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

home in his Smart. Initially, Mariona refused, arguing that the three of us couldn’t cram into the car, but I said I felt like a walk and they shouldn’t worry on my account. In fact, I was tired and the gin and tonics had gone to my head, and the last thing I felt like was a long walk home. As soon as they were out of sight I went off to catch the bus, hoping that Montse had taken pity on me and got dinner ready. The bus dawdled and when I walked through the door, the Spanish omelette Joana had cooked was no more and I had to make do with a miserable sandwich.

6
    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.
    â€œAre we under arrest?” I whispered after I’d sat down next to him.
    â€œNo. At least I don’t think so. Apparently the Inspector wants a word with us,” he whispered back.
    â€œDid they say why?”
    â€œThey don’t know. The Inspector told them to take us to the headquarters on Les Corts, and that it was urgent.”
    â€œShit!”
    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.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œAbove 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 towardssome chairs. Borja and I obediently sat down next to each other under her beady eye. After ten minutes that seemed like an