A Not So Perfect Crime Read Online Free Page A

sound of keys being poked in the door. The room soon filled with a smell I found only too familiar.

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    â€œI am so sorry I’m late . . . ” Borja apologized (in Spanish, to be on the safe side), after he opened the door with his own key. “I had a meeting in San Cugat and the traffic on the ring road was as impossible as ever ...”
    He was looking very distinguished in his stylish navy blue overcoat that would soon reveal a blue pin-stripe suit, a shirt with a thin blue stripe, the kind that comes with white collars and cuffs (the sort I really hate) and a buff yellow tie where ponies pranced.
    Before taking his overcoat off, he went over and vigorously shook our visitor’s hand. I felt he had somewhat overdone the eau de cologne. “Well? Have they finished yet?” he asked looking at me as he went to open the door to his office.
    â€œNo, of course not. The painters aren’t done.”
    â€œBloody painters!”
    â€œPerhaps you already know who I am,” interjected our client, showing signs of wanting to get down to business.
    â€œOf course,” I responded hastily before Borja put his foot in it. “Mr Lluís Font, Right Honourable Member of the Parliament of Catalonia. And who knows,” I added, trying to flatter, “perhaps one day President of ...”
    I only said that so Borja would understand the class of person we were dealing with. As he only takes the odd glance at conservative papers like El Mundo and ABC , he’s not very au fait with the ins-and-outs of the Catalan political scene, though I suspect he’s no better informed about
the Spanish right. My brother justifies his zero interest by saying he finds politics boring and politicians much of a muchness, whether they claim to be on the left or right. On the other hand, if you ask him where Julio Iglesias is holidaying or what stage the Infanta Cristina’s pregnancy is at, Borja will give you chapter and verse.
    While Lluís Font MP and I were exchanging meaningless pleasantries about the weather, I had mentally tried to remember what I knew about the character now perching on our smartish Ikea sofa. The Right Honourable Lluís Font was one of two political leaders battling for the leadership of his party (I won’t say which, only that its Members of Parliament and councillors go to register their votes on the exclusive Avenida Pearson). It was very likely he would soon be put forward as a candidate for the Presidency of the Generalitat, although, the way things were going for his party in this neck of the woods, it was doubtful he would ever win the coveted title. He belonged to his party’s moderate wing and was reputed to be a prudent, judicious man. From what I’d been able to glean from the Spanish press, he wasn’t particularly popular with his own kind. It didn’t help him that he was a Barça fan, but it was common knowledge he had a first-class brain when it came to football despite the fact he’d never dabbled in real estate, unlike the Presidents of most top football clubs.
    He was slim, medium height and extremely refined. The dark grey bespoke suit he wore fitted him like a glove. His hair was on the fair side, and his skin displayed the same suspiciously dark sheen Borja was so proud of. He spoke reasonably correct Catalan, although clearly it wasn’t the language he felt most comfortable with. His eyes were brown, almost honeyed and stared out rather vacantly, but I suppose he wasn’t the fool some people liked to think. He didn’t wear prescription glasses and he reeked of one of those expensive, unmistakably male perfumes advertised on television when the holidays are upon us. He also reeked of money. He sported a gold Rolex, cufflinks and tiepin. Given the tout ensemble , I expect a lot of women would rate him a rather handsome middle-aged man.
    â€œIn our telephone conversation,” he looked solemnly at Borja, “I mentioned