Caldas tried to keep his voice even as he asked, ‘Were you there the Saturday before last?’
‘I haven’t missed a concert in months, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘They’re therapeutic.’
‘Right.’
Valverde shook hands firmly with them both, while his workman disappeared down the path towards the entrance. There was little sign of the frightened man who had made a statement at the police station the day before.
‘Have you found Arias?’ he asked.
‘That’s what we want to talk to you about.’
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ asked Valverde’s wife.
‘No, thank you,’ mumbled Caldas, though he could have done with one.
‘I’m sure I can change your mind,’ she said, turning down the corners of her mouth. Then she headed inside with Estevez’s eyes pinned to her behind.
Instead of following Mrs Valverde into the house, Caldas set off across the lawn with Valverde. Estevez followed a few paces behind.
‘Have you found him or not?’ asked Valverde.
‘Yes, we have.’
Valverde gave a sigh of relief. ‘Where?’
‘In Scotland,’ said the inspector quietly as he walked. ‘He was going to collect his daughter when they arrested him.’
‘Well … Has he been questioned?’
‘Yes, by the British police. We’ll have to wait until they hand him over to us.’
Caldas stopped beside the tree stripped of its leaves by autumn. He took out his cigarettes and sat down on the bench. Valverde sat down beside him.
The inspector lit a cigarette and contemplated the castle at Baiona and the waves breaking at the foot of the lighthouse at Cabo Silleiro, their foam hiding the horizon.
‘Beautiful view, isn’t it?’ said Valverde proudly.
Caldas agreed.
‘Your wife once said that you have a gift for getting what you want. You’ve made money, married a glamorous woman from Madrid, got the owner of your dream house to sell it to you,’ said Caldas, motioning towards the glass façade behind him. ‘Does your wife know that you once failed to get what you wanted from a young woman called Rebeca Neira? You’ve never told her about that, have you?’
‘What?’
Valverde turned to look at him, but Caldas kept staring straight ahead at the sea.
‘That woman was only the beginning,’ he said. ‘Then came Captain Sousa. He stood up to you, too.’
‘I hope you have proof to back up all your accusations, Inspector.’
‘We’ve got Arias’s statement.’
‘Arias? Please! I saw him hit the skipper and throw the bundle into the water before leaving the boat to founder on the rocks.’
‘That’s not how he remembers it.’
‘Is Arias really trying to pin those deaths on me? He’s the one who ran away after the sinking of the Xurelo and ran away again from that man Neira.’
‘No,’ said Caldas. ‘It’s you that Arias has always been running from.’
‘From me?’ said Valverde with a forced smile. ‘A man like him, run away from me?’
‘He knew what you were like. So did El Rubio. That night on the deck of the Xurelo they both saw how far you were prepared to go when something got in your way. That’s why they’ve kept quiet all these years.’
‘That’s nonsense. Arias would say anything to avoid going to prison. Even a child could tell he’s lying.’
‘I believe him,’ said the inspector. ‘And I also believe that you killed Justo Castelo.’
‘Did Arias say that, too?’
‘No. That’s my own opinion.’
‘Well, you have a lively imagination, Inspector.’
Caldas was still staring straight ahead.
‘El Rubio was going to talk, but you weren’t about to let him ruin your life. You hit him on the head and threw him into the sea with his hands tied.’
‘You’re out of your mind, Caldas,’ said Valverde, getting to his feet. ‘I’m going to call my lawyer.’
‘As you please.’
Valverde looked first at the inspector, then at Estevez, who was listening, leaning against the trunk of the chestnut tree. Estevez tensed visibly as Valverde put his hand in his pocket to take out his mobile phone.
‘How dare you come to my home and accuse me of murder without a shred of evidence?’
‘Who says we don’t have evidence?’ said the inspector softly, aware that Valverde found his quiet tone exasperating. ‘We have the object you struck Castelo with – a spanner of the sort used to tighten nuts on car wheels. It was found among the rocks, at the foot of a cliff,’ he said, waving his hand towards the west. ‘You didn’t even bother to throw it out to sea. After all, who was going to investigate a suicide?’
‘That spanner isn’t mine,’ said Valverde. ‘My car’s out there in the courtyard. Why don’t you go and check before making more slanderous accusations?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be checking everything,’ said Caldas. ‘But first, tell me something: did Justo Castelo come to see you on the Saturday night?’
Valverde made an effort to calm down. He wanted to avoid any false moves. ‘Even if he did, that doesn’t mean—’
‘Did he or didn’t he?’ the inspector cut in.
‘He was here at around eight,’ admitted Valverde. ‘To talk to my wife. She sometimes bought seafood from him directly, you know …’
‘Right,’ said Caldas. ‘But your wife was in Vigo, at a concert.’
Valverde looked him in the eye, then nodded. ‘It’s true. That’s why El Rubio didn’t come into the house. He left, and that was the last time I ever saw him. Later I heard that he’d been seen on his boat early on Sunday morning and that his body was found on the beach the next day.’
‘No,’ said Caldas. ‘It wasn’t him who was seen in the harbour on the Sunday. It was you.’
‘I was at the vineyard first thing in the morning,’ insisted Valverde. ‘There were people working there. They can tell you.’
‘No, I’ll tell you what happened: on the Saturday night, before throwing El Rubio into the sea, you searched his pockets and found the keys to his boat. The next morning, by which time Castelo had been in the water for hours, you drove to the lighthouse at Punta Lameda. You knew the place because the skipper used to set his traps there. You knew it was the perfect spot. You parked by the lighthouse and walked back to the harbour, with your face hidden beneath your hood. Then you sailed El Rubio’s boat to the pool and sank it, to cover your tracks and make sure the boat wasn’t found on one side of the mountain while the body was found on the other side. Then you got back into your car and drove to the vineyard, so that the workers there could provide you with an alibi.’
‘Do you really think anyone’s going to believe such a story?’
‘I think they will,’ replied Caldas. ‘It was all recorded by a security camera on a house near the turn-off leading to Punta Lameda. The footage shows a car heading towards the lighthouse. Soon after it shows the driver walking back to the village,’ he said, simulating the action of walking with two fingers. ‘And an hour later, though he seemingly hasn’t returned to the lighthouse, the driver is once again at the wheel of the car driving away from it. The car is a light-coloured 4x4. An old Land Rover with a bent aerial and scratched paintwork at the back.’
Just as Caldas finished speaking, Valverde’s mobile phone rang.
‘Aren’t you going to get that?’ asked Caldas when it had rung for what felt like an eternity. ‘It’ll be your winery. To say that some of our colleagues have arrived with a search warrant. As I said, we’re checking everything.’
Valverde stared at the phone display in bemusement – he wasn’t used to losing.
Caldas leaned back and lit another cigarette.
‘When did you come up with the idea of faking Castelo’s suicide?’ he asked. ‘Was it at that winemakers’ meeting, when you were given the green cable ties?’
Valverde di
d not reply. The inspector continued, ‘How did you find out that the carpenter was Rebeca Neira’s son?’
Silence.
‘How many carpenters have you got on your payroll?’ asked Caldas, knowing he’d get no answer. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t realise that you didn’t need to call in a carpenter who repaired boats to fix your gate.’
Still Valverde said nothing.
Caldas went on, ‘Your wife got scared when she saw the damaged gate. You should have got her away from the house on some pretext, before prying apart the gate panels and calling the carpenter. Pretty funny, don’t you think? We came here to protect you, but we saved Neira from ending up like his mother.’
Caldas’s phone rang and he answered.
‘We’ve got it, Inspector,’ said Ferro at the other end of the line. ‘You were right. The car was here. It’s the one on the video recording. The spanner’s missing. And you’ll never guess what was in the glove compartment.’
‘A bag of green cable ties?’
‘How did you know?’
While Estevez handcuffed Valverde, Caldas took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out on the ground.
‘Is this really necessary?’ asked Valverde, raising his handcuffed wrists.
‘Absolutely,’ said Caldas.
As they walked back across the lawn, the inspector turned towards the prisoner.
‘Why did you do it?’ he asked quietly.
Valverde shook his head and looked down at the ground.
‘Why did you have to kill that boy’s mother?’ the inspector pressed him.
‘It was an accident,’ mumbled Valverde.
‘What about the others?’ asked Caldas. He wondered if it was possible to kill in cold blood in order to cover up an accidental death. ‘Were they accidents, too?’
‘No,’ whispered Valverde. ‘The others weren’t. I told you before: anyone can feel afraid.’
As they passed the huge windows, they saw glasses set out on the table and a bottle cooling in the ice bucket. Valverde’s wife came out to meet them, but her smile disappeared when she saw the handcuffs on her husband’s wrists.
On the sound system, ‘Solveig’s Song’ was playing.
It sounded like a Galician song.
Murmurs
On Wednesday, just after eight in the morning, Estevez parked opposite the stone slipway. Justo Castelo’s traps were no longer on the jetty.
They got out of the car and went across the road to the fish market. After greeting the two retired fishermen at the entrance they peered inside. Hermida and his wife were standing with their backs to them, listening to the auctioneer call out prices on the other side of the table and, in his orange waterproofs, the huge fisherman was leaning against the wall at the back of the hall. He raised his eyebrows when he caught sight of the policemen and came towards them. He was carrying a plastic bag full of crabs.
The man with the grey sideburns halted the bidding and Arias stopped and waited while the buyer selected two trays of crabs. The man then handed the labels with the weights of each tray to the auctioneer, for his name to be noted on them.
When the auctioneer gestured towards the remaining crabs and prepared to restart the auction, Arias joined the policemen.
‘I was going to drop by the police station this morning.’
‘Well, we’ve saved you the trip.’
‘Care to come along?’ said the fisherman, holding up the plastic bag.
‘Yes, of course.’
From the slipway, among the trailers and rowing boats, they could still hear the sound of the auction, now reduced to a murmur.
‘El Rubio came to see me on the Saturday,’ said Arias, crouching at the water’s edge. ‘He said he hadn’t slept for weeks. It wasn’t just the graffiti on his boat. He was finding notes in his traps almost every day. He knew it wouldn’t stop until he revealed the name, so he went to Valverde’s office.’
‘Did he tell you this?’
Arias nodded. ‘Valverde offered him money, but El Rubio said all he wanted was his peace of mind back. So Valverde kicked him out. He said he couldn’t waste any more time, he had to get on with his work, and told him to come to his house on Saturday night.’
‘Why did Castelo come to see you?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Arias. ‘To tell me he’d decided to talk, or to get things off his chest maybe. He was scared. Scared of confessing and scared of keeping quiet. We’d hardly spoken since the Xurelo, but he knew I’d understand. He’d helped Valverde clean up the house in Aguiño and take the girl’s body back to the Xurelo, but he wasn’t a murderer.’
‘You knew he hadn’t committed suicide, didn’t you?’
‘I suspected it, yes.’
The fisherman waited until the plastic bag was empty and stood up.
‘Why did you take off?’ asked Caldas.
Arias shrugged.
‘With El Rubio dead I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself. Valverde had threatened to pin the girl’s murder on me if I talked. I’d had drink problems, I’d been in trouble with the police – who’d have believed me?’
‘You’ll have to give a statement now.’
‘I know.’
When they got back to the fish market, the auction was over. Arias headed to the office at the side of the hall to collect his receipts before the auctioneer left.
‘Do you know when the trial will be?’ he asked as they made their way out of the market building.
‘It’s out of our hands now,’ said Caldas. ‘I expect you’ll be receiving a letter with a summons.’
Arias grimaced.
‘You weren’t thinking of staying?’
‘I will for now,’ said the fisherman. ‘After that, we’ll see.’
*
The policemen walked to the end of the jetty. There were no anglers. Caldas lit a cigarette and leaned on the wall, looking at the sea. Rebeca Neira’s body lay out there somewhere. He recalled the ending of Captains Courageous, the boy with his father, throwing flowers into the sea in memory of Manuel the Portuguese fisherman. Caldas pictured Diego Neira in some other harbour, alone, and clicked his tongue at the thought.
They headed back to the car and, as they passed the yacht club, they looked over the fence. The sliding door to the workshop was shut. Neira had left the village, not wanting to be the subject of gossip.
‘He came to get his cat and say goodbye,’ said a voice behind them. ‘I’m sorry he left. He was a real craftsman.’
‘I know,’ said Caldas, smiling at Manuel Trabazo. ‘Going out fishing this early?’
‘I think it might rain later on,’ replied the doctor.
‘Yes, it might well,’ said Caldas, glancing up.
Estevez looked up, too, but all he could see were a couple of sea-gulls wheeling about in a clear blue sky.
‘How can you tell it’s going to rain?’ he asked.
Trabazo looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’
‘No, I’m from Aragon. From Zaragoza.’
Free
After lunch on Friday, his father came to collect him outside the police station.
‘How’s Uncle Alberto?’ asked Caldas as he got into the car.
‘Not too bad. Free of the mask. He’s only got a nasal tube now, so he can speak and eat without that horrible noise.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes. In a few days, he might not even need the oxygen.’
‘Will he go back to his place?’ asked the inspector, opening the window a couple of centimetres.
‘Not unless he wants to.’
They arrived at the estate and parked beside the camellia bush.
When his father opened the door, the brown dog, which had run up to the car, began jumping around him, licking his hands, whining and lashing its tail.
‘How long have you been away?’ asked Caldas.
‘Only since this morning,’ replied his fath
er, trying to push the dog away.
‘Well, that’s quite a welcome,’ muttered the inspector. ‘Does it know it doesn’t belong to you?’
‘How the hell should I know what a dog’s thinking, Leo?’
‘I don’t think it does know,’ Caldas said and smiled, heading towards the terrace that overlooked the vineyard.
Leaning on the wall, he contemplated the ranks of leafless vines, each tied to a post. It was a cold day, and so clear that you could count the trees on the hill across the river. It smelled like the days of his childhood.
His father came to stand beside him.
‘The estate’s looking lovely, isn’t it?’ he said, patting the brown dog’s side in an attempt to stop it rubbing against his legs.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen the new area I’ve planted, down by the river?’
‘No,’ Caldas lied once again.
‘Well, let’s go in and say hello to Alberto, and then we can walk down and take a look. You’re going to love it.’
As they got to the house, his father said, ‘By the way, we spoke to Alba yesterday.’
‘Did she call you?’
‘Yes,’ said his father. ‘To see how Alberto was.’
‘Right.’
‘You haven’t called her, have you?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Don’t you think you should?’
Death on a Galician Shore Page 35
