‘Never miss it.’
Estevez was crazier than he thought. Wasn’t it enough to see the boss all day at work?
‘You tune in to Patrolling the Waves?’
‘No need, boss. Olga puts it on the loudspeaker.’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
Caldas sank back into his chair, looking up at the ceiling. He needed a rest.
‘So are we going to have a look at that boat or not?’ said Estevez impatiently.
‘Better to go tomorrow.’
Estevez dropped him off at the Town Hall and Caldas handed the list of complaints collected during the show to the City Police. Then he walked down to the Eligio and, placing his phone on the bar in front of him, ordered a glass of white wine. With his second glass, Carlos brought him a plate of ham croquettes.
The academics knew all about the Gershwin tune having two names.
When Caldas left the bar about an hour later, someone there was still whistling the damn thing.
At home, he switched on the radio and flopped on to the sofa. He was dozing when his phone caused him to sit up with a start.
‘Hello?’
‘I’ve only just got your message, Inspector. Is this too late?’
Caldas wanted to hang up.
‘Don’t worry, Clara. Has your team got the boat out of the water?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think we’ll find anything useful,’ Clara said apologetically.
Caldas hadn’t been expecting to find fingerprints on a boat that had been on the seabed for several days.
‘Are you absolutely sure that it is Castelo’s boat?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Where was it?’
‘It was off Punta Lameda by the lighthouse, in Monteferro. Do you know it?’
‘Is it near the beach where the body was found?’
‘No, no. The boat was round the other side of the mountain, by the shore,’ said Barcia. ‘There was a hole in the hull and it was weighted down with rocks. Whoever scuttled it wanted to make sure it wouldn’t float back up again.’
After hanging up, Caldas stretched out on the sofa again. Something about Barcia’s assumption didn’t make sense. Why sink the boat so near the coast if you didn’t want it to turn up? Why not sink it in the open sea?
Still turning this over in his mind, he fell asleep, staring at the mobile phone on the table as if that would make it ring.
A Wake
Next morning, he took a shower. Eyes closed under the stream of water, he leaned down to grab the razor from the shelf. He liked to shave in the shower, without foam or mirror. He simply ran his hand over his chin to check if he’d missed anything. He’d only ever stopped shaving this way for a few weeks, when Alba had given him an electric shaver, which he never got used to.
When he’d finished, he put the razor back and soaped himself thoroughly. He was covered in suds when he heard the phone ring.
Only one person could be calling this early.
He hurried out of the shower, leaving a white trail on the floor from the bathroom to the coffee table in the sitting room.
‘Hello?’
‘Leo, it’s me.’
‘Who?’ he asked, feeling silly for asking.
‘Me, Alba,’ she replied, as if it were necessary.
‘Oh. Hello.’
‘Sorry to call so early.’
They both knew it wasn’t early for him.
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I just heard about your Uncle Alberto. How is he?’
It was as if he’d heard her voice only yesterday.
‘So-so.’
‘What about your father?’
‘Well …’
‘Give him my love, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he whispered.
‘And how are you, Leo?’
Not good, he thought. Not good at all.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m fine, too.’
When he’d rung off, he shook the water from the phone and left it face down on a newspaper. Then he returned to the shower feeling that Alba had slipped away for ever, like the foam that had slid from his body to form a puddle on the floor.
The Rock Pool
Monteferro was the last stretch of untouched coast south of Vigo. Miraculously it had withstood the relentless advance of urban development and, though the isthmus that joined it to the mainland was dotted with houses, the cliff-edged promontory was still covered with green. At its summit stood a twenty-five-metre-high memorial to sailors drowned at sea.
For the third time in a few days they took the road from Panxón to Monteferro. This time they didn’t turn left down the narrow street that led to Marcos Valverde’s house, but continued straight on, between the pale trunks of eucalyptuses whose intense fragrance filtered in through Caldas’s open window.
Behind closed eyelids, he could see Alba.
‘That way?’ asked Estevez, stopping the car by an unpaved road leading off to the right, like a tunnel through the trees.
The inspector opened his eyes and looked around. Barcia had said that a forest track led to the lighthouse at Punta Lameda.
‘Yes, I think so.’
Estevez turned and nosed the car down the potholed track beneath a vault of branches. Further on, they emerged from the forest and skirted the mountain, while below the sea sparkled in the morning sun.
The last hundred metres were paved and led to a small lighthouse perched on rocks at the western end of Monteferro. The Forensics van was parked outside.
Queasily, the inspector climbed out of the car. He breathed in some fresh sea air before following Estevez to the lighthouse railing. Officer Ferro waved from a nearby rock and came towards them. He said they had been searching the area where the boat had been found, but the rain of the past few days had erased all clues.
‘Where was the boat?’ asked Caldas.
‘Down there,’ said Ferro, pointing. ‘Sunk in a deep rock pool. Shall I show you?’
‘Can we get to it?’
‘Yes,’ Ferro assured him. ‘But watch your step. Some of the rocks are treacherous.’
Ferro was enjoying his day by the sea. It was like an early start to the weekend when he’d go fishing in his boat. They followed him from rock to rock, with Caldas behind Ferro and Estevez behind the inspector. The sea was almost dead calm but waves still struck the shore with a splash.
‘They chose the only sheltered spot. There are rocks just out there forming a barrier,’ explained Ferro, stopping at the water’s edge to point at a small reef further out.
‘I can’t see them,’ said Estevez.
‘That’s because the tide’s coming in, but an hour ago they showed above the surface. Can’t you see the foam?’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Well, that’s where the waves break. Anything nearer than that is sheltered. At low tide it’s almost like a swimming pool and at high tide only the water on the surface moves.’
Caldas looked around. As Ferro had said, the water was calmest here.
‘So Castelo’s boat was on the bottom?’ he asked.
‘Just there,’ indicated Ferro. ‘There was a hole in the hull and it was weighted with rocks. They wanted to make sure it went down.’
‘Was the hole made deliberately?’
‘And how. It was made from the inside. Then the boat was filled with rocks and allowed to sink.’
‘How could someone have negotiated the rock barrier to get the boat in?’ asked Estevez.
‘There’s a gap over there,’ said the Forensics officer. ‘But not just anyone could do it. You’d need to know the coastline.’
‘Who found it?’ asked Caldas.
‘A boy scuba fishing. He followed a conger eel into the pool and saw the boat on the bottom. It was pure chance.’
‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Estevez. ‘A boat couldn’t just get dragged in here by the tide.’
‘Defini
tely not,’ Ferro agreed. ‘It was brought here on purpose. This was an ideal spot to sink it. They didn’t want it to be found.’
‘But if they’d sunk it out at sea wouldn’t it have been even harder to find?’ asked Caldas.
‘If they’d taken it way out, yes, of course. But there’s always a chance it would be dashed against rocks by the current, breaking up and floating to the surface. Down here the water’s still. If the ballast does its job, the boat should stay put. The only risk was what actually happened – it was spotted by a diver. But at this time of year it’s unusual for anyone to go out. Normally it would have stayed at the bottom all winter and got covered in seaweed.’
They drove back along the track to the road but, instead of heading to Panxón, Caldas told Estevez to turn the other way, towards the top of the promontory. The road grew steeper, passing through an acacia grove that had not yet been invaded by eucalyptus. Then the pines began, covering the slopes down to the sea and filling the air with their sharp fragrance.
They parked on the esplanade by the memorial, and made their way to the lookout point.
‘Damn, this is pretty,’ exclaimed Estevez when he saw the view.
Caldas agreed.
To the south, Panxón was hidden by trees, but they could see Mount Lourido at the end of Playa America and, further on, the Playa de la Ladeira beneath the La Groba mountains. Baiona, with its medieval fortress, marked the limit of the bay. Beyond, they could just make out Cabo Silleiro, the final swerve of the coast before it headed south in an almost straight line for 400 kilometres to Cabo da Roca near Lisbon.
To the north rose the Cies Islands with their mother-of-pearl beaches and, further on, the point of Cabo Home, the tip of the north shore of the Vigo estuary, like an animal lying beside the sea. It was a clear day so the outline of the island of Ons was visible beyond that, facing the next estuary along, that of Pontevedra.
They could even distinguish the faint silhouette of another hump of land in the background, and Caldas wondered if it was the island of Salvora where the Xurelo had foundered so many years before.
‘Those small islands, the nearest ones, what are they?’ asked Estevez.
‘The Estelas,’ said Caldas.
‘Why haven’t you brought me here before?’
Caldas shrugged. He still found it surprising that a man who could break someone’s jaw without batting an eyelid could appreciate a view.
‘Do you mind if I go and take a look at the memorial?’ said Estevez. The inspector went with him.
On the stone monument, the Virgin of El Carmen looked out to sea with the baby Jesus in her arms. Above her was hung a bronze garland of flowers and, beneath, an inscription: Salve Regina Marium. A plaque on the side asked that prayers be said for drowned sailors.
While Estevez went round the back of the monument Caldas took out his mobile phone. Alba’s voice had been echoing in his head all day. He dialled Manuel Trabazo’s number and told him that El Rubio’s boat had been found by the lighthouse at Punta Lameda. Trabazo knew the spot.
‘Do you think it’s where Castelo drowned?’
‘No,’ said Trabazo without hesitation.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Punta Lameda is on the north side of Monteferro. The beach where his body was washed up is on the south side. If he’d fallen into the water at Punta Lameda, his body wouldn’t have turned up where it did, on the Madorra. The current would have dragged it inland up the ria.’
‘I thought you said anyone drowned in the area washed up on the Madorra?’
‘Those who drown nearby or right out at sea,’ said Trabazo. ‘But if a body falls into the water close to the rocks on one side of Monteferro, it doesn’t turn back and head round to the other side. Test it out. Throw a piece of wood into the water at Punta Lameda and see where it ends up. I bet you a bottle of wine it doesn’t go round the mountain.’
‘Right,’ murmured Caldas. So El Rubio had been killed elsewhere and his boat towed to the lighthouse and sunk.
‘Where are you?’ asked Trabazo.
‘Here, in Monteferro. By the monument. Trying to make sense of it all.’
‘I’m going out fishing. Why don’t you come with me?’
Caldas hadn’t been on a boat in years.
‘Out to sea?’
‘You’ll see it more clearly out there, Leo,’ insisted Trabazo. ‘How about we meet at the harbour in half an hour?’
As they drove down the hill, Caldas leaned back, with his eyes closed and the window open.
‘Shall we stop off for another look at Mrs Valverde’s tits?’ asked Estevez as the trees of Monteferro gave way to the first houses.
Caldas tutted. He had no interest in Mrs Valverde’s breasts. It was her smile that fascinated him.
The Sky-blue Boat
When Estevez dropped him off in Panxón, the village seemed quite different. There were people on the promenade and, on the beach, some brave souls were walking along the shore, feet in the water. On the terrace of the Refugio del Pescador, a few old fishermen sat in the sun.
Caldas looked at his watch. The fish market had been closed for hours. At the end of the jetty a couple of anglers were casting their lines out over the water, and the inspector headed towards them.
As he passed the yacht club he breathed in an acrid odour that mingled with the smell of the sea. He saw the carpenter through the railing. He’d moved the boat he’d been caulking when they’d interviewed him out into the sun, and he was applying a coat of tar to the hull.
The grey cat was at his feet, watching his maimed hand move back and forth as he applied the tar.
Caldas made his way along the jetty towards Justo Castelo’s traps, which were still stacked against the whitewashed wall. He sat down on a bollard and lit a cigarette.
Arias’s boat, the Aileen, was moored to a buoy, its traps piled up on deck. Caldas assumed that Castelo’s boat was a similar size, and he wondered if it was possible to tow such a boat in past the rocks at Punta Lameda. He’d ask Trabazo.
Until now Caldas had imagined one person approaching El Rubio from another vessel. But if Castelo’s boat was too big to tow, at least two people must have been involved. One would have remained on their boat while the second sailed El Rubio’s boat to the lighthouse.
Caldas stubbed out his cigarette and walked back along the jetty. He leaned on the wall of the yacht club and watched the carpenter dip his brush into the tar and let the excess drip off before spreading it over the wood.
The cat was still watching the carpenter’s hand move back and forth.
Trabazo came up beside him, dropping a plastic box full of fishing lines, floats and hooks on the ground, and slapped the inspector on the back.
‘Watching the craftsman at work?’ said Trabazo, indicating the carpenter with a nod of the head. ‘He may have a few fingers missing, but that lad’s got a gift. The wood seems to obey him.’
‘Do you know, I didn’t think they made boats out of wood any more.’
‘It’s obvious you don’t fish, Calditas! The only reason people don’t use wood is because it needs maintenance, but a true fisherman will always choose it. In a wooden boat you’re really in the ocean, embedded in it. You can feel it in the small of your back,’ said Trabazo. ‘Boats made of plastic or fibreglass just slide over the water. They’re quite different.’
The carpenter looked up. He laid his brush down on top of the tin of tar and waved at the doctor.
‘Charlie not getting dizzy today?’ asked Trabazo, pointing at the cat.
‘He must be about to, Doctor,’ said the carpenter, smiling through his ginger beard. ‘He’s been watching me for about half an hour. I’m expecting him to keel over any minute.’
They carried the rowing boat down the slipway, placed Trabazo’s box inside and climbed aboard. The boat rocked and Caldas had a feeling he shouldn’t have accepted his friend’s invitation. He became sure of it when he saw Trabazo glance disapprovingly at hi
s shoes. Some shoes, Calditas, he seemed to be thinking. What did they all have against his shoes?
Trabazo began rowing out to the buoy and Caldas gripped the gunwale of the small boat with both hands.
‘How’s your father?’ asked the doctor.
‘Backwards and forwards between the vineyard and the hospital.’
‘But he’s OK?’
‘Yes, he’s OK,’ said Caldas. Then he asked, ‘Did you know he had a dog?’
‘Your father?’
‘A big brown one,’ said Caldas. ‘He claims it isn’t his, but it follows him around everywhere.’
‘Well, you did have a little dog once … What was its name?’
‘Cabola,’ said Caldas.
‘That’s right. Cabola.’
‘But it was my mother’s dog. It died soon after she did.’
‘I remember,’ said Trabazo, and put down an oar to feel in his pocket. ‘I’ll show you something when we get to the boat.’
They reached the buoy, tied up the rowing boat and climbed aboard Trabazo’s main boat, a gamela almost five metres long with a small outboard motor. It was sky-blue and looked in need of a fresh coat of paint. A rock on the end of a chain served as its anchor. It wasn’t a doctor’s boat; it was a true fisherman’s boat.
‘The other day, after I gave you that photo of Sousa, I went through the chest of drawers and found this,’ said Trabazo, taking an old photograph from his pocket and handing it to the inspector. ‘Your parents and me. I thought you’d like to have it.’
They looked as if they were in their twenties. They were sitting on some steps, his mother, smiling, between the two friends.
Trabazo bent down to connect the fuel tank and pulled on the starter cord several times until the motor came to life.
Caldas, still staring at the photo, steadied himself as the boat started to vibrate.
‘You know, sometimes I forget her face,’ he said, sitting down on the middle bench. ‘Some nights I dream about her, I know it’s my mother, but the face I see isn’t hers.’
Trabazo released the mooring rope, sat down in the stern holding the tiller, and said, ‘In time everything goes, you forget the face, you forget the voice.’
Death on a Galician Shore Page 19
