Caldas closed his eyes again.
He wondered how many tunes Diego Neira had stopped whistling.
An Empty Window
When the motorway forked, instead of turning off into Vigo, they drove on, up and around the city that spread out over the slopes, above the sea.
‘What a great view,’ said Estevez as they reached the top. Caldas opened his eyes.
The mist had retreated out to sea, revealing the mouth of the estuary and the Cies Islands. An ocean liner was heading towards the port, to release its cargo of tourists equipped with their maps, raincoats and cameras on to the streets of Vigo.
Caldas caught sight of the green hospital building at the foot of Monte del Castro, and pictured Uncle Alberto counting the hours, happy to relinquish his room to another patient. When had his father said they were discharging him?
He gazed at the landscape – the gentle curve of the coast broken only by the tower block on the island of Toralla and the dark shape of the headland at Monteferro – before closing his eyes again.
The motorway ended a kilometre from Panxón, and they drove the rest of the way past empty holiday homes. The sky, like the sea, was grey.
They parked by the promenade and got out of the car. They were greeted by the same smell they had left behind in Aguiño. Caldas looked around.
The promenade was almost deserted. A group of elderly people was seated at a terrace table enjoying a rain-free morning. On the beach, two women walked at the water’s edge with their trousers rolled up and shoes in their hands. Near the slipway, the boy in the wheelchair was throwing a ball for his Labrador. Beyond it, on Playa America, waves broke with great jets of spray. On the Panxón side, by contrast, they seemed to caress the sand as they rolled in and, in the shelter of the harbour, the boats hardly swayed on the water.
Justo Castelo’s traps were still stacked against the white wall of the jetty. At its tip, the same anglers held their fishing rods out over the water.
In the streets of the village, a woman was sluicing down the pavement outside her house, and a few people walked by, plastic bags in hand.
Caldas and Estevez made their way to the narrow street where José Arias lived. They rang his doorbell several times but there was no answer.
Glancing at his watch Caldas saw that it was ten past one – the fisherman would have been asleep for about four hours.
‘Shall I open it?’ said Estevez. ‘I’ll just give it another little nudge …’
Caldas looked at the mark on the door caused by Estevez’s last ‘little nudge’. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, turning at the sound of footsteps behind him.
He recognised Alicia Castelo’s fair hair and swallowed hard. She was wearing a black dress and her arms were crossed to protect herself against the cold. As she drew nearer, she looked up at Arias’s neighbour’s window. Caldas glanced up, too. The net curtains did not move.
‘I saw you as you passed my house, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Could I speak to you for a moment?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Taking out his cigarettes, Caldas said to his assistant, ‘Keep ringing the bell.’
‘No one’s going to answer, Inspector,’ said the drowned man’s sister. ‘He’s not there.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He’s left.’
‘Left?’ said Caldas. ‘The village?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘On Saturday afternoon. A few hours after he spoke to you.’
‘Damn,’ muttered Caldas. He should have listened to Estevez and arrested Arias at the time, holding him in custody until they returned from Aguiño. It had been foolish to put him on his guard and leave him unwatched. He could be anywhere by now. He might even have gone back to Scotland. It was where he’d taken refuge after the sinking of the Xurelo, and he had a daughter there.
‘José Arias has done nothing wrong,’ murmured Alicia Castelo. ‘That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.’
‘Hasn’t he?’
‘You remember the call made from Justo’s house?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Caldas glanced up at the neighbour’s window again, to check they were not being overheard.
‘It wasn’t my brother who called him.’
Caldas understood immediately, unlike his assistant.
‘Then who did?’ asked Estevez.
Alicia glanced up again, then down at the ground.
‘Me,’ she whispered. ‘I called José from my brother’s house.’
‘José,’ Caldas repeated to himself. It was the first time he’d heard anyone refer to the hulking fisherman like that.
‘It wasn’t him. You’ve got it wrong. He hasn’t spoken to Justo for years.’
‘So why has he run away?’ asked Caldas. He decided not to tell her that the nosy neighbour had seen her brother enter Arias’s house the day before he died.
‘To protect me,’ she said. ‘My husband is coming back from Namibia this week. José didn’t want to put me in an awkward position, where I’d have to testify. I was with him the morning my brother was murdered,’ she said glancing up again. ‘It’s a small village, as you’ve seen. My mother couldn’t take it.’
‘I understand.’
‘But I don’t care what people say,’ she went on, trying to hold back the sobs. ‘I already lost him once, a long time ago. I don’t want to lose him again now.’
Caldas looked into her blue eyes. They had filled with tears as they had every time he’d seen her.
‘Do you know where he is?’ he asked, resisting the urge to put his arms around her.
‘No,’ she said, wiping her eyes. Her voice sounded like a lament from the sea. ‘I don’t know. I just hope it doesn’t take him another twelve years to come back.’
The Song
Estevez waited at the bottom of the hill with the engine running while Caldas made his way up to the Templo Votivo del Mar to return the photographs of Sousa and the crew of the Xurelo to the priest. When he got back to the car, they set off for Marcos Valverde’s house.
The large wooden gate was closed so Caldas climbed out and rang the bell. He gave his name and the gate slid aside revealing the house’s concrete façade. The inspector walked into the courtyard and waited while Estevez parked beside the red car. The air smelled of freshly mown grass.
‘Do you think he’s got away, too?’ asked Estevez, gesturing towards the space where Valverde’s black sports car had been on Saturday morning.
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Caldas, stepping off the gravel path to go and breathe in the fragrance of the verbena for a moment before continuing round the house to the front door.
In the sitting room two large logs were burning in the square cast-iron fireplace and a clarinet concerto was playing. On the other side of the room the table was set for two.
‘My husband will be home any minute,’ said Valverde’s wife, going over to the sound system and turning the volume right down. She selected another disc from the shelves, inserted it into the CD player and invited them to sit on the sofa.
‘May I ask why you’re here?’ she said, sitting in an armchair as angular as everything else in the room, except herself.
‘We’d like to speak to your husband.’
‘I’m a grown-up, Inspector,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You already know. We’re investigating Justo Castelo’s murder.’
‘What’s Marcos got to do with it?’
‘He and Castelo used to work together—’
‘Over ten years ago, Inspector,’ she interrupted, her voice even. ‘Since I’ve known Marcos he hasn’t set foot in the harbour once. He has no interest in what goes on there. He has nothing to do with any of the fishermen.’
‘We know.’
‘So how is he connected with that man’s death?’
Caldas sidestepped the question. ‘It’s our duty to check everything out.’
‘You’re trying to protect
him, aren’t you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The other day you asked if I thought my husband had seemed worried lately, or if anyone had tried to scare him. That’s it, isn’t it? Is someone trying to hurt Marcos?’
‘Has he seemed more anxious?’ asked Caldas.
‘Please don’t be so Galician, Inspector. Can’t you be more direct? He is my husband. Is there something I should be concerned about?’
‘Have you asked him that question?’
‘You don’t know Marcos,’ she sighed. ‘I think he may be even worse than you.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ muttered Estevez. ‘They’re all the same.’
Valverde’s wife was about to say something when they heard the sound of a car in the courtyard.
‘That’s him,’ she said, rising to her feet. The two policemen stood as well.
‘Have you still got my number?’ asked Caldas.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Please don’t hesitate to call me,’ he said, and she turned down the corners of her mouth in the beginnings of a smile.
She went to the sound system and turned up the music. Caldas didn’t take his eyes off her.
‘This is the song, Inspector,’ she said, gesturing towards one of the speakers.
‘The song?’
‘“Solveig’s Song”,’ she said, as if no explanation were needed. ‘You asked about it the other day.’
Caldas nodded. Valverde’s wife smiled, and he glimpsed Alba’s smile briefly before it disappeared.
The inspector turned to look out of the huge window. While they waited for the former member of the Xurelo’s crew, he watched the waves with their crests of foam, looking like lambs on the water.
Justo Castelo’s sister was right. ‘Solveig’s Song’ did sound like a Galician tune.
A Conjuror
‘What are you doing here? Why have you come back to my home?’ hissed Valverde. A dark tie and the lapels of a grey suit were just visible beneath the property developer’s open overcoat. ‘My wife was worried enough by your visit the other day.’
‘We need to speak to you.’
Valverde glanced around the empty sitting room.
‘I told you everything I remembered on Saturday.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ retorted Caldas. ‘Are you going to tell us what happened in Aguiño?’
‘I told you, I don’t remember.’
‘You’re lying. No one forgets a night like that, no matter how long ago it was.’
‘Maybe I’ve got a poor memory,’ said Valverde quietly.
Estevez came up behind the inspector and whispered in his ear, ‘I know a cure for that.’
Caldas tutted disapprovingly. Estevez was quite capable of shoving Valverde’s head into the fireplace to jog his memory.
He said to Valverde, ‘Would you mind if I tell you a story?’
‘My wife has supper waiting,’ said the developer, gesturing towards the dining table.
‘It won’t take five minutes.’
Valverde hesitated. He glanced at the closed door through which his wife had departed and motioned to the policemen to follow him back out to the garden. He headed away from the house along the gravel path, stopping once they were far enough away not to be overheard from the house.
‘So what’s this story you want to tell me?’ he asked, turning towards the policemen.
Caldas took out his cigarettes and pulled one from the packet. He lit it and drew on it a couple of times before speaking.
‘It’s about a fishing boat. The skipper was a veteran and he had a crew of three younger men, all friends. One wet, windy evening, when they were quite a distance from their home port, they heard a forecast of worsening weather,’ he began, and Valverde averted his gaze towards a corner of the garden. ‘Despite the warning, they continued fishing until they were forced to shelter in a nearby port. It was late. The harbour was deserted. From the boat they saw the lights go out in the only bar that was open in the evening. The skipper knew the owner and thought he could get him to give them something to eat before closing. The owner not only agreed to serve them wine and sandwiches but when he went home he left the gallery at the entrance open so they could sit inside.’
Caldas drew on his cigarette. Valverde was rubbing his hands on his legs. He took the pause as an invitation to confirm the account and was about to speak when the inspector continued:
‘At around eleven, as the four men sat chatting in the gallery, a young woman came in. She’d come to buy cigarettes,’ said Caldas, holding up his own cigarette. ‘No ordinary girl, but a real head-turner. Are you following me?’
Valverde nodded, his mouth half-open like a small boy watching a conjuror. Caldas went on.
‘She couldn’t get cigarettes because the bar was closed, so the fishermen offered her some of theirs. She was friendly as well as pretty. She sat down for a drink but after a while she said she had to get home. The weather was terrible and two of the men offered to walk her back. She didn’t refuse. She was enjoying their company and was happy to prolong the encounter a little while longer. But the men weren’t content to leave her at her front door. They wanted to come inside, the girl said no. She claimed that if things had been different she’d have let them in but that she couldn’t that night because her son would still be up. The fishermen insisted – they didn’t believe she had a son, they thought she was just making excuses. But, still friendly, she stood her ground,’ said the inspector, raising his cigarette to his lips. ‘They were about to give up when the front door opened. In the darkness, the fishermen caught a glimpse of her son. He was a teenager, and they couldn’t believe she had a son that age. He mumbled something about spending the night at a friend’s and rushed off.’
Caldas exchanged a look with Estevez. He swallowed as his mouth was dry from talking and smoking. Valverde shoved his hands into his coat pockets but still couldn’t stop fidgeting.
‘One of the fishermen decided to return to the boat but, now that the son was out of the way, the other one persuaded the woman to let him in. Once inside, he was determined to overcome every obstacle she put in his way. But then something went wrong. He went too far. He had to clean up the house and dispose of the woman’s body. He went back to the boat and tried to convince the other three that they had to set sail before morning. His powers of persuasion worked once more. They put out to sea in the early hours but they didn’t get far. The storm was too severe. They were driven towards shallows and the boat started to take on water. In under a minute, the Xurelo had gone down.’
The developer raised a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes.
‘The three younger men managed to swim ashore in their life jackets, but the skipper drowned trying to save the boat. Weeks later, his decomposing body was found in the nets of a trawler miles away. The woman was never seen again. Maybe she disappeared out at sea like the skipper.’
Caldas paused to draw on his cigarette again, watching Valverde, who was still shielding his eyes with his hand.
‘The three fishermen returned to their village, but their friendship, like the boat, had foundered in the shallows. They broke off all contact and never spoke of what happened that night. They hoped that it would all disappear in the mists of time,’ he continued. ‘But then, years later, when they thought everything had been forgotten, graffiti appeared on the boat of one of the men who had walked the woman home. “Murderers”, it read, together with the date of the sinking and of the woman’s disappearance. The people of the village attributed it to the ghost of the drowned skipper. They had never understood why the crew had put out to sea in a storm, and had always suspected that something murky lay behind the sinking of the Xurelo. The three fishermen, however, feared something else. They were scared, bewildered at having been found. They wondered how they’d been tracked down after all that time.’
Caldas finished his cigarette and bent to stub it out on the ground.
‘One morning, wee
ks later, the body of the fisherman who was threatened washed up on the shore,’ he said, pointing towards the sea.
Valverde took his hand away from his eyes, then touched it to his tie knot before thrusting it into his coat pocket again. ‘Who told you all this?’
‘The man who returned to the boat was Justo Castelo,’ said Caldas, ignoring Valverde’s question. ‘Which of the others went inside the woman’s house?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Valverde.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
Valverde glanced at Estevez and then said, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know who went in.’
‘You were there. You must know,’ said the inspector.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘We just need a name.’
‘I can’t give you a name, Inspector.’
‘Was it you?’ asked Caldas, looking Valverde straight in the eye.
‘No.’
‘Then tell me who was with the woman,’ he pressed. ‘Or was it more than one of you?’
‘No.’
‘Was it Arias?’
‘I don’t remember,’ said Valverde, covering his eyes again.
‘Have you been threatened?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ he said, his voice barely audible.
He was cornered. Caldas tried to offer him a way out. ‘Did you know that José Arias has left the village?’
‘When?’
‘On Saturday,’ replied Caldas. ‘Did you know?’
‘No,’ said Valverde. ‘I haven’t spoken to him for years.’
‘Since that night?’
‘Since the days that followed.’
‘Was it him?’
‘I don’t remember,’ he said yet again, and his reply never changed after that. He continued to claim that he couldn’t remember until the policemen left.
Shuffling, eyes fixed on the dead leaves on the path, Valverde saw them back to their car. He leaned on his black sports car as Estevez manoeuvred out of the courtyard.
Caldas lowered the window and made one last try. ‘You still don’t remember who went inside the house?’
Death on a Galician Shore Page 28
