Read Barcelona 03 - The Sound of One Hand Killing for Free Online Page A

mobile and rang a locksmith. While we were waiting for him to arrive, we gave our office a bit of a tidy. An hour and a half later, our door had a new lock and we had two hundred euros less in our pockets. Before we left the building, Borja went back to the American’s flat and left the front door wide open.
    â€œThe concierge gets here at five,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Do you think she’ll go upstairs and have a look?”
    â€œI’m sure she will. I bet you anything we’ll have a visit from the cops this evening.”
    What with one thing and another, it was now four p.m. We still hadn’t had any lunch. I suggested going to our place for a bite to eat.
    â€œJoana will be the only person there at this time of day. She goes to collect Arnau from school at half past four, so we will have the place to ourselves.”
    â€œWhat about the twins?” asked Borja.
    â€œThey’re into romance and spend every free moment with their girlfriends. I don’t think we’ll see any sign of them before eight.”
    We went off to get the Smart that was parked halfway between the office and Borja’s flat and drove to our place. Fortunately, my mother-in-law wasn’t around. I prepared chorizo rolls in the kitchen, and took a couple of beers from the fridge. As it’s a small kitchen and only fits a tiny table, we chomped our rolls in the dining room. We had yoghurt for afters and, now that Borja had got over the fright provoked by his macabre discovery, he ate two, lemon and strawberry flavours, like when he was a kid.
    After we’d finished, I boiled up some coffee in the kitchen. While we were savouring our coffees in the dining room, I opened the window so we could enjoy a clandestine smoke. Better if the twins didn’t suspect somebody had smoked in our flat, or else Montse or I would have to endure one of their enlightening sermons on the drawbacks of nicotine-addicted parents.
    â€œI wanted to ask you something,” said Borja as he extinguished his cigarette.
    â€œFire away.”
    â€œI’d like you to keep the statue here,” he said, taking it from his pocket and putting it on the table.
    â€œWell, after what happened to the American…”
    â€œI told you that it was pure coincidence. Brian’s murder has nothing to do with this statue. The people who did him in weren’t looking for anything. They didn’t even search his flat.”
    â€œSo why don’t you hide it in your flat? That would seem the most sensible…”
    â€œIt will be safer here. You know how Merche and Lola like to turn my drawers inside out.”
    â€œIs it very valuable?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I suppose so. They are paying me twenty thousand to do this job.”
    â€œFucking hell!”
    â€œTen for you and ten for me. You know, it will only be for a few days, a fortnight at most.”
    â€œBut it’s got to be stolen goods. Or smuggled.”
    â€œWell, I couldn’t give a monkey’s,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. But the second he saw the little light of my moral scruples start to flicker, he added, “Look, it’s only a small piece of stone. It’s not drugs, or arms, or anything dicey like that. We’re not hurting anyone.”
    â€œHey, if it’s stolen, I don’t think the owner would agree…”
    â€œBah, you can be sure he’s some rich guy who will have it insured and is going to collect the insurance payment, don’t you worry. That is, supposing it is stolen. Perhaps all they’re after is tax avoidance,” he added, as if that didn’t matter.
    â€œAnd it’s our taxes that pay for schools and hospitals, in case you didn’t know,” I retorted sarcastically.
    â€œLook at it from another point of view: the twenty thousand euros they’re paying me must be black money that’s been kept for years in some safe.