Death on a Galician Shore

by Villar, Domingo

  The red car drew up alongside them and a young woman in a yellow raincoat got out of the driver’s seat. She came up to the inspector’s lowered window. She had an angular face and dark, very short hair.

  ‘You can turn around here,’ she said. ‘The council ought to put up a No Exit sign at the top so that people don’t drive down here by mistake.’

  ‘We’re not here by mistake,’ said Caldas through the open window. ‘We’re looking for Marcos Valverde’s house. Is this it?’

  ‘Yes. Marcos is my husband,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Inspector Caldas, from Vigo Police Headquarters.’

  ‘From Patrolling the Waves?’ asked the woman.

  Caldas nodded.

  ‘Has something happened to my husband?’

  ‘No, no, everything’s fine,’ Caldas reassured her. ‘We just need to talk to him about something.’

  ‘Marcos isn’t here at the moment,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘In that case maybe you can help. We’ll only take a few minutes of your time.’

  They carried the woman’s shopping bags, following her along the gravel path.

  Caldas looked around. There was a small rock garden dotted with herbs and a lawn with a row of leafless fruit trees. Up ahead, he spotted lemon verbena growing at the foot of the concrete wall.

  As they turned the corner, the bunker was transformed, revealing a façade made entirely of glass overlooking a sloping garden and, beyond, the sea. Caldas reflected that life hadn’t treated the fisherman too badly if this was his house. It looked like the seaside residence of an avant-garde architect rather than the home of a man who, only a few years earlier, had been a friend and crewmate of José Arias and Justo Castelo.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asked as they entered.

  The policemen declined. While she went to put the shopping away in the kitchen, they waited in a living room that looked like a homage to straight lines and sharp edges. The wrought-iron fireplace at one end of the room was square, as were the chairs and prints on the wall. The bookcase, sofa, table and state-of-the-art sound system were all rectangular.

  Estevez went to the huge window to admire a view that encompassed the entire bay, from Panxón to Baiona. Caldas went out to the garden for a moment to shake the sand from his shoes. On his return, he approached the bookcase, which was made of the same concrete as the façade giving on to the courtyard. He was looking over the classical music records when the woman returned to the living room. She had removed the yellow raincoat. She wore a white shirt with the top buttons undone, and tight trousers that showed off a shapely figure that was if anything too curvaceous for that house.

  ‘Do you like music, Inspector?’

  ‘Not as much as you or your husband, I suspect.’

  ‘Me,’ she said. ‘But I sometimes listen to your show as well. I didn’t know you were real.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ said Caldas, and she smiled just as Alba used to, turning down the corners of her mouth.

  Caldas ran his eyes over the hundreds of records ranged on the shelves, wondering whether the tune Justo Castelo had stopped whistling shortly before his death was among them.

  ‘Do you know “Solveig’s Song”?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. It’s Grieg. It’s there somewhere,’ she said, seating herself in one of the square armchairs. ‘Please, sit down.’

  ‘You’re not from here, are you?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m from Madrid. My family spent the summer here for years, but this is only my second winter in Panxón.’

  ‘And how are you finding it?’

  ‘I’m dying for the hot weather and crowds to arrive,’ she said with a resigned smile. ‘I never thought it would be so hard.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ snorted Estevez, speaking for the first time.

  ‘At least you live in a beautiful house,’ said Caldas. ‘Did you design it yourselves?’

  ‘No. We bought it last year. The previous owner was an architect from Madrid, a friend of my family’s. He was planning to retire here.’

  ‘So how come he sold it to you?’

  She looked up at the high ceiling. ‘Marcos knew how much I liked the house and didn’t let up until my parents’ friend agreed to sell it to us. He always achieves what he sets out to do, you know. He has that gift.’

  ‘I see. Where is he now?’

  ‘Working, as usual. Everything he has he got through hard work.’

  ‘And what does your husband do?’

  ‘Too many things. He can’t sit still. Construction, cars … He’s even started making wine.’

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Yes. He’s planning to bottle his first vintage next year. In fact, he’s probably at the vineyard right now. It’s what takes up most of his time these days. He likes to keep an eye on things. They’re pruning the vines at the moment, so he goes there every morning.’

  Caldas decided to broach the subject that had brought him there. He glanced around in search of an ashtray but couldn’t see one so gave up on the idea of a cigarette.

  ‘Has your husband ever spoken of his time as a fisherman?’

  He saw in her eyes that she now understood the reason for their visit.

  ‘You’ve come about the suicide of that fisherman, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Caldas, toying with the cigarette packet in his pocket. ‘Did you know that your husband used to work with him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Has he told you about it?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to. Marcos rarely talks about the past, but I can always find someone ready to make insinuations. Things you’d rather not hear.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘This is a small village, Inspector. Don’t be fooled by the number of houses,’ she gestured through the window towards the buildings along the beach. ‘In winter they’re all empty. I dislike gossip, so I only go into the village when I absolutely have to. I don’t want people talking about me or telling me other people’s private business.’

  ‘Did you know that the boat your husband and Castelo worked on together sank?’

  ‘Of course I do, Inspector. And that one man died.’

  ‘But you’ve never spoken to him about it?’

  ‘Once,’ she replied. ‘But Marcos got angry. I suppose it’s understandable that he’d want to forget something so traumatic.’

  ‘I guess so. Did your husband keep in touch with his former crewmates?’

  ‘Not at all, as far as I know. Not with El Rubio or that giant, Arias.’

  ‘But they were close friends at one time.’

  ‘I don’t think they were that close, Inspector. Marcos doesn’t have much in common with them.’

  ‘Do you know them?’

  Valverde’s wife shook her head.

  ‘Arias only by sight. He came back to the village not long after I moved here. I’ve ordered shellfish from El Rubio a couple of times, if I’ve been entertaining. I’ve had more to do with his sister, the teacher. She must be devastated.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caldas, thinking how different the two women were.

  ‘You know something, Inspector? I felt sorry for that man, El Rubio. He was always alone and he looked unhappy. Really unhappy. I don’t think anyone was surprised that he killed himself.’

  ‘No,’ said Caldas tersely, and then pushed on. ‘Has your husband seemed worried lately?’

  ‘He’s always worried about something. Marcos is like that.’

  ‘What I mean is, has anyone tried to scare him?’

  ‘I know what you’re referring to. Surely you don’t believe in village hallucinations?’

  Valverde’s wife and Rafael Estevez both stared at him, awaiting his response, and Caldas suddenly felt himself blushing.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he stammered, squeezing the packet of cigarettes in his pocket.

  ‘Come now, Inspector. You
know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Captain Sousa, the skipper of the shipwrecked boat. They say his ghost has been appearing and hounding El Rubio. I’m sure there are plenty of locals prepared to swear it was the skipper who drove him to suicide. You don’t believe that nonsense, too, do you?’

  ‘It’s not a question of what I believe. Have you noticed your husband looking anxious, scared?’

  ‘Of the ghost?’

  ‘Of anything.’

  ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Marcos doesn’t have time for superstition.’

  Valverde’s wife saw them to their car. Caldas stepped off the path a moment to run his hand over the lemon verbena.

  ‘We’ll need to talk to your husband,’ he said, inhaling the fragrance on his fingers. ‘Do you know if he’s going to Castelo’s funeral this afternoon?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Caldas gave her his card. ‘This is my number,’ he said. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘Anything?’ she asked, and for a split second Valverde’s wife disappeared and he saw Alba again, smiling at him.

  Caldas blushed for a second time and lit a crumpled cigarette, trying to hide his embarrassment behind a veil of smoke.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Inspector Caldas,’ she said, and her shirt parted further as she held out her hand.

  ‘Likewise,’ he replied, taking her hand and making a superhuman effort not to stare at her breasts.

  He climbed into the car, wondering how a man could have gone from working on a small fishing boat to having a house and a wife like that in so few years. He was still pondering when the high-pitched ring tone of his mobile sounded.

  ‘I thought we were meeting for lunch,’ said his father.

  Caldas looked at his watch, saw that it was almost two and swore. He’d forgotten to phone and say he couldn’t make it.

  ‘I’m still in Panxón,’ he said apologetically. He was still feeling guilty about his brusque exit from the car the day before, when his father had asked about Alba, and he hated letting him down like this. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.’

  ‘We could meet an hour later, if you like. I’ve got things to do.’

  So had Caldas: he wanted to go to the cemetery for the funeral and speak to the crewmembers of the Xurelo and the waiter of the Refugio del Pescador who’d chatted to Castelo that Saturday afternoon.

  ‘The thing is, I need to be here early this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll see you later at the hospital then?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, knowing that he almost certainly wouldn’t get back to Vigo in time for visiting hours. ‘Do you know how Uncle Alberto is doing today?’

  ‘About the same as yesterday.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So you’ll be having lunch in Panxón?’ asked his father, without a hint of the disappointment that Caldas knew he must be feeling. ‘Yes, we’ll have a quick bite to eat here.’

  ‘If you get a moment, you could drop in on Trabazo.’

  Trabazo! It was a long time since Caldas had heard the name. ‘Have you heard from him?’

  ‘We spoke this morning.’

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes. He asked about you. He always listens to your show.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him I was working in Panxón, did you?’

  ‘No, of course not. But I know he’d love to see you.’

  Speculation

  Looking down at the sand darkened by the morning’s rain, the policemen walked along the promenade, which ran along the top of the sea wall. The wall defended the village when, during winter storms or at spring tides, waves engulfed the Playa de Panxón.

  As they neared the covered restaurant terraces where the inspector had suggested they eat, Estevez asked, ‘Where did you mean?’

  ‘There,’ replied his boss, pointing in the direction of two almost identical terraces.

  ‘But which one?’

  The last time Caldas had eaten there he’d been with Alba, one summer. Then there had been no screens or heaters. He couldn’t remember which terrace they’d sat at, only that, though the food had been good, he’d felt uneasy. The tables couldn’t be reserved and there were too many people on the promenade, a few metres away, staring at the diners, waiting for someone to vacate a table and swooping like excitable seagulls.

  ‘That one,’ he pointed to the terrace on the right, though he could just as easily have chosen the other. He was merely pleased that the promenade was empty of holidaymakers ready to pounce.

  Only two other tables were occupied. Caldas and Estevez seated themselves at one a little distance from the rest and, after looking at the menu, they decided to share a potato omelette and a plate of octopus with clams.

  ‘And two glasses of white wine,’ said Caldas.

  ‘Could you bring a salad as well?’ said Estevez as the waiter was about to return to the kitchen.

  Lately, his assistant always insisted on ordering salads.

  ‘Are you taking care of yourself?’

  ‘No,’ Estevez assured him. ‘It’s just that the lettuce is great here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In Galicia.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  When the waiter had brought the wine, Caldas raised his glass to his lips and gazed at the harbour and the boats swaying on the water, moored to the buoys. He made out Justo Castelo’s mooring. The rowing boat was gone. He hoped Clara Barcia would find something that would help them get this investigation going.

  ‘Are you thinking about the ghost, or Mrs Valverde’s tits?’ asked Estevez, bringing the inspector back to the table.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You heard me,’ smiled Estevez.

  ‘Right,’ said Caldas, taking another sip of wine.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you think of the Captain Sousa story?’

  ‘I don’t think anything.’

  ‘But do you believe that Castelo’s death is connected to the shipwreck?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Caldas admitted, ‘but it may also have nothing to do with it.’

  Estevez snorted like a bull. ‘I don’t know whether to go for a piss or shoot myself. Would it kill you to be a little more specific?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Well, what you really think about this bloody ghost business.’

  ‘I know as much as you: Castelo received threats and, not long after, his body washed up on the beach.’

  ‘But don’t you find it odd that everyone’s blaming a man who drowned over a decade ago and whenever they mention him they spit all over your shoes?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘A little?’

  ‘OK, Rafa, it seems rather strange. Is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Estevez. ‘Why is it so difficult for you people to say things clearly?’

  The waiter set the dish of octopus and clams down on the table and the delicious aroma of the seafood made them postpone their discussion. Then the freshly made omelette and salad arrived. In the local style, the salad consisted simply of lettuce, tomato and onion dressed with olive oil, white wine vinegar and coarse salt. Only once they were having their coffee did Estevez bring up the subject of the drowned skipper again.

  ‘Have you definitely ruled out suicide?’

  Caldas resisted the urge to give him a silly answer to put an end to the conversation; he knew that thinking aloud often helped him work things out.

  ‘Yes, I think we can rule it out,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘But, as we’ve heard, everyone agrees that El Rubio wasn’t exactly a happy camper. The only person who doubts he committed suicide is his sister.’

  ‘His sister, and the facts. There’s the green cable tie that he couldn’t have fastened himself, and the blow to his head.’

  ‘Which blow?’ asked Estevez. The day before, he’d left the autopsy room befo
re the pathologist had shown Caldas the wound. ‘His head was covered in them.’

  ‘Yes, but almost all of them occurred post mortem,’ explained Caldas. ‘Only two of the blows happened while he was alive. One to the forehead, possibly from a rock. The other to the back of the head. Look at this.’

  Caldas fished out of his trouser pocket the slip of paper on which the pathologist had drawn the outline of the object that had struck El Rubio from behind. He unfolded it and placed it on the table, in front of his assistant.

  ‘I haven’t shown you this, have I?’

  Estevez shook his head slightly.

  ‘He was hit on the back of the head with something this shape. Some sort of bar with a rounded end. According to the pathologist, it was a very violent blow, so violent it probably knocked him unconscious.’

  ‘It looks like the knob of a walking stick,’ said Estevez.

  Caldas looked at the drawing again. ‘Could be, but Dr Barrio leans towards it being the kind of spanner used for wheel nuts. In any case, it doesn’t look like suicide.’

  ‘No.’

  Caldas drew on his cigarette, reflecting that placing an order for a new boat from the carpenter didn’t point to suicide either, nor did the threat painted on the rowing boat, nor the anxiety that caused the abandonment of a long-held habit.

  He folded the piece of paper and returned it to his back pocket.

  ‘What about motives, Inspector?’

  ‘Are you interrogating me?’

  ‘No, I’m just trying to find out what the hell you think.’

  ‘Right. And what do you think?’

  Estevez gave him a hard stare and Caldas felt sure he was going to make one of his characteristically gruff remarks.

  ‘It’s strange,’ he said instead. ‘The bloke had no girlfriend, no enem ies, and nothing worth killing him for.’

  ‘He had a house.’

  ‘I don’t think he was killed over that.’

  ‘People have been killed here over a lot less, Rafa. For moving a boundary stone one metre this way or that.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s out of the question, but I doubt that nowadays anyone would be so interested in Castelo’s house that they’d kill him for it.’

  ‘Since when are you the property expert?’