Death on a Galician Shore (22 page)

‘Do you know where he was going?’

The woman said she didn’t and asked, ‘Are you really from the police?’

Caldas showed her his badge.

‘I’m Inspector Caldas.’

‘The one on the radio?’ she said. ‘Dr Trabazo’s friend?’

Caldas was amazed at how fast news travelled.

‘We’re all very fond of the doctor,’ she said. ‘No one can understand why they made him retire. You should see his replacement.’

‘You’re not happy with him?’

‘He’s nice enough,’ she said. ‘But God help anyone who falls into his hands.’

‘Right,’ smiled Caldas. ‘I believe Arias hasn’t been back in the village long?’

The woman’s expression changed. ‘I’m not one to talk.’

‘I’m sure you’re not,’ said Caldas, knowing that the time had come to listen.

The woman told them that her neighbour had come back from Scotland, where he’d lived for a time after the sinking of the boat. It was rumoured that he’d left a wife and children behind there, but nobody knew for sure. Arias was a quiet man, which was fine by her. He didn’t disturb her even though he came in from work so early, and he didn’t drink any more. The Scottish woman must have domesticated him. On his days off he went to a bar in the harbour for a game of dominoes or stayed at home and watched TV.

‘Did he ever have guests?’ asked Caldas.

‘More lately,’ said the woman enigmatically, before falling silent.

‘More?’

‘I’m not saying anything,’ she said self-importantly. ‘But sometimes he had people back.’

‘Who?’

‘You know …’

‘El Rubio?’ asked Caldas.

‘I’m sorry?’ Startled, the woman glanced at Arias’s front door and then at the other end of the narrow street. It seemed that this wasn’t a question she’d been expecting.

‘Did Justo Castelo come round here?’ asked Caldas.

José Arias’s neighbour knew she’d said too much. She’d walked into a trap of her own making and now tried to extricate herself. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘When was he here?’ asked Caldas, blocking her retreat.

The woman glanced again at the end of the street and then at Estevez. He was standing back but she obviously still found his presence intimidating.

‘No one will know you’ve spoken to us,’ said Caldas.

‘I don’t like to meddle …’ she said apologetically.

‘I know. Please don’t worry,’ said the inspector gently before continuing to press her: ‘You saw Justo Castelo?’

‘Once,’ she said eventually.

‘When was that?’

‘Friday or Saturday, I’m not too sure.’

‘Last week?’

‘Yes.’

‘He came to Arias’s house?’

The woman nodded. ‘They talked for a while, not long. Then El Rubio left.’

‘Could you hear what they were talking about?’

‘When El Rubio arrived he was saying, over and over, “I can’t take it any more”.’

‘What about Arias? What did he say?’

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.

‘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.

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 staying 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.