A Shortcut to Paradise (6 page)

7

“Good morning, Eduard. Sorry I'm late,” said my brother, gasping for air after opening our office door. “I had to collect a parcel, and there was a bottleneck on Muntaner…”

“Don't worry,” I responded with a smile. “Take your time! It's a beautiful day!”

“I suppose you mean that it's hot…” he retorted as he took his jacket off. Apart from being flustered, he seemed downcast.

“So who got out of bed on the wrong side?” I replied gently.

“Let's just say I'm in no joking mood.”

It was 19 June, and although it was a Monday and only three days to the start of the twins' and Arnau's holidays, I was in excellent spirits that morning. We'd spent the weekend in a rural retreat near Olot and the countryside is the best possible rest cure for my wife Montse. The sound of crickets and smell of cowpats have an aphrodisiac effect that oysters and chocolate can only dream of. I was walking on water and it must have showed on my face, because Borja looked me up and down as if he didn't recognize me. He was carrying a bulky parcel under his arm and, with a deep sigh, left
it on top of what was supposed to be our secretary's desk.

“So what the hell's got into you today?” he asked, rather irritated, as if I had no right to be in good spirits.

“Nothing at all. I just feel happy.”

“So I gather that
you
at least had a good weekend…”

Borja sat down on the sofa with a martyred expression all over his face. He did look tired.

“I've had a really terrible weekend!…” he muttered.

It was half-past ten and Borja had arrived half an hour late. That was unusual: he usually only arrived late to act big and impress our clients. Although we weren't currently engaged on a case, we'd agreed to meet at ten to see how we were going to handle the summer and, while we were at it, dust the four designer items in our office. We'd sweated blood for the last three weeks in pursuit of a Barça first-team player whose wife suspected he was giving her the runaround with a slip of a girl of indeterminate nationality. In the end it transpired she was the one deceiving him, a circumstance that enabled us to triple our fee and, in my case, allow myself the luxury of taking my family for a weekend away on full board.

“What do you mean? Women problems?” I asked, trying to loosen his tongue. “I suppose you've had another row with Lola…”

Lola is my sister-in-law, and she's got entangled with Borja, though she's not the only one. In fact, Merche is my brother's official girlfriend and she's a married woman who is well established and several years younger than Borja. The small, rather trendy attic flat on Muntaner where he's been living for the last couple of years belongs to Merche, as does the two-tone Smart that Borja drives around. Lola, on the other hand, is divorced and one of those lefty types who've recycled themselves into eastern mysticism, New Age philosophy and designer gear. For some reason I can't fathom, Lola is hooked on my brother, and he eggs her on.

“Don't you read the newspapers, or what?” he rapped, looking surprised. “Have you forgotten I was going to accompany Mariona to a literary do at the Ritz?”

“Not really, as we were out of town the whole weekend…” I replied by way of justification. “You know we left on Friday afternoon and didn't get back until very late last night…”

“I tried to ring you on your mobile, but you were out of range.”

“Yes, we were slightly off the beaten track, and I'd left my charger at home. You know, these rural retreats are a great invention,” I said, remembering the terrific impact wrought on Montse.

“You must be kidding! Give me a good five-star hotel, with room service, sauna, massage, Jacuzzi…”

“The countryside isn't like that. You just like your creature comforts.”

“Haven't you read the newspapers? Or watched TV?” he came back at me.

“No, to tell you the truth, no papers or TV. The countryside, fresh air, first-class food, a good wine with dinner…”

“Well, we've got work to do,” he added as he got up to fetch the parcel he'd left on the table, which he literally threw into my hands.

I took one glance. It contained around a hundred and fifty typed, double-spaced, unbound folios, held together by one of those brown elastic ribbons used to
truss chickens. It looked like a novel, a door-stopper at that, and I didn't know what to say. Someone had underlined what must be the title,
A Shortcut to Paradise
, above what I imagined must be the writer's name on the front page. I hadn't read anything by her, but I was very familiar with the name Marina Dolç. She was one of those famous writers who were always appearing on the TV, and I tried to remember what she looked like. If my memory wasn't playing tricks on me, Marina Dolç was in her fifties, dark-haired, self-confident and attractive. She wasn't thin or tall, and I recalled her as being elegant, although always too made-up for my taste. I couldn't dredge up any other details, and I'm not at all convinced that the image in my head that day had any connection with reality.

“So what are we supposed to do with
this
?” I asked, rather taken aback. “I know we're not on a case at the moment, but is it so drastic that we've got to start reading novels?”

“Eduard,” replied Borja, about to lose his patience, “Marina Dolç has been murdered.”

Since my brother and I joined forces, some three years ago, we've only once been involved in a murder case. In fact we are consultants, not gumshoes, although the work that comes our way means we often almost are. We don't have a detective's licence and so don't spend time solving violent crime; that's what the police are for. True, we work for the upper classes, but usually the commissions we get have to do with the underhand buying or selling of properties, dealing with what we might call delicate matters and, from time to time, corroborating or refuting suspected infidelities. If on one occasion (that we might describe as exceptional) we did agree to investigate a murder case, it was only because of those coincidences that often happen to Borja and that meant my brother and I found ourselves in the middle of a great big mess really quite by chance. But at the time Borja solemnly promised me it would be the last time, and I believed him. What was the likelihood we would encounter a corpse again, given the select circles we move in? For the second time in three years, the word “murder” lit up the little red alarm light inside my head.

“Borja, I thought we'd agreed…”

“I know we did, but when I tell you about this one, you won't believe me.”

My brother was quite wrong. If I've found out one thing since we've been partners, it is Borja's innate ability to get into tight corners. It's not that he doesn't know how to extricate himself, which is another of his specialities, but I'm always terrified that one day he'll be stuck for good.

“It's a rather strange case, but there's no need for you to worry,” he began in that cocky manner he sometimes adopts and that really puts the wind up me. “On Friday night I accompanied Mariona to that literary party held at the Ritz.”

“I know. You were dressed up to the nines. Lola told Montse.”

“That's right. But what you don't know is that after dinner I had to spend six hours hiding under one of the dinner tables, surrounded by police. From three to eight a.m., and I kid you not. My back's still hurting.”

I started to feel alarmed. Ever since we've been working in this phantom firm that doesn't exist for tax purposes and renting an office on Muntaner that's more like a
theatre set, whenever I hear the word “police” my body goes into a cold sweat and I feel the need to put my head into a bag to breathe.

“Borja, you must be kidding? The police? What the hell have you done now?”

“Nothing whatsoever. When the
mossos d'esquadra
turned up, I just thought that they might ask for our ID cards, and obviously…”

“But what the fuck were the
mossos
doing there? Weren't you and Mariona going to some fucking prize-giving?” I was still confused.

As soon as he saw I was so angry, Borja realized it would be better to start at the beginning and give a strictly chronological account of the facts. He got up from the sofa and took the precaution of closing a window, which was open because our office was like a furnace. He sat down again, lit a cigarette and offered me one. I accepted it right away. Clearly my pledge to stop smoking after a weekend in the country was worth fuck all.

“Indeed we were,” said Borja solemnly. “Mariona and I went to the Ritz, to the award ceremony for the Golden Apple Prize. You know, the one worth thousands.”

“A hundred thousand, if I'm not mistaken.”

“There were lots of people in attendance. Lots dressed for a party, lots of arse-lickers, a bunch of envious writers and the odd well-known politician… The chair of the jury announced the name of the winner around midnight, after a dinner that left much to be desired. A winner who was none other than Marina Dolç. Even
you
must have heard of her…”

“Course I have! She wrote a very famous novel, didn't she?
Love's Not My Thing
was the title, I think… I've seen it lying around the house.”

“You mean
Love Is Not For Me
. I've not read it yet, but Lola gave it to me on St George's Day,” he sighed. “I think it was a subtle hint.”

“Very subtle.”

“The fact is Marina Dolç is a famous writer, as well as being filthy rich. She's sold an amazing number of copies, particularly abroad.”

“And this novel?” I asked, glancing at the manuscript Borja had just handed me.

“Obviously, it's the novel that won the prize,” he said, as if it were self-evident.

“Really!…” I felt that things were beginning to get knotted. “Don't tell me you stole it?”

My brother looked at me as if he were deeply offended. I didn't think he was in the business of stealing the manuscripts of prize novels written by writers who get murdered in five-star hotels, but it was the only logical explanation that came to mind given the evidence before my eyes.

“Don't be such a fool! What on earth would be the point of stealing this manuscript? There must be loads of copies…”

I felt slightly guilty for harbouring evil thoughts, muttered an apology and asked him to go on unravelling what I assumed would be an entangled yarn. I promised not to interrupt him again.

“It turns out,” he took a deep breath, “that after dinner and the usual thanksgiving speeches, the usual blather, people started to leave. However, as usually happens on these occasions, a small group headed by Marina went down to the bar in the basement of the Ritz to prolong the party. In fact, there were about forty of us at the start, including Mariona and me. She wanted to show
off the Versace she'd bought in New York, naturally enough…”

Mariona Castany is a very wealthy friend of my brother, who treats her as if she were an auntie. As she's bored, she's decided to write her memoirs and hobnob in literary circles. She's around sixty-five, a widow and a wily old weasel. She lives alone, with her domestic staff, in one of the very few Modernist mansions still standing on Bonanova. From time to time, when her long-standing lover is otherwise engaged, Borja keeps her company.

“As you can imagine,” he continued, “the plonk kept flowing and we were all rather the worse for wear. But, of course, Marina had lots of commitments the day after, press interviews and so on, and announced she would be going to bed just before two. She was staying at the Ritz. Apparently she always stayed there when she came down to Barcelona.”

“Very sensible too.”

“Lots of people had gone by that time and there were about twenty of us still at the bar: the publisher and his wife, a few friends, a few critics, a close friend of Marina's in a tight-fitting flowery dress that looked like a curtain…”

“Get to the point, Borja.”

“So we said goodnight to Marina and Mariona insisted on ordering another round.” Borja sighed yet again.

“Life's hard, right?”

“The fact is,” he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. “I'd been introduced to a stinking-rich, rather dumb dentist and was trying to persuade him we could do good business together. You know the kind of thing, investments using black money… His wife wasn't so sure and I set about giving her the hard sell. Then, at about half-past two, the woman in the flowery dress noticed Marina had lost an earring. She'd found it on the floor, under a chair, and, as it was a diamond-andpearl affair worth a fortune, she offered to take it up to her room.”

“How very considerate of her. But it's odd Marina hadn't noticed.”

“I suppose she didn't have time, maybe the murderer bumped her off the moment she got back to her room,” he speculated. “Whatever. Two minutes later this woman, who went by the name of Josefina something or other, rushed back to the bar in a highly agitated state. She couldn't stop crying. She was so distraught she couldn't get a word out. We finally calmed her down slightly and she told us why she was so upset. Get this: she had just discovered her friend prostrate on the floor in her bedroom, in a pool of blood, her head all smashed up.”

“Fucking hell! These writers don't do things by halves!”

“Too true. Just imagine. The party was suddenly over. Josefina couldn't stop shaking and crying… Nobody had a clue about what had happened. People were talking about robbery and revenge… Anyway, the police had been informed and Mariona wanted to stay. I suppose she'd decided to include the episode in her memoirs…” he paused and looked at me askance. “The minutes were ticking by and I was worried in case the police decided to question us and asked for my ID card.”