Death on a Galician Shore

by Villar, Domingo

  ‘What?’ said Caldas, and the doctor began to sing quietly, ‘Avec le temps, avec le temps, va, tout s’en va …’

  ‘Who sang that?’

  Trabazo steered the boat between buoys. ‘Léo Ferré,’ he replied. ‘Your mother adored him.’

  Sea Bass Rock

  As they doubled the jetty Trabazo steered towards Monteferro. The boat moved through the water with its bow raised.

  Some of the houses that were scattered over the strip of land between the mountain and the mainland appeared to be clinging to the rocks, but most were squeezed among the trees, vying for views of the bay. Caldas searched unsuccessfully for the glass façade of the Valverdes’ house.

  ‘They were planning to develop the whole mountain,’ said Trabazo, with a sweep of his free hand. ‘Can you believe it? They’d even started laying out streets.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Caldas was making sure not to look to either side. He held his head up and stared straight ahead, concentrating on exposing his face to the cold sea air.

  ‘The entire village rose up and a judge ordered the tree felling to be halted. Precautionary suspension, I think the term is. We’ll see how long that lasts.’

  As he spoke, Trabazo backed off the throttle so that the inspector could hear him.

  ‘Did you go to see Don Fernando?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Caldas.

  ‘Any help?’

  ‘Yes, definitely.’

  ‘He spent years photographing the fishermen.’

  This was not what had most impressed the inspector. ‘Did you know that he’s got an archive of cuttings about shipwrecks?’

  ‘Not just shipwrecks,’ said Trabazo. ‘He keeps anything to do with the village. It’s his way of experiencing the thrill of the sea, through the adventures of others.’

  ‘Right.’

  They left the houses behind and sailed past the pine-clad slopes of Monteferro stretching above the cliffs. At the summit stood the monu ment to the memory of drowned sailors.

  ‘We’ll head that way later,’ said Trabazo, pointing at a spot along the coast. ‘Now I’m going to show you a place no one else knows. Sea Bass Rock, I call it. I’ve been fishing there for over thirty years.’

  ‘You only fish for sea bass?’

  ‘There I do. Only lovely bass,’ said Trabazo. ‘Though you never really know what you’re going to get nowadays. Did you hear about El Rubio landing a sunfish a few months ago? TV reporters even came to interview him.’

  ‘Yes, I read the newspaper cutting,’ said Caldas.

  ‘Did Don Fernando show it to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Caldas. ‘It was framed on Castelo’s sitting-room wall.’

  As the boat skirted around Monteferro the Cies Islands appeared ahead. They looked further away now than they had from the top of the mountain.

  ‘El Rubio can’t have drowned beyond that point,’ said Trabazo, slowing the boat and indicating a rounded rock. ‘Look at the waves. See how they split apart? If he’d drowned beyond that rock, the current wouldn’t have dragged him to the Madorra on this side of the mountain, but to somewhere round the other side. His boat may have been found round there but Castelo can’t have fallen into the sea beyond that rock.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been suicide.’

  ‘I know,’ said Caldas, still staring straight ahead.

  Trabazo looked at the inspector expectantly but Caldas said nothing more.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’ Trabazo pressed.

  ‘You know what they’re saying in the village, don’t you?’ said Caldas.

  ‘What they’re saying?’

  ‘Do you know or not, Manuel?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘What do you mean, what do I think?’

  Caldas decided to get straight to the point. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, apparitions?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Leo!’ muttered Trabazo. ‘You don’t mention things like that on a boat.’

  ‘Well, do you believe in them or not?’

  Trabazo turned the tiller abruptly and the boat reared up. ‘No,’ he said firmly. Then he knocked on the motor and spat over the side.

  They continued in silence until the lighthouse at Punta Lameda appeared among the rocks a few minutes later. The Forensics van was parked in the same place, on the paved stretch of road. Trabazo brought the boat up close to the cliff and let it bob on the water with the motor in neutral.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing. ‘The perfect place to hide something. I’d never have thought of it.’

  Caldas nodded.

  ‘You can’t see it from here,’ the doctor went on, ‘but there’s a rock barrier a few metres from the shore. At high tide waves wash over it, but at the bottom of the pool the water’s always still.’

  Caldas peered over the gunwale. Dark seaweed swayed beneath the boat, looking like the antlers of a rhythmically moving herd of moose.

  ‘Can we get any closer?’

  ‘We’d run the risk of hitting a rock, but for two hours before or after low tide you can get in OK. It’s not that difficult,’ said Trabazo. ‘You just have to play with the throttle. And once you’re in past the barrier you’re safe. It’s like a swimming pool.’

  ‘Only at low tide?’

  ‘It’s the only time that all the rocks are visible and the surface of the water is calm.’

  ‘Do you think you could get in if you were towing another boat?’

  ‘A boat like El Rubio’s?’ Trabazo shook his head. ‘No, no room to manoeuvre.’

  ‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ sighed Caldas.

  ‘He was alone on his boat when he left port, wasn’t he?’

  The inspector nodded.

  ‘That means there were two of them,’ said Trabazo, as if reading Caldas’s mind.

  ‘At least,’ whispered Caldas, before asking: ‘Doesn’t it seem rather risky bringing it here?’

  ‘If you don’t know the coast it’s more than risky, it’s suicide.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ said Caldas. ‘Somebody on shore or on another boat could have seen it all.’

  ‘I doubt it. On a Sunday morning no professional fishermen would be out. And the rest of us aren’t up that early,’ smiled Trabazo. ‘Especially when it’s raining.’

  ‘Do you know what time low tide was on Sunday?’

  The doctor squinted as he did the mental calculation.

  ‘The first low tide was around five thirty in the morning and the second about twelve hours later, around six in the evening.’

  Caldas clicked his tongue.

  ‘It had to be the morning,’ he mumbled, looking up at the cliffs merging into the green slopes of Monteferro.

  There were no houses there, no window behind which to look for a witness.

  ‘Can you jump ashore from there?’ he asked, indicating the rock pool.

  ‘As I said, it’s as still as a swimming pool. You can climb up and down without any problem as long as the tide’s not covering the barrier. Years ago fishermen from the village used to set traps here.’

  There were plenty of rocks below the lighthouse. Caldas thought of the stones used to weight the boat down at the bottom of the pool. There was no need to look for those elsewhere.

  He tried to spot Officer Ferro. He must be up there somewhere, hunting on amid the boulders on the slope. Caldas stopped looking when the rocking of the boat began to play havoc with his insides.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Trabazo, moving the throttle lever. ‘We came out for some fishing.’

  The boat reared up and Caldas was relieved to feel the sea breeze on his face.

  They sailed back round Monteferro towards Panxón.

  ‘Change places with me,’ said Trabazo, suddenly switching off the engine.

  Caldas took a couple of unsteady steps and collapsed on to the bench in the stern. The
smell of petrol was much stronger there. Trabazo reached down for the oars and fitted them into the rowlocks. Then he sat down on the bench Caldas had vacated and, facing the inspector, began to row.

  ‘You’re lucky, Calditas,’ he said. ‘No one apart from me knows about Sea Bass Rock.’

  Caldas craved the fresh air that had blown in his face when they’d been using the motor.

  ‘Do we have to row there?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t want the fish to know we’re here.’

  The inspector swallowed. ‘No, of course not,’ he said.

  Trabazo started whistling the Léo Ferré song that he’d sung back at the harbour. In a boat he was a happy man.

  Unlike Caldas.

  ‘Is it far?’ Caldas asked again a few minutes later.

  Trabazo shook his head. ‘Up ahead.’

  Caldas leaned across and looked out over the surface of the water that stretched ahead. There were no rocks between them and the shore, several hundred metres away.

  ‘Are you sure? I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Well, of course you can’t, Calditas. Do you think it would be anything to boast about if it had been in plain view? Sea Bass Rock is twenty fathoms down.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You’ll see. I bet you a glass of wine at the Refugio del Pescador that at least five bass bite in the next two hours.’

  Caldas was in no state to think about wine. Two hours? But he didn’t have the heart to ask Trabazo to cut short the fishing trip. The bass were his white whale.

  Caldas stood up and took his mobile phone from his pocket. He needed to tell Estevez to pick him up a little later than planned.

  ‘You’re not thinking of using that contraption near my fish, are you?’ Trabazo hissed.

  The sun was starting to bother Caldas as much as the sound of the oars and movement of the boat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re almost above the rock. If they hear your voice, what do you think my fish will do? Hang around to be caught? Come on, switch that thing off.’

  Caldas sat down again, feeling sick. He turned off his phone and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

  Trabazo pushed the plastic box towards him. ‘Instead of sitting there sunbathing, why don’t you bait the hooks?’

  Caldas opened his eyes. ‘Bait them?’

  ‘There are several spools in the box. Take out two that have got a hook on the end of the line. That’ll save some time.’

  Trabazo was right – the sooner this trip was over the better.

  ‘The worms are in the little tin,’ said the doctor. ‘Pick two and thread them on the hooks.’

  ‘Two what?’

  Caldas prised open the tin. In it worms wriggled on damp sand. ‘They’re alive,’ he said.

  ‘Of course they’re alive. Say a prayer and on to the hooks with them.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Caldas.

  ‘I thought you were a policeman?’

  Caldas took hold of one of the worms, but before he could get it anywhere near the hook he was overcome by a wave of nausea.

  The inspector stared up at the blue sky. He had thrown up so many times that Trabazo had decided to cut short his suffering and get him back to dry land. The closest place was a cove at the foot of Monteferro where Caldas now lay on the sand, trying to recuperate.

  ‘Some shipmate you turned out to be,’ said Trabazo, getting up and heading for the boat, which was beached on the shore. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, ruining an old man’s fishing trip!’

  Caldas didn’t have the strength to smile.

  ‘At least my sea bass will be happy,’ the inspector heard him say. ‘You left them enough food for a fortnight.’

  Caldas lay there, feeling his temples throb. His stomach was gradually recovering but the dizzy spell had given him a severe headache. He thought of his conversation with Alba. At first she had seemed close, but when she hung up she had sounded distant. He sighed and raised himself on his elbows. His head and his heart ached.

  He watched Trabazo pick his way through the rocks, carrying a bag. Was he looking for crabs? He must be at least seventy. Where did he get the energy?

  Caldas waited, motionless, for Trabazo to return.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘As if I’ve been beaten up.’

  ‘Do you think you’re strong enough to get back on the boat?’

  ‘What are my chances of feeling sick again?’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pretty high.’

  Caldas looked around. ‘Then I’ll just stay here for ever.’

  Trabazo smiled. ‘There’s a track up there. You can reach it by car.’

  Caldas looked at his watch and turned on his phone. Estevez would be back in Panxón by now. He was glad he hadn’t told him to pick him up later.

  ‘Do you think you can explain to my assistant how to get here?’

  ‘Does he have a good sense of direction?’

  ‘Like a homing pigeon,’ said Caldas, dialling Estevez’s number.

  Trabazo gave Estevez directions, and then sat down beside the inspector.

  ‘Find anything?’ asked Caldas, motioning towards Trabazo’s bag.

  ‘Horrors,’ said the doctor. ‘Why are people such pigs?’ He held up the bag. ‘Look at what I picked up in just a couple of minutes: tins, plastic bottles, bits of glass. And this place is pretty inaccessible. Someone had even thrown a ring spanner onto the rocks.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A ring spanner,’ Trabazo repeated, taking it out of the bag and handing it to Caldas. ‘For tightening wheel nuts. And it’s pretty new. It was in a gap between rocks. One of these days they’ll chuck out a steering wheel.’

  The inspector looked at the spanner. It was a metal bar with a rounded end. ‘Where did you find it?’ he asked, getting to his feet.

  Estevez drew up at the end of the track and honked the horn several times.

  ‘You won’t be stopping off in Panxón now, will you?’ asked Trabazo before heading back to his boat.

  ‘No,’ Caldas replied, ‘I’m going straight back to Vigo.’ He wanted to show the spanner to the pathologist as soon as possible.

  ‘Oh well …’

  ‘Why?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘I wanted to tell you something.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me now?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Earlier, I mentioned that some of the fishermen set their traps where El Rubio’s boat was found. Do you remember?’

  The inspector didn’t. ‘Yes,’ he said anyway.

  ‘Well, I’ve only known one man fish there. Guess who?’

  How should he know? ‘Who?’ asked Caldas.

  ‘Antonio Sousa. The skipper.’

  The inspector climbed up to where Estevez was waiting and turned to look back down at the small cove. Out at sea, the sky-blue boat was heading for the harbour in Panxón, bow raised. Trabazo was Manuel the Portuguese fisherman once more.

  Caldas greeted his assistant. He got into the car, wound down the window and closed his eyes. He had the spanner in a bag.

  He wasn’t sure he believed in ghosts any more.

  The Spanner

  ‘Feeling better?’ asked Estevez as he entered the inspector’s office.

  Reclining in his black chair, Caldas nodded. ‘Did you take it to Dr Barrio?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s where I’ve just been.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘That he’d call if he found something,’ said Estevez.

  ‘Did he think it might match the mark on Castelo’s skull?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Didn’t he say anything?’

  ‘That he’d call if he found something.’

  ‘All right,’ said Caldas, sighing and stretching his legs.

  Estevez looked down. ‘Have you seen the state of your shoes?’ he said.

  Caldas lifted a leg and saw that, as well as a
headache, the trip on Trabazo’s boat had left him with stains all over his shoes as a memento.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Thanks for that, Rafa.’

  Estevez didn’t move.

  ‘I don’t think he could have been hit with that spanner,’ he said.

  ‘Care to elaborate?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘You want me to go over it again? Trabazo found it in a shallow rock pool in the cove where you came to collect me.’

  ‘And a metal object like that can’t be dragged in by the tide, can it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, there you go, Inspector. Think about it. It can’t be.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it would be ridiculous for someone to throw the murder weapon on to the rocks when they’ve got the whole sea at their disposal, don’t you think? As silly as sinking the boat in that pool right at the foot of Monteferro instead of taking it out to sea.’

  ‘No, that does make sense,’ said the inspector. ‘Remember what Ferro said: in that pool the boat stays put. But if they’d scuttled it round the other side of the mountain, the current would eventually smash it against rocks and the pieces would float to the surface.’

  ‘Well, that only strengthens my case. If they took so much trouble hiding the boat, why didn’t they do the same with the weapon they used to kill El Rubio?’

  ‘He wasn’t killed with the spanner, Rafa. Justo Castelo drowned.’

  ‘Makes no difference, Inspector. If you were in a boat, would you throw the incriminating item on to the rocks or to the bottom of the sea?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘What do you mean? It doesn’t depend on anything, Inspector. Would you get rid of the evidence or would you go sprinkling it like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale to show us the way?’

  ‘That’s if you expect an investigation into Castelo’s death, but I’m not so sure,’ said Caldas, taking his cigarettes from the drawer. He hadn’t had one since he’d sat waiting for Trabazo on a bollard in the harbour.

  ‘Why not?’

  Caldas pulled out a cigarette, sniffed it and put it back. He still didn’t feel up to smoking.

  ‘Because no one investigates a suicide.’

  Estevez was about to say something but held back.