Death on a Galician Shore (23 page)

But Losada wasn’t about to let a call like this one get away.

‘Isn’t there some bylaw restricting noise levels?’ he asked.

Caldas had no idea. ‘Not for that kind of noise. Your neighbours are in their own home, aren’t they, Ricardo?’

‘In hers, yes,’ said Ricardo.

‘Then there’s very little you can do.’

‘But they’re doing it on purpose,’ said Ricardo.

‘That may make a difference,’ said Losada, raising a hand for the technician to play the jaunty tune.

Caldas gestured energetically for him to turn it off but Losada kept his hand up for a moment longer.

‘Does it make any difference, Inspector?’ Losada asked.

What did the fool expect him to say? Did he think he could send a couple of officers round to the couple’s bedroom to measure the decibel level?

‘I was a newly-wed myself once, Inspector Caldas,’ said Ricardo, reluctant to give up. ‘And I’m telling you, that girl screams just to annoy me. It can’t be anything else.’

‘Right.’

To put an end to the call, Caldas asked the man to give his details off air and promised to take the matter up with the City Police.

In his black notebook he wrote:
City Police one, Leo nil
.

The next three calls were all about traffic. The fifth caller complained about the poor street lighting near his home, the sixth was a football fan angry about Celta’s recent results. Then a man who’d lost his dog called in.

City Police eleven, Celta one, Leo nil
, read the entry in his notebook by the end of the show. Caldas hadn’t been able to help a single caller but, since every time he fell silent Losada raised his hand and the damn tune played, he’d spoken more than usual.

‘What’s that music called that you play before I answer?’ he asked, removing his headphones.

‘It’s called “Promenade” or “Walking the Dog”.’

‘Both?’

‘Yes. It’s by Gershwin,’ said Losada.

‘Don’t you remember, I asked you not to play it any more?’

‘I think it works really well.’

Caldas took his phone from the desk and stood up. ‘I don’t.’

‘Well, everyone says they love it.’

‘Who’s everyone?’

‘I don’t know, Leo,’ said the presenter, gesturing towards the window overlooking the Alameda. ‘Everyone. Don’t you get out?’

Caldas didn’t reply. He shut his notebook and headed for the studio door.

‘Anyway, the tune fits in perfectly with what we’re after, Leo.’

The inspector turned round. ‘What we’re after? Would you mind telling me exactly what the hell we’re after? Anyway, I don’t care. Please don’t play it any more. Not while I’m on air.’

‘May I remind you that this is my show.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

Caldas left the studio, waving goodbye to Rebeca. Downstairs, the doorman came to meet him.

‘There was a man here to see you, Inspector.’

‘Damn! The breathalyser man. Where is he?’

‘He left.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I don’t know. When I told him he couldn’t go upstairs, he left.’

‘You didn’t allow him upstairs?’

‘Of course not,’ said the doorman. ‘He was drunk.’

The sun was setting behind the buildings of the old town, colouring the sky orange, like the Lodeiro that hung on the wall of the Eligio. Caldas set off back to the police station, switching on his mobile phone. The display lit up to show he’d missed a call.

He read the name twice: Alba. Alba? Why would she be calling after all this time? He stood in the middle of the pavement staring at the phone in his hand. He didn’t dare dial. He told himself she’d call back if it was something important, and walked on, cursing Losada and his stupid show. Why did he have to have his phone switched off when Alba called?

A few steps further on, he stopped and dialled.

‘Hello?’

‘Have you put Santiago Losada in your Book of Idiots?’ said Caldas.

‘The presenter?’ asked his father, adding before Caldas had a chance to answer: ‘Of course I have.’

With a sigh of relief, Caldas put his phone in his trouser pocket and set off again for the police station, thinking of Alba.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in his office, with the glass door closed and his phone in front of him on the desk. He spoke to his father again and promised he’d go to the hospital the following day. He also opened the blue folder containing all the information on the Castelo case several times, but couldn’t concentrate on what he was reading. It occurred to him that they could get a court order to have Sousa exhumed. It was the only way of checking that it really had been Sousa’s body tangled in the nets of the trawler.

A late visit from Superintendent Soto made him change his mind.

‘Any suspects?’ he asked after Caldas had filled him in on some of the details of the case.

‘No.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Well …’

‘Well what?’

‘There’s someone called Antonio Sousa who might have something to do with it,’ he said, and instantly regretted it.

‘Where is he?’ asked Soto.

Silence.

The door opened and Estevez came in.

‘Do you know where this Sousa is?’ the superintendent asked him.

‘In a wooden box for the past twelve years.’

‘And he’s the suspect?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Estevez with a smile.

Soto turned towards the inspector.

‘What the hell are you up to, Leo?’ he said as he made his way out. ‘Even Estevez can see it’s nonsense.’

Once they were alone, the inspector asked, ‘Did you drop by just to make me look stupid?’

‘I’m sorry, boss.’

‘Never mind,’ muttered Caldas, turning back to the contents of the folder. ‘What’s up?’

‘While you were on the radio I called Clara Barcia. A couple of hours ago a scuba diver found a sunken boat. It might be Castelo’s. They’re going to try and raise it this afternoon.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I’m not sure. Do you want us to drive over there?’

Caldas dialled Barcia’s number. She didn’t reply, so he left a message. When he hung up, Estevez was whistling the Gershwin tune.

‘What are you whistling?’

‘Sorry, it’s really catchy.’

‘You listened to the show?’ asked Caldas, aghast.

‘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.

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.

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.’

‘Definitely 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.’