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

palm of your hand… And, besides, I told you Brian knew nothing about it. Whoever killed him didn’t even turn his flat over, that much is obvious.” And he then added, sounding convinced, “It’s altogether a highly unfortunate coincidence.”
    â€œWhen did you hide it?”
    â€œLast Monday, only a week ago. Do you remember that I went to Provence with Merche?”
    â€œYes, you told Lola it was a business trip, but kept to yourself the fact that Merche went with you…”
    â€œWell, it was a business trip. As I had to go to Arles to pick up this sculpture, I decided to take Merche with me. She’s been quite irritable recently. We went in her Audi. Though she doesn’t know anything about the statue either.”
    â€œSo, now you are trafficking in antiques!” I said, with a deep sigh.
    â€œWell, if you put it that way…”
    â€œYou tell me how else I should put it…”
    â€œI’m really doing someone a favour. Three weeks ago I had a call from that antique dealer in Amsterdam that I sold some of your mother-in-law’s paintings to.”
    â€œPassing them off as fake Mirs, I presume…”
    â€œHe offered me an easy, well-paid assignment: I had to go to Arles, collect this sculpture, bring it to Barcelona, keep it here for a few days and hand it over to a person who would get in touch by phone. And that was it.”
    â€œAnd you couldn’t think of anything better than to hide it in the American’s flat?”
    â€œWell, as I was helping him out by holding on to a set of keys to his flat and he—”
    â€œHe was an accomplice, but didn’t know it!”
    â€œSomething of the sort,” he concurred, looking at the floor.
    We stayed silent for a while, Borja with his head down and yours truly at a loss for words. Although I knew that when my brother was really broke he acted as a middleman for a smuggler of designer mobiles and shades in the Barceloneta, I suspected this small statue belonged to a rather more perilous category of shenanigans.
    â€œVery well then, what do we do now? I hope you get one of your bright ideas before a neighbour notices the stench and tips off the mossos …” I rasped.
    â€œThe first thing we need to do is to clean everything and remove all traces of our fingerprints. Let’s look in the laundry room and see what cleaning materials there are.”
    Luckily we found everything we needed. Borja slipped an apron and rubber gloves on and asked me not to move or touch anything. He painstakingly wiped all the surfaces we’d touched with a cloth soaked in window-cleaning liquid and told me that it contained alcohol and was the best thing there was for removing fingerprints. Although chemistry hadnever been his strong point, I imagined he’d heard that in one of the police series he liked to watch. Then he grabbed the mop and bucket to make sure none of our vomit was still on the kitchen floor, and finally washed out the brandy glasses with soap and water, dried them and returned them to the cocktail bar along with the bottle. As soon as he’d finished, he returned his arsenal of cleaning items to the laundry room and left everything exactly as he’d found it.
    â€œWe can go now,” he said, using one of his cotton handkerchiefs to open the flat door.
    â€œAren’t you going to shut the door?” I asked when I saw he’d left it wide open.
    â€œNo, I also left the kitchen door open. That way, the stench will spread downstairs and the neighbours or concierge will ring the police.”
    â€œBut, when the mossos walk up, because you can be sure they will come up the stairs, and not in the lift, they will see that our door has been broken into and will take a look at what’s inside. Or rather, at what isn’t.”
    â€œBlast, you’re quite right! Change of plan.”
    Borja shut the door to Brian Morgan’s flat, took out his