Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing (7 page)

The next morning Borja was due to pick me up on the way to visit the centre Mariona had recommended. We had an appointment for eleven and it was a quarter to when the bell rang. I assumed it to be him and I answered “I'll be down right away!” not thinking to ask who it was, but the second I opened the door, I regretted I hadn't. The man waiting in the street wasn't my brother but a young, tall, burly
mosso d'esquadra
who immediately asked if I was Mr Eduard Martínez. When I finally stammered that I was he, he said that Inspector Badia wanted to talk to me and invited me in a threatening voice to get into the patrol car parked opposite.

While I walked towards the car, praying that no neighbour was watching and rushing to phone Montse or, even worse, my mother-in-law, I saw Borja was already inside, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, as the English say.

“Are we under arrest?” I whispered after I'd sat down next to him.

“No. At least I don't think so. Apparently the Inspector wants a word with us,” he whispered back.

“Did they say why?”

“They don't know. The Inspector told them to take us to the headquarters on Les Corts, and that it was urgent.”

“Shit!”

We were back in it. I scowled out of the window and muttered that this was the last time I took any notice of my brother. How could I let him dupe me like that? I should have known Borja's bright ideas are never the solution, but simply the quickest way to create more hassle.

“We still don't know what it's all about,” he hissed when he saw me looking so appalled. “So please, let's not get into a stress. And you leave the talking to me.”

We didn't say another word and both of us pretended to look out of the window. I am sure Borja was also speculating that the police might have found out we'd been to the American's flat on Monday morning and, reasonably enough, deduced that we were involved in his murder. On the other hand, I couldn't help thinking it was really strange that Brian Morgan had entrusted my brother with the keys to his flat, and that Borja, to complicate our lives even more, had decided to hide an antique there that was surely stolen or smuggled goods.

“Above all, you have never heard of Brian and have never set foot in his flat,” repeated Borja before we alighted.

My legs felt weak. It was my second visit to the police station on Les Corts in six months, and I was scared we'd both leave in handcuffs. Inspector Badia's frosty manner and extreme politeness gave me the shivers. Ever since that day he summoned us to his office to tell us he knew Borja was using a name that wasn't the one on his ID card, and that he and I were brothers and that the fraud consultancy we claimed we ran was a company that didn't exist, I knew that sooner or later he'd have it in for us. On that occasion, the Inspector had more important matters to attend to, but the fact he had us taped was hardly comforting. Borja was also stressed out. Quite unawares, he'd started biting his nails.

The secretary told us we'd have to wait because the Inspector was on the phone and she pointed us towards
some chairs. Borja and I obediently sat down next to each other under her beady eye. After ten minutes that seemed like an eternity, the office door opened and the Inspector stuck his head out.

“Please do come in. I am so grateful you were able to make it,” he said affably, disconcerting us even more.

“Always ready to be of help, Inspector,” replied Borja, trying to recover his sangfroid and shaking the Inspector's hand.

“I hoped you weren't alarmed because I sent a patrol car,” the Inspector smiled. “I thought it would save time. But do come in, I beg you.”

When you aren't sure what it's all about, best keep your mouth shut. That's what Borja always said and we both knew we should say nothing until the Inspector showed his cards.

“I suppose you've heard what happened in the building where you have your office,” he began, watching to see how we reacted.

The Inspector stared at Borja and, immediately afterwards, trained his cold, blue eyes on me. Unlike my brother, I couldn't stand his accusing look and cowered like a little kid who'd been caught up to no good.

“What happened?” asked Borja, sounding surprised.

“Ah, so you didn't know?”

“No,” we both chorused.

“So when
was
the last time you went to your office?”

Borja put on his innocent angel face and looked as if he was remembering hard, trying to gain time to formulate a plausible response that wouldn't make life difficult for us.

“We were there Monday morning,” he said finally. “We had an appointment with a writer. A friend of yours, I believe, Teresa Solana.”

“But, of course, Teresa…” replied the Inspector, sprawling back in his chair. “I hope you didn't mind me mentioning your name to her.”

“On the contrary,” said Borja. “We are always delighted to help out when we can.”

“She sometimes drops in when she wants information for one of her books. She told me her new novel is something to do with alternative therapies and I thought you might be able to give her a hand.”

“Yes, we did see eye to eye,” Borja replied enigmatically.

The Inspector sprawled back yet again and rubbed his hands together.

“So you've not been back to the office since Monday morning?” he continued.

“The fact is we were intending to go yesterday afternoon, but in the end we had a drink with Mariona Castany at the Gimlet and it got very late,” explained Borja, reminding the Inspector of his friendship with one of the wealthiest women in Barcelona. The Inspector took note.

“A neighbour of yours has been murdered,” he let drop. “By the name of Brian Morgan.”

Borja and I pretended to be shocked.

“Really?”

“First I've heard of it,” I lied.

“What on earth happened?” enquired Borja, slightly overreacting.

“The concierge found him a couple of evenings ago. He'd been dead for over a week.”

“Poor woman! She must have got the fright of her life!” said Borja, shaking his head as if he was really upset.

“You didn't notice anything that morning when you went to your office?” The Inspector's gentle tone contrasted with his icy glare.

“No,” we both shook our heads.

“When the concierge started her afternoon shift, she noticed there was a stink on the staircase. She walked upstairs to see where it was coming from and found the
door to your neighbour's flat wide open. The stink was coming from inside.”

“Well, we didn't notice a thing,” Borja replied hastily. “Did we, Eduard?”

“No, nothing at all.”

“The concierge says there was no smell in the morning,” continued the Inspector. “When did you two gentlemen leave the building?”

Borja stared up at the ceiling, making it plain he was still trying hard to remember.

“It must have been half past one, because the concierge had gone for lunch,” he said in the end. In fact, we can't have left the flat until about four, what with cleaning Brian Morgan's flat and waiting for the locksmith.

“That means the door to the victim's flat must have been shut and someone must have opened it between half past one and five,” deduced the Inspector, jotting on a sheet of paper. “That was why the stench had reached the staircase.”

“Have you caught the culprit?” asked Borja.

“Not yet. My men are pretty good, but not that good!” the Inspector exclaimed with a smile. “In fact, Mr Masdéu, that's why I had you brought in.”

When the Inspector persisted in addressing Borja by his fictitious name, although he knew he was a Martínez and that we were brothers, I felt we were done for. I was sure he had it in for us.

“Mr Masdéu, a neighbour living in the building opposite swears she saw you opening and closing the windows in the victim's flat on Monday morning.” The Inspector suddenly changed his expression and looked extremely severe. Borja went bright red. I turned white.

“Come off it!” was my brother's immediate reaction. “The only windows I opened were in our office. The neighbour must have mixed them up.”

“Mixed them up?”

“Yes, as our office windows are right under the windows in the dining room of that Brian…”

“So you have been inside Mr Morgan's flat. Or at least his dining room…” retorted the Inspector.

“Well, yes, I mean no, obviously not,” mumbled Borja nervously. “I imagined the windows overlooking the street are in the dining room. Or am I mistaken?”

The Inspector stared through Borja, but said nothing.

“Did you know the victim?” was his only response.

“Not really. We may have passed him on the stairs now and then,” said Borja.

“What about you, Mr Martínez? Did you know Mr Morgan?”

“I just said ‘Good morning' to him a couple of times,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders to underline the fact that I couldn't care less that a total stranger was dead.

The Inspector consulted his dossier.

“Do you know what his line of business was?” he asked, keeping his eyes trained on his sheaf of papers.

“I was under the impression that he worked for an American company and was always on the hoof. I believe it had to do with electrical components,” replied Borja in a tone that indicated that he wanted to cooperate.

“The fact of the matter is that Mr Brian Morgan was really Brian Harris and worked for the government,” the Inspector explained.

On this occasion, our shocked expressions were for real.

“The government? Which government?”

“The government of the United States, naturally.”

“Oh, you mean he was in the FBI?” asked Borja, sounding frightened.

The Inspector sighed.

“The FBI is the federal police force. Don't you ever watch television?”

“That must mean he was in the CIA, right?” I asked.

The Inspector smiled, but said neither yea nor nay.

“We have to handle this case with kid gloves,” he said finally. “We must of course investigate Mr Harris's death, and that is what we are doing, but I am under orders to collaborate with the Americans and not to interfere in their investigations unless I am asked to.”

“So what you are saying is that the Americans will take over the case,” said Borja as if he were
au fait
with police protocol in such situations.

“Not at all. This is our business. Though it does complicate matters considerably,” he admitted. “If I brought you here it is because your office is in the same building, and I know how very observant you both are…”

“If you say so…”

“I thought you might have come across the occasional foreigner or suspicious-looking individual over the last few weeks. Do try to remember.”

My brother and I glanced at each other and shook our heads.

“The truth is we've hardly been to the office recently,” said Borja. “You know, with the crisis we have very few clients. In any case, the person you should speak to is Paquita, the concierge. She knows everything that goes on in the building. Who goes in, and who comes out…”

“We've done that. But she's only there from nine to one and five to eight. And never at the weekends,” replied the Inspector.

“It may even have been an inside CIA job. How do you know
they
didn't shoot him?” I piped up, thinking aloud.

The Inspector stiffened slightly and stared into my eyes.

“And how do
you
know he was shot?”

I'd put my foot in it big time. I felt myself going bright red and Borja looking at me panic-stricken. I took a deep
breath, trying to calm down and do what Borja would have done, namely, come out fighting.

“Well, Inspector, if he was in the CIA, he must have been a spy, mustn't he? And spies are always shot in the head, right? At least in films…” I argued in a shrill voice, hoping the Inspector would be convinced by my logic.

“Indeed, Mr Martínez, you are quite right. Mr Harris died from a shot to the head. But there is something that doesn't quite fit. Are you both sure you know nothing about all this?”

Borja, who'd guessed the Inspector was shooting in the dark, lolled back in his chair and smiled.

“Inspector, we devote our lives to doing favours for people with money, as you know. And, sometimes,” he added, “a writer comes to see us claiming she is a friend of yours. But the CIA? Don't make me laugh! Eduard and I don't even speak English!”

“Rest assured, Mr Masdéu. I'm not accusing you of anything.”

The Inspector got up out of his chair. “In fact, this wasn't an interrogation. It was an informal conversation. Deputy Inspector Alsina-Graells is leading this case, not me,” he continued with a crafty smile. “In any case, if by chance you do find something, I hope you will tell me straight away.”

“But, of course,” replied Borja, getting up and shaking the Inspector's hand. When the Inspector shook mine, I could tell from the suspicious look in his eyes he'd noticed mine was a cold and sweaty palm.

I looked at the floor and gulped.

Out in the street the sun was shining brightly, but after the fright Inspector Badia had just given us I'd have thought the weather was wonderful even if thunder and lightning had been booming and flashing overhead. We hadn't been arrested, and, despite that statement from the neighbour who'd said she'd seen Borja opening and closing the windows of Brian's flat, it was evident the Inspector didn't seriously suspect we were involved in the murder. Still shaking with fear, Borja and I lit up and started to stroll silently down the road, crossing Les Corts. We needed to exercise our legs and release the adrenalin that had accumulated in our veins.

“That bastard Badia!” Borja exclaimed after a while. “He gave me a real shock! I thought he was on to us!”