The woman shrugged. ‘They closed the door.’
‘How long were they inside for?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Five, maybe ten minutes.’
‘Right,’ said Caldas pensively.
‘I felt sorry for him, you know,’ the woman added.
‘Who?’
‘El Rubio. He was a good lad. You’ve got to be pretty desperate to do something like that.’
Caldas agreed.
‘He must be scared, too,’ the woman said, gesturing towards her neighbour’s house. ‘I expect you know what people are saying: El Rubio was being threatened.’
‘Yes.’
‘God forbid, but maybe Arias is next.’
The woman’s expression again changed. She repeated that she wasn’t one to gossip, and hurried away down the street. She looked up to greet José Arias as she passed him.
The Lost Fender
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Arias in his deep, deep voice. He was carrying several bags of shopping in each huge hand.
‘You lied,’ said Caldas. ‘You said you hadn’t spoken to Castelo in years.’
‘Because it’s true,’ growled Arias, dropping the bags to the ground.
Caldas was glad Estevez was there. This narrow little street was no place to annoy someone of Arias’s size.
‘We know you spoke to him.’
Arias turned to glare after his neighbour and Caldas thought that if she hadn’t already departed the woman would have been struck dead.
‘It’s in Castelo’s phone records. Do you know who he called last?’
‘How should I know?’
‘He called you,’ said Caldas, looking him in the eye. ‘On Saturday afternoon, the day before he died.’
‘Me?’
Caldas had expected him, caught in a lie, to avoid his gaze or look furtive in some other way. But Arias simply seemed surprised.
‘Isn’t this your number?’ asked Caldas, and he read out the number in case there was some mistake.
Arias confirmed that it was and Caldas went on, ‘Now do you remember the call on Saturday afternoon?’
Arias lowered his head.
‘Why did he call you, may I ask? If you never spoke face to face, how do you explain the phone call?’
Arias kept his eyes lowered, and Caldas thought of the radio show and the tune that moron Losada played while he was thinking.
‘El Rubio had lost a rubber fender out at sea,’ the fisherman said at last. ‘He called to ask if I’d found it.’
‘A what?’
‘A fender,’ said the fisherman. ‘To protect the boat. Sometimes they fall off.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me when I asked if you’d spoken to him?’
Arias gathered up his shopping bags. ‘I’d forgotten.’
As they left Monteferro behind, rain started to spatter the windscreen. At first it was gentle, but soon it became a downpour. Drops got in through the inspector’s open window.
‘He lied to us,’ said Estevez.
‘I know.’
‘Why didn’t you mention Castelo’s visit?’
‘And give away his neighbour?’ said Caldas, and tutted. ‘Anyway, he’d just have come up with an excuse, like he did about the phone call.’
‘That’s true.’
The inspector leaned back and recalled the words Arias’s nosy neighbour had overheard: ‘I can’t take it any more.’ Castelo had said it repeatedly as he went inside the house. The waiter at the Refugio del Pescador had heard him say something similar on Saturday afternoon: ‘I’m going to end it’, Castelo had murmured as he finished his drink. These phrases now reverberated in the inspector’s mind. What had caused Castelo such anguish?
The things painted on his rowing boat, the good-luck charms found among his belongings and the desperate visit to his fellow shipwreck survivor pointed in just one direction, as did the blow to his head and the fear on the faces of José Arias and Marcos Valverde.
The shower had passed and the windscreen wipers now could be set to intermittent. When Caldas opened his eyes he saw, to their left, the dark grey sea topped with white-crested waves. He wondered where Castelo’s fishing boat was. Someone had had to approach it from another boat in order to kill him. What the hell had happened to it?
He stared straight ahead, at the city of Vigo spreading like a stain around the ria. First low houses, then the tall blocks of the district of Coia and, further on, the rest of the city spilling untidily over the hillsides, with the hospital rising above it all near the Monte del Castro.
Caldas closed his eyes and his mind travelled from Justo Castelo’s boat to room 211 in the hospital, his Uncle Alberto’s emaciated arm and the green mask through which he breathed.
A Truce
Estevez had gone out for lunch. After half an hour in his chair trying to order his thoughts, Caldas picked up the black notebook and rose to his feet. He knew his mind worked better when he was wandering among people than sitting alone in his office.
The inspector made his way from the police station down to the Montero Rios Gardens. He walked along the seafront to the end of the jetty that sheltered the boats in the harbour. The wind had swept the sky above the ria clear of clouds and a couple of sailing boats were putting out to sea. Caldas thought of Valverde’s wife. Behind the huge window of her designer home, she must have been relishing the first sunny afternoon in days.
He lit a cigarette and leaned on the wall overlooking the ria, beside an angler with a line cast out into the water. Caldas looked down at the foam formed by the sea beating against the concrete jetty. He pictured Castelo trying to swim with his hands tied, like the man in yellow waterproofs who had called out to him in his dream, and he wondered if the green cable tie served any other purpose than to make swimming impossible and the death look like suicide. In that case, anyone involved in the murder would have displayed their distress. But José Arias had tried to hide his. What could have instilled such fear in such a big man?
Caldas walked back along the jetty. A merchant ship passed, its foghorn as monotonous as Justo Castelo’s existence. The only discordant note in the lonely fisherman’s life had been the graffiti on his rowing boat, but this referred to an event that had occurred many years before – the sinking of the Xurelo. Caldas didn’t believe in coincidences. He was convinced that the two things were linked. The fear that had driven Castelo to fill his pockets with lucky charms also showed in the faces of his former crewmates. Why were they refusing to talk? Could Antonio Sousa really have returned? Maybe someone was avenging the skipper’s death. But who? And why now, so long afterwards? Caldas felt he was still very far from finding answers. It had been five days since El Rubio’s death. If he didn’t make progress soon, maybe he’d never discover the truth.
The inspector was still pondering this when he got to the Calle Canovas del Castillo and passed dozens of tourists who’d just disembarked from a cruise liner. Some were heading for the oyster stalls at La Piedra market, others for the new shopping centre that sat like a black patch over the city’s eye as it looked out to sea.
Before he reached the arcades of Ribeira, he turned into the Calle Real and walked up into the old town. Manuel Trabazo was right: in the past there had rarely been any ugly buildings.
He looked at his watch. The walk had left him little time for lunch. He went into a bar and ordered a ham sandwich and a glass of white wine. He sat at the counter and thought about Estevez. He pictured him wolfing a salad in some nearby bar.
He left after his coffee and walked along the Calle de la Palma past the cathedral. Down a side street he caught sight of waiters in the Plaza de la Constitución setting out tables on the bar terraces. Like an animal stretching after a long sleep, the city was coming to life in the sun.
At the entrance to the radio station, Caldas greeted the doorman. He didn’t want to get to the studio any earlier than necessary, so he lit a cigarette as a pretext for stayin
g out in the street till the last minute.
When the bells started to strike the hour, he stubbed out his cigarette and went upstairs. As he walked down the corridor, he heard the theme tune to Patrolling the Waves. He peered into the control room and waved at Rebeca and the sound technician.
‘The caller from Monday hasn’t turned up,’ Rebeca informed him.
‘Who?’
‘The breathalyser man, remember? He was going to stop by today so you could both go and see the local police.’
He’d forgotten all about it.
‘Oh, right.’
On the other side of the glass, Losada was at the microphone, gesturing frantically towards the clock.
‘You’re late,’ he said as Caldas entered the studio.
‘As usual,’ replied Caldas, sitting down by the window. He switched off his mobile phone and put in on the desk beside his open notebook.
In a familiar ritual, the theme tune faded, the red studio light came on and Losada announced sonorously, ‘Welcome to Patrolling the Waves, where the ordinary citizen enters into a dialogue with the police, with the aim of improving community relations in our city.’
Caldas knew by heart the string of inanities with which Losada introduced him.
‘We have with us the implacable defender of upright citizens, the fearsome guardian of our streets, the scourge of hooligans, Patrolman Inspector Leo Caldas. Welcome to the show, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’
‘In today’s edition of Patrolling the Waves, the inspector is here at Radio Vigo to answer you the listeners’ questions.’
Caldas turned to the window. Children were chasing pigeons and street cleaners were making the most of the break in the rain to sweep up dead leaves along the Alameda. He only put on his headphones when Rebeca held up the sign with the name of the first caller and Losada handed over with the words, ‘Ricardo, good afternoon. You’re through to Leo Caldas, patrolman of the waves.’
Ricardo got straight to the point: ‘I’m calling because my upstairs neighbours are disturbing me at night and I’m wondering if there’s anything I can do about it.’
‘How are they disturbing you?’ asked Losada.
‘You know …’
‘No, we don’t know, the listeners don’t know,’ said the presenter in his affected voice. ‘Please tell the city of Vigo what kind of disturbance your neighbours are causing.’
‘Well, you know … noise.’
‘What kind of noise?’ persisted Losada. Caldas wondered why they needed him there at all when he hardly got a chance to say anything.
‘They’re very passionate,’ said the caller.
‘Sorry?’
‘They haven’t been together long so, well, it’s understandable, they want to get to know each other. But it’s one thing to get to know each other, and another to scream all night long. It’s been going on for almost three weeks.’
‘An ideal subject for a man like Leo Caldas,’ said Losada with a smile. ‘Let’s see what our patrolman has to say.’
‘Prurient moron,’ Caldas said to himself.
He was about to answer the caller when Losada raised a hand and the tune from the previous show started playing in his headphones. He held up his arms. How did they expect him to think with that bloody music playing? Losada leaned towards the microphone and lowered his hand slowly.
‘Well, Inspector?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything that can be done,’ said Caldas.
But Losada wasn’t about to let a call like this one get away.
‘Isn’t there some bylaw restricting noise levels?’ he asked.
Caldas had no idea. ‘Not for that kind of noise. Your neighbours are in their own home, aren’t they, Ricardo?’
‘In hers, yes,’ said Ricardo.
‘Then there’s very little you can do.’
‘But they’re doing it on purpose,’ said Ricardo.
‘That may make a difference,’ said Losada, raising a hand for the technician to play the jaunty tune.
Caldas gestured energetically for him to turn it off but Losada kept his hand up for a moment longer.
‘Does it make any difference, Inspector?’ Losada asked.
What did the fool expect him to say? Did he think he could send a couple of officers round to the couple’s bedroom to measure the decibel level?
‘I was a newly-wed myself once, Inspector Caldas,’ said Ricardo, reluctant to give up. ‘And I’m telling you, that girl screams just to annoy me. It can’t be anything else.’
‘Right.’
To put an end to the call, Caldas asked the man to give his details off air and promised to take the matter up with the City Police.
In his black notebook he wrote: City Police one, Leo nil.
The next three calls were all about traffic. The fifth caller complained about the poor street lighting near his home, the sixth was a football fan angry about Celta’s recent results. Then a man who’d lost his dog called in.
City Police eleven, Celta one, Leo nil, read the entry in his notebook by the end of the show. Caldas hadn’t been able to help a single caller but, since every time he fell silent Losada raised his hand and the damn tune played, he’d spoken more than usual.
‘What’s that music called that you play before I answer?’ he asked, removing his headphones.
‘It’s called “Promenade” or “Walking the Dog”.’
‘Both?’
‘Yes. It’s by Gershwin,’ said Losada.
‘Don’t you remember, I asked you not to play it any more?’
‘I think it works really well.’
Caldas took his phone from the desk and stood up. ‘I don’t.’
‘Well, everyone says they love it.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
‘I don’t know, Leo,’ said the presenter, gesturing towards the window overlooking the Alameda. ‘Everyone. Don’t you get out?’
Caldas didn’t reply. He shut his notebook and headed for the studio door.
‘Anyway, the tune fits in perfectly with what we’re after, Leo.’
The inspector turned round. ‘What we’re after? Would you mind telling me exactly what the hell we’re after? Anyway, I don’t care. Please don’t play it any more. Not while I’m on air.’
‘May I remind you that this is my show.’
‘You’re an idiot.’
Caldas left the studio, waving goodbye to Rebeca. Downstairs, the doorman came to meet him.
‘There was a man here to see you, Inspector.’
‘Damn! The breathalyser man. Where is he?’
‘He left.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I don’t know. When I told him he couldn’t go upstairs, he left.’
‘You didn’t allow him upstairs?’
‘Of course not,’ said the doorman. ‘He was drunk.’
The sun was setting behind the buildings of the old town, colouring the sky orange, like the Lodeiro that hung on the wall of the Eligio. Caldas set off back to the police station, switching on his mobile phone. The display lit up to show he’d missed a call.
He read the name twice: Alba. Alba? Why would she be calling after all this time? He stood in the middle of the pavement staring at the phone in his hand. He didn’t dare dial. He told himself she’d call back if it was something important, and walked on, cursing Losada and his stupid show. Why did he have to have his phone switched off when Alba called?
A few steps further on, he stopped and dialled.
‘Hello?’
‘Have you put Santiago Losada in your Book of Idiots?’ said Caldas.
‘The presenter?’ asked his father, adding before Caldas had a chance to answer: ‘Of course I have.’
With a sigh of relief, Caldas put his phone in his trouser pocket and set off again for the police station, thinking of Alba.
The Lighthouse at Punta Lameda
He spent the rest of the afternoon in his office, with the glass door c
losed and his phone in front of him on the desk. He spoke to his father again and promised he’d go to the hospital the following day. He also opened the blue folder containing all the information on the Castelo case several times, but couldn’t concentrate on what he was reading. It occurred to him that they could get a court order to have Sousa exhumed. It was the only way of checking that it really had been Sousa’s body tangled in the nets of the trawler.
A late visit from Superintendent Soto made him change his mind.
‘Any suspects?’ he asked after Caldas had filled him in on some of the details of the case.
‘No.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Well …’
‘Well what?’
‘There’s someone called Antonio Sousa who might have something to do with it,’ he said, and instantly regretted it.
‘Where is he?’ asked Soto.
Silence.
The door opened and Estevez came in.
‘Do you know where this Sousa is?’ the superintendent asked him.
‘In a wooden box for the past twelve years.’
‘And he’s the suspect?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Estevez with a smile.
Soto turned towards the inspector.
‘What the hell are you up to, Leo?’ he said as he made his way out. ‘Even Estevez can see it’s nonsense.’
Once they were alone, the inspector asked, ‘Did you drop by just to make me look stupid?’
‘I’m sorry, boss.’
‘Never mind,’ muttered Caldas, turning back to the contents of the folder. ‘What’s up?’
‘While you were on the radio I called Clara Barcia. A couple of hours ago a scuba diver found a sunken boat. It might be Castelo’s. They’re going to try and raise it this afternoon.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I’m not sure. Do you want us to drive over there?’
Caldas dialled Barcia’s number. She didn’t reply, so he left a message. When he hung up, Estevez was whistling the Gershwin tune.
‘What are you whistling?’
‘Sorry, it’s really catchy.’
‘You listened to the show?’ asked Caldas, aghast.
Death on a Galician Shore Page 18
