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

notice. I gave everything a good clean.”
    â€œThat is precisely what most worries me,” I groaned.
    It was almost two o’clock, so I suggested we catch a taxi to get us on our way. I’d promised Montse I’d be home for lunch and, taking advantage of the fact Joana had gone to a friend’s and that we’d be alone in the flat, we would see if we couldn’t find a solution to the bank’s refusal to give them the loan they needed to keep their business on the road. The crisis meant many of Montse’s leftist clients were unemployed, and that had forced them to give up the treatment they were getting at her Alternative Centre (that was entirely dispensable, in my view). Without a cash handout to see them through until the situation improved, she and her two partners would go bankrupt. Usually a spirited, optimistic woman, Montse had been depressed for the last two days, as I told Borja.
    â€œChange of plan,” he now told the taxi driver. “Let’s go to the market on València.”
    â€œTo the market?”
    â€œWe’ll take her a bunch of flowers. I’ve yet to meet the woman who doesn’t cheer up when she’s given a bouquet of flowers. But don’t worry, I’ll only drop by for a moment and then I’ll leave you to have your lunch in peace.”
    â€œPep, we’re in no state to spend money on flowers…”
    â€œDon’t you worry, this one is on me. Or rather, on Merche,” he replied with a wink.
    I sighed and let him get on with it. Once in the market, Borja scrutinized the different varieties of flower and finally chose five sprays of red, crimson, pumpkin, pink and yellow African daisies that made up a spectacular bouquet that cost him forty euros.
    â€œDon’t be so mean,” he reproached me. “Do things well or don’t do them at all!”
    Montse’s face lit up when she saw us walk in with that colourful bouquet. She wasn’t expecting it and I’m sure she immediately guessed it had been Borja’s idea. When I went into the dining room, I was surprised to see Joana and Lola setting the table. I discreetly asked my wife what they were doing there.
    â€œMy mother’s friend is ill and they had to cancel lunch. And you know Lola, she came to the Centre this morning to cheer me up, and then invited herself to lunch,” she whispered.
    â€œNow I’ll have to ask Borja if he wants to stay and eat a bite with us…” I growled.
    â€œWhat do you bet he says yes?”
    So there would be five of us for lunch, and Joana had decided on a menu of Cuban rice followed by sausages. While the women were busy in the kitchen, Borja and I finished setting the table and opened a couple of cans of beer. I still hadn’t got over our big scare.
    â€œWe’ll go to Dr Bou’s centre this afternoon,” Borja declared. “It’s best if we can keep to the schedule we planned.”
    â€œYou mean in terms of the Inspector?”
    â€œNo, I mean in general. After all, we were not involved in Brian’s death.”
    â€œThat’s quite a coup to have a CIA spy for a neighbour.”
    â€œMerche, who is a friend of the British consul, tells me Barcelona is teeming with them. It’s all to do with al-Qaeda.”
    â€œWonderful! What with the spies and the tourists, we’ll never get a look-in!”
    â€œIn any case, his death wasn’t connected with the statue I hid in his flat,” he reminded me.
    â€œI suppose not,” I had to agree. “But if the guy was a CIA agent, that might make things a bit livelier. And if they ever find out we were in his flat…”
    â€œThey never will! You saw how the Inspector didn’t suspect us.”
    Over the course of lunch, we explained that a man had been murdered in the building where we rented our office, but avoided mentioning the episode of our conversation with the Inspector and, naturally,