by Chris Lloyd
'You say connected,' Àlex said. 'Why would Joaquim Masó go for the muggers? Different business, different part of town. And if it is him, would he stage the victims like that? It seems too elaborate for someone like him.'
'We know very little about Joaquim. He's been on the fringes of the family all his life. If he is starting to move into it, we have no idea at the moment how he will operate. He might prove to be even worse than Daniel.'
Àlex grunted. 'Please don't say that.'
'It's a good point, though. We need to rule it in or out. And I still say we need to look at the whole idea of deserving victims, too. There's just something about the staging that tells me we should be casting our nets wider.'
'So how do we run the two investigations?'
'Officially,' Elisenda said, 'separately. I'm taking on the Chema GM case with Pau. You're running the Masó case with Josep and Montse. That's how Puigventós and Roca want it, so that's what they'll think they're getting. Unofficially, we'll be co-ordinating the two investigations, looking for crossovers. Either way, we're not actually going to mention any connection until we've got evidence there is one.'
Àlex nodded. 'Okay, I see that.'
'And there's also the press to contend with. At the moment, they're leaving us alone. No one cares much about a dead loan shark. But the moment we make it official there's a link between the two investigations, we'll have them on our backs.'
Àlex sighed. 'Don't you miss the days when the press did as they were told?'
'No. And neither do you.'
They heard a noise outside and Pau knocked on the door and came in. 'Can I have a word, Sotsinspectora? I've just been talking to a guy in the Regional Investigation Unit. They've found a body on the Rambla. He was covered in blood, but he had no wounds on him.'
'So where was the blood from?' Elisenda asked.
'From animal abortions. Pigs.'
'And he was on the Rambla?'
'Lying hidden under the arches by L'Arcada. They reckon he had a DVD taped to his hand.'
'Still think there's no connection?' Elisenda asked Àlex. She turned to Pau. 'Did the guy in the Regional Investigation Unit say who it was?'
'Yes, it was that priest. The one on TV. Mossèn Viladrau.'
Chapter Twenty One
Meir Perlman enjoyed his work. It suited him. The conscientiousness, the attention to detail, the solitude. A visiting researcher from Israel, he knew everything there was to know about Girona's medieval Jewish history – the city within a city, the persecution, the expulsion – but little about conveying that passion to a listener. Even when the listeners were two history lecturers from Columbia University, the one with her husband, the other with his wife and teenage daughter, paying a courtesy call to the Jewish History Museum, a centre of Jewish learning a thousand years ago, now a museum devoted to the history of its long-gone community.
Meir was out of the comfort of his museum and spending the afternoon showing the small group the Call, the old Jewish quarter. He was trying to engage what he would have thought would be a rapt audience in the story of Nahmànides, the thirteenth-century rabbi of Girona after whom the museum was named, but even he could see it was a losing battle. He'd caught the male professor checking his watch twice while they'd been standing by the Portal de Sobreportes. He was even more out of his area of expertise in the presence of the male professor's teenage daughter, who alternated between staring intently at Meir and letting her gaze rove idly around her.
'What's that?' she suddenly asked now. 'Up there.'
All six of them looked up to where the girl was pointing. A small statue set in a niche high above the ancient arch leading out of the city. The Verge de la Bona Mort, Meir was about to explain to them. Until, like the girl, he saw something hanging down from the figure.
'It's a bat,' the female professor muttered.
'You're right,' the teenage girl commented, 'a joke one. You can see the string hanging down from the statue.'
All five heads swivelled to Meir as though seeking an explanation. Not for the first time, he was lost for words. He wasn't entirely sure if he was supposed to do anything about it. Fortunately, two Mossos d'Esquadra in their blue and red caps walked through the arch just at that point. He'd tell them, he decided, so he wouldn't have to worry about it. Or be embarrassed in front of the visiting academics. He just wanted to get back to his archives.
Chapter Twenty Two
'No apparent physical wounds, no apparent asphyxiation. Approximate time of death between midnight and four a.m. That's all I'm prepared to say for now. You can wait for the full post mortem if you want any more.'
Albert Riera turned back to his examination of the priest's body in the harsh halogen glare of the arc lights set up under the arches, helped by his assistant, a quiet young man with that odd air of harassed calm that anyone who worked on a day-to-day basis with the forensic doctor ended up adopting.
'Was he drugged?' Àlex asked him.
'I don't know, sergent. Why don't you stick your tongue down his throat and see if you can taste anything?'
'All right, Albert,' Elisenda told him before Àlex could reply. 'That'll do.'
She looked around. The scene had been well secured despite its being in such a public place. Beyond the temporary plastic walls of the crime scene, crowds of people were milling about on the Rambla, conjecture building on speculation. Rumour on fantasy. Even with that, they probably couldn't imagine the scene in front of Elisenda's eyes now.
Riera had removed all of the dead animal parts from the victim's torso, but the pig's abortion in the priest's mouth had been wedged too tightly for him to remove easily until they were back at the lab. His assistant was bagging each piece, blood running down his arms as he struggled to fit them into the narrow ends of the bags. The animal blood had caked on the priest's body and clothes, which clung to the lumps of meat as the assistant lifted them clear. Horrified, Elisenda couldn't tear her eyes away. Despite the mask over her nose and mouth, the stench had found its way into her throat and rasped with every breath she took.
Sergent Ayats from Seguretat Ciutadana was still at the scene, he too enthralled. Elisenda thanked him for securing the site so quickly.
'Never seen anything like it,' Ayats told her. 'Hope I never do again.'
Elisenda hoped so too.
A sergent from the Científica cut the tape binding the DVD to the victim's hand once Riera grudgingly gave his permission and bagged it.
'When can I see what's on that?' Elisenda asked him.
'Monday. We won't be able to check for prints and so on until Monday morning, but I'll make sure you get it as soon as possible.'
Riera stood up. 'Right. No useless fucking judges here as it's Saturday, so I'm releasing the body.' He signed the documents and handed them to his assistant for him to deal with getting the body removed and taken back to the Institut de Medicina Legal. 'Post mortem probably on Wednesday,' he told Elisenda. 'Can't do it any sooner, so don't ask.' He lifted up the edge of the canvas shielding the scene from the outside world and vanished through it.
'Prick,' someone muttered. It wasn't Àlex for a change.
Elisenda called Àlex over and they stood away from where the priest was lying, out of the twin circles of white cast by the two arc lamps.
'Okay,' Àlex told her. 'You've got me with the connections.'
'Yes, but what are they? And where does this leave the investigation? Where does it leave Joaquim Masó? Why would he want to kill the priest?'
'Distraction? Put us off the track of his nephew's murder? He killed once for benefit, then found he wanted to make up for being outside the family his whole life?'
'Can you see him doing that?' They both stared at the priest, considering. 'These are punishments. Get Pau to check up on Masó's past. See if there are any links with Viladrau that would make him want to kill him. And get Masó in. I still want to talk to him.'
'Do you think it's him?'
She gestured towa
rds Mossèn Viladrau's body. 'There's something more going on here. This is someone with a message. Or a mission. But we do need to keep up the pressure on Joaquim Masó to be sure.'
*
'My client was at a family celebration.'
Elisenda looked at Bellsolà across the table in the interview room and at Joaquim Masó seated next to him. Masó was learning to adopt the remote smirk of the rest of his family when being interviewed.
'This is the same family celebration at which his presence was not previously stated by any other member of his family,' Elisenda commented. She could feel Àlex getting increasingly agitated next to her.
'Their omission is no evidence of his absence. I now have signed statements by a number of those present at the event saying that my client was in attendance on the night of his nephew's death. It was a family celebration, Sotsinspectora Domènech. He is a Masó family member.'
'Isn't he just?'
Masó whispered something to Bellsolà, who relayed it. 'My client wishes to state that the nature of his business activities led some of his family members to believe that the mention of his presence at the function was not necessary.'
'Not at the top trough in the sty, in other words,' Àlex said. 'Not then, anyway.'
Bellsolà made a note on his pad. 'I would suggest you watch your words, Sergent Albiol.'
Elisenda took over again. 'Where were you on the night that Chema GM was attacked?'
Masó and Bellsolà briefly conferred before Masó spoke. 'With family. At my brother's restaurant.'
'You appear to spend a lot of time there. And I suppose I can take it they'd all be prepared to sign statements to that effect?' Elisenda nodded her head and moved on. 'Where were you last night and the early hours of this morning?'
Masó looked triumphant. 'At dinner in Girona. With my wife. You can ask the waiters. And it wasn't a family restaurant.'
'And after that?'
'In bed with my wife. I'll give you the details if you want. You might like it.' Masó winked at her and leaned forward. 'Why would I want to kill any of them? I don't even know the priest or the other four.'
Bellsolà hurriedly told him to keep quiet but Elisenda pressed forward. 'But you do know Daniel Masó. Someone from whose death you appear to be benefiting.'
'My own nephew?'
Bellsolà silenced him again and spoke to Elisenda. 'You have proof that my client is benefiting from his nephew's death, I take it, Sotsinspectora Domènech? Because if you don't, I suggest you consider withdrawing that statement.'
Elisenda pointed at the mound of Masó family statements heaped in front of Bellsolà. 'Those tell me he is.'
Bellsolà put all the papers together and shoved them into his briefcase. 'Then if that is all you have, and if you have no intention of charging my client, I am terminating this interview.' He signalled Masó to get up.
Elisenda looked at them both and nodded. 'You can go for now. But we will speak to you again.'
The two men left and Àlex clenched his fist on the table. 'He's still in the frame. He's benefiting from this.'
'But is he behind it? He might be the effect.' Elisenda stood up and pushed her chair under the table. 'But that doesn't make him the cause.'
Chapter Twenty Three
Elisenda finished cleaning her flat on Sunday morning and sensed a shadow dance across the kitchen. She turned from the window and stood watching for a few moments but the shadow didn’t return. Changing her clothes, she went out and bought a newspaper at the kiosk on the Rambla and stopped for a coffee under the arches on Plaça del Vi to enjoy an hour to herself before her lunch date. The summer still showed no signs of taking its leave.
And then the moment was gone.
The press had latched on to the story. The front page and the editorial. Both criticising the Mossos. Both revelling in lurid conjecture. The usual bizarre blend of verbatim facsimiles of the Mossos' own lifeless press releases and the opinionated rejoinders of the paper's writers. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was the editorial by David Costa, of all people, raising the spectre.
"An organised criminal, a thug and a Francoist terrorised our beautiful city at will for years and the Mossos d'Esquadra stood by and did nothing," she read. "Now the tables have turned, will they continue to do nothing?"
"Police dragging their heels on the first two cases, unwilling to devote resources to the deaths of two men in investigations they feel the public will find unpopular."
"Are these deaths linked? We at this paper think so. The citizens in their homes think so. The politicians on the Town Council think so. So when will the Mossos start to think so?"
And the killer closing paragraph: "While this paper does not condone acts of violence and vigilantism, the question begs to be answered, what are the citizens of this city to do if the Mossos d'Esquadra will not – or cannot – stem the flow of crime in Girona? If the police will not do their job, then perhaps the citizens of this city will have to do it for them."
Elisenda threw the paper on to the chair on the opposite side of the table and sat back, frowning. The first time she'd read it, she'd taken her mobile out and gone so far as to scroll up David Costa's phone number, but thought better of it. She was too angry to ring. And she was even angrier that he was, in part, right. There was a link between all the events, even if the powers that be at the Mossos refused to see it. But what alarmed her was his comment on vigilantes, no doubt stoked by her conversation with him. The V word, she thought, the last thing they needed. And if it wasn't vigilantes before, it might well be now, with every self-appointed neighbourhood watchdog whipping up prejudice and resentment. A malfeasant's charter, courtesy of the press. She swore under her breath.
Checking her watch, she realised she was going to be late, so she picked up her bag and the paper and went inside to pay before cutting through the tightly shaded Carrer Abeuradors to get to the Rambla. She was first to arrive, so she picked a table on the terrace at Arts and opened the newspaper to another page while she waited.
'Sorry I'm late,' Laura Puigmal said, getting there ten minutes later and squeezing past a large group of Israeli tourists who had spread beyond the two aluminium tables they'd pushed together.
Elisenda folded her newspaper and stood up and smiled. 'No problem. I was enjoying the shade.' She and Laura kissed on both cheeks.
'This is the coolest part of the city,' Laura agreed, pulling her linen blouse away from her chest and softly blowing down it to get cool. 'I've never known it this hot in October.' She pulled an orange-cushioned wicker chair around so they were both facing out at the Sunday throng crowding slowly up and down the Rambla. Dwindling now as people began drifting home for lunch, the confusion of morning strollers looked reluctant to give up the shelter of the pollarded plane trees lining the boulevard.
Laura ordered a Bitter Kas when the waiter crossed over the wide paving of the Rambla, and Elisenda asked for a tonic. He came back with their drinks together with a plate of cheese, sent over on the house by the owner. Elisenda smiled a thanks at him and grimaced at the smell of Laura's Bitter Kas. It always looked and tasted to her like childhood medicine.
'Are you still all right for lunch?' Elisenda asked Laura. 'I was thinking of the new one over by Pou Rodó.'
Laura pulled a face. 'I don't know. Have you read the reviews?'
'Just this minute.' She showed Laura the page in her newspaper she'd been reading. 'That's what makes me want to go.'
Laura scanned the write-up of the city's newest restaurant and laughed. 'You really want to go after reading that.'
'Precisely because of that. You should always show your opinion of critics by going against them.'
They looked again at the review. A large picture of the reviewer glowered out at the top of the page, next to her name. It was obviously a photo of herself that she liked, but Mònica Ferrer always looked like she'd just eaten half a dozen of the dishes she was berating and swallowed them down with a glass of vinegar.
Capable of ruining the best reputation – and business – with her Sunday column, she had evidently saved up all week to unleash her sulphuric sarcasm on her latest destruction of a new restaurant. Elisenda only knew her by sight but she knew that Laura had gone to the same exclusive girls' school as the journalist.
'If Mònica Ferrer says we shouldn't go there,' Elisenda concluded, 'then I think it's our duty to go.'
Laura shrugged. 'Why not?' She nodded at Elisenda's paper and asked her if she'd read David Costa's article.
'Afraid so. It's as I thought. The Mossos are going to be painted as the villains whatever happens.'
'Maybe, maybe not. I think he's simply stoking the fire to see which way public opinion fans it.'
'He's not the only one.'
Laura turned to face her. 'I gather Jutgessa Roca's the examining judge. She sees taking on the Masó family as good for her career.'
'I'm updating her on Wednesday. Try and make her see there's more to this than just the Masó family.'
'I'd keep all angles covered if I were you. She'll take your case down one path and then come up smelling of jasmine if it all goes wrong. '
'What are people saying at the Fiscalia?'
'Not a lot of sympathy for anyone, really. Three thugs who had it coming, poetic justice.'
'There's nothing of poetry or justice in any of this,' Elisenda commented.
'No, I suppose not. Just politics.'
'So the Fiscalia sees all three cases as being connected then?'
'Don't the Mossos?'
Elisenda pulled a face. She finished her tonic and called for the bill. 'Let's go and eat bad food.'
Chapter Twenty Four
Impatient for the DVD to be released to her team on Monday morning, Elisenda couldn't help feeling bewitched listening to Pau. Recently returned to the city after a posting to Barcelona, he spoke Catalan with the closed vowels of his Girona upbringing and Spanish with the broad Seville accent of his immigrant parents. At the moment, he was dipping from one language to the other, even his hand movements and posture changing with each vernacular shift.
