that model and your wife,” my brother suggested very plausibly.

That seemed like good common sense. I'd also thought we might be dealing with a husband who was at once jealous and paranoid. It wouldn't be the first time.

“No, and no again,” the politician shook his head. “Apart from the fact that I recognize the shoes (my wife likes to wear the most expensive, extravagant shoes) the woman in the painting is also wearing a gold necklace she is very fond of. Also,” he explained, “Lídia happens to have a small scar on her neck, from an operation she underwent when
she was young, and this necklace is the one she puts on every day by way of camouflage. Naturally, she owns more expensive necklaces, but that's beside the point. It is true that the dress the woman in the painting is wearing is quite unfamiliar. It is dark-coloured and must be from a year or two back, because Lídia never wears a dress more than once or twice ... So do you see,” he sighed, “I am not in the slightest doubt but that it is her.”

“Yes, the shoes could be a coincidence, but the necklace would be taking it too far,” I agreed. “Are you sure it is the same one?”

“Absolutely. There are three fine gold threads that intertwine. The clasp is a flower of turquoise stones with a small ruby set in its centre. It is a very special necklace her father commissioned from a famous jeweller. An exclusive design, you understand.”