Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing by Teresa Solana, Peter Bush

It’s to do with our new case.”
    â€œYour partner’s affair with Lola will end in disaster. You do realize that, don’t you?” she sighed.
    â€œDon’t be such a spoilsport.”

5
    As it was still early, I took a leisurely stroll home and had a delicious siesta. When I woke up, it was almost six o’clock. I didn’t want to be late, so I leapt out of bed and scrambled around in the wardrobe for something decent to wear to cocktails with that sophisticate Mariona. I rolled up at Borja’s at a quarter to seven and he, too, looked as if he’d just got out of the sack.
    â€œYou by yourself?” I asked when he opened the door.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo, was it lunch with Merche?”
    Borja nodded.
    â€œWe went to the Port Olímpic. I think she’s rumbled me.”
    â€œAbout you and Lola?”
    â€œShe suspects there’s another woman. And I thought Merche wasn’t the jealous kind!” he sighed.
    â€œWhat did you expect? You’ll have to choose sooner or later. You can’t sustain this situation for much longer.”
    â€œIt’s late. I need to have a shower,” he replied, changing the subject.
    While Borja was sprucing himself up, I switched on the TV and zapped for a while. The princess in town was over the moon with her latest face; a footballer had cheated on his teenage sweetheart with a famous model; the octogenarian Duchess of Alba was as happy as a lark with heryoung, proletarian fiancé. More of the usual. The usual circus programmed to keep our eyes on the box. Our daily ration of fantasy.
    A few minutes later, Borja appeared showered, dressed and scented – overly so, for my taste.
    â€œLike my shirt?” he asked.
    â€œVery smart. Where did you pick that up?”
    Borja had opted for black jeans and a mauve shirt.
    â€œI snaffled it the other day in Gonzalo Comella on the Via Augusta,” he confessed.
    â€œPep!…”
    â€œIt cost a fortune.”
    â€œOne of these days they’ll catch you.”
    â€œI don’t think so. I’m a dab hand at it,” he said, smiling as he admired himself in the mirror.
    I sighed. Designer wear is one of Borja’s vices, but he can’t afford such luxuries, so instead loots expensive shops. His other vice is taking other people’s overcoats and umbrellas from restaurants when he lunches out, and he has an impressive array in his flat. Still smiling, he put on a sea-blue jersey and took another look in the mirror to be sure he liked his ensemble. Then he gave me the once-over and nodded.
    We decided to take the car, but rather than driving straight to the Gimlet we made a detour via the office to look at the lie of the land. The police cars and bystanders had gone, and we didn’t stop. We reached the cocktail bar early and, while waiting for Mariona, ordered a couple of gin and tonics, light on the gin. Our friend arrived at five past eight, in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt that emphasized her svelte body, which remained in good shape. After giving us a couple of pecks on the cheek, she flopped down on a chair and tetchily ordered a Singapore sling.
    â€œI am up to here with my friends!” she huffed. “All they can talk about is who has just died or who is about to. It is awfully depressing.”
    â€œYou need a boyfriend, Mariona. Or two,” quipped Borja, shaking his head. Mariona has been a widow for three years although it’s rumoured she’s been having an affair with a famous city architect for the past fifteen.
    â€œShut up about boyfriends! What are you two into at the moment? A new case?”
    â€œNot exactly a case, Mariona. You know we’re not detectives,” replied Borja with another shake of the head. “But we do have an assignment. We’ve been contracted to… How should I put this?…”
    â€œTo do some research?” she suggested.
    â€œYes, something of the sort.