with fat and with a light crispness that melted in the mouth. The meat was fibrous but not at all dried-out, and had absorbed the flavour of the herbs and spices throughout its sleeping form as it lay in the cold lard.
‘What would you like to follow, gentlemen’?
Nuñez winked at Carvalho and asked:
‘Bring me an Aracata yoghurt, a glass of orange juice, and a brandy. I’ll mix them myself. I recommend it, Carvalho. It’s Argemi’s own recipe. He orders it in every restaurant he goes into, because that way he gets to sell another yoghurt.’
Nuñez had drunk in moderation and eaten without excess. Carvalho sensed that he fought hard to look younger than he really was.
‘I’m going to ask you the same question that I’ll be asking your friends. Give me your version of Jauma’s murder.’
‘I’ve read detective stories, so I know one has to look for a motive. The official version is that it was the result of Jauma’s over-active sex life. The widow doesn’t believe this. I myself have no reason not to believe it, but on the other hand it all seems a bit too clear-cut and simple—a bit stage-managed. If we abandon that version, I am not the best person to propose an alternative. In a novel Jauma might have been killed for business reasons, or by one of his workers getting his own back, or by one of his heirs, or because of a row with his wife’s lover, or maybe even as a case of mistaken identity. Take your pick. None of these options has a lot going for it. You tend to get “business” killings among small businessmen, or among industrialists who have to slog it out against their competitors on a day-today basis. But not among senior executives. As for industrial disputes, as I told you, Jauma tended to move very carefully, and was good at defusing situations. The idea of his heirs killing him for his money would be ludicrous, partly because his children are too young to be killers, and partly because he didn’t have a lot in the bank. He had plenty of possessions, but he was still paying for most of them. And anyway, an executive’s salary doesn’t look so big when it’s converted into a widow’s pension without yearly bonuses and so on. I’m sure he had a decent life insurance, but probably not enough to provide Concha with the same standard of living as when he was alive. As for the jealous wife killing for revenge, I imagine that now you’ve met her you’d find that as implausible as I do. So that just leaves mistaken identity. In my opinion, it was probably a case of mistaken identity.’
There was a note from Biscuter informing him that the lawyer Fontanillas had rung. Carvalho noted that important people were beginning to pursue him, and he rang the number marked as the one most likely to reach the lawyer in the middle of the afternoon. The fact that Fontanillas could only be reached via two secretaries, one after the other, testified to the man’s social status, and the voice that finally came onto the line had the stressed and modulated manner of a priest, doctor or lawyer, when they try to disguise the fact that the slightest slip on their part can consign us all to kingdom come.
‘Señor Carvalho! Delighted to make your acquaintance. Let’s spare the formalities, since we’re both busy men. Señora Jauma has given me a rather strange task—she wants me to find out whether the women’s knickers found in her late husband’s pockets had been used or not. As you can imagine, this isn’t my normal line of thing, but since Concha asked me, and because it was to do with my great friend Jauma, I contacted friends and pulled a few strings. To cut a long story short, I now have the answer. They were unused.’
‘Unused?’
‘It may interest you, or amuse you, to know that they were, to be precise, completely new. I have to say that I find the whole business a bit of a bore, because a few minutes ago I had a phone call from a police inspector wanting to know why I was so interested
‘What would you like to follow, gentlemen’?
Nuñez winked at Carvalho and asked:
‘Bring me an Aracata yoghurt, a glass of orange juice, and a brandy. I’ll mix them myself. I recommend it, Carvalho. It’s Argemi’s own recipe. He orders it in every restaurant he goes into, because that way he gets to sell another yoghurt.’
Nuñez had drunk in moderation and eaten without excess. Carvalho sensed that he fought hard to look younger than he really was.
‘I’m going to ask you the same question that I’ll be asking your friends. Give me your version of Jauma’s murder.’
‘I’ve read detective stories, so I know one has to look for a motive. The official version is that it was the result of Jauma’s over-active sex life. The widow doesn’t believe this. I myself have no reason not to believe it, but on the other hand it all seems a bit too clear-cut and simple—a bit stage-managed. If we abandon that version, I am not the best person to propose an alternative. In a novel Jauma might have been killed for business reasons, or by one of his workers getting his own back, or by one of his heirs, or because of a row with his wife’s lover, or maybe even as a case of mistaken identity. Take your pick. None of these options has a lot going for it. You tend to get “business” killings among small businessmen, or among industrialists who have to slog it out against their competitors on a day-today basis. But not among senior executives. As for industrial disputes, as I told you, Jauma tended to move very carefully, and was good at defusing situations. The idea of his heirs killing him for his money would be ludicrous, partly because his children are too young to be killers, and partly because he didn’t have a lot in the bank. He had plenty of possessions, but he was still paying for most of them. And anyway, an executive’s salary doesn’t look so big when it’s converted into a widow’s pension without yearly bonuses and so on. I’m sure he had a decent life insurance, but probably not enough to provide Concha with the same standard of living as when he was alive. As for the jealous wife killing for revenge, I imagine that now you’ve met her you’d find that as implausible as I do. So that just leaves mistaken identity. In my opinion, it was probably a case of mistaken identity.’
There was a note from Biscuter informing him that the lawyer Fontanillas had rung. Carvalho noted that important people were beginning to pursue him, and he rang the number marked as the one most likely to reach the lawyer in the middle of the afternoon. The fact that Fontanillas could only be reached via two secretaries, one after the other, testified to the man’s social status, and the voice that finally came onto the line had the stressed and modulated manner of a priest, doctor or lawyer, when they try to disguise the fact that the slightest slip on their part can consign us all to kingdom come.
‘Señor Carvalho! Delighted to make your acquaintance. Let’s spare the formalities, since we’re both busy men. Señora Jauma has given me a rather strange task—she wants me to find out whether the women’s knickers found in her late husband’s pockets had been used or not. As you can imagine, this isn’t my normal line of thing, but since Concha asked me, and because it was to do with my great friend Jauma, I contacted friends and pulled a few strings. To cut a long story short, I now have the answer. They were unused.’
‘Unused?’
‘It may interest you, or amuse you, to know that they were, to be precise, completely new. I have to say that I find the whole business a bit of a bore, because a few minutes ago I had a phone call from a police inspector wanting to know why I was so interested
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