Death on a Galician Shore (36 page)

‘I see.’

The inspector described the graffiti that the fisherman had removed from his boat. He explained that the date daubed on the hull
was the date of the sinking of the
Xurelo
, and he told Soto about Arias and Valverde, the crewmates Castelo had fallen out with, and Captain Sousa, the skipper drowned when the boat foundered, whose ghost several village fishermen claimed to have seen in the mist on board his fishing boat.

‘Wasn’t he your suspect?’ asked the superintendent with a smile.

‘He was,’ said Caldas, and described the
macana
, the club the skipper wore on his belt, whose shape corresponded to the mark on the dead man’s head.

‘He was struck with the skipper’s club?’

‘No,’ said Caldas. ‘We found a spanner in among the rocks at Monteferro. The kind used on wheel nuts. It’s with the pathologist. He thinks it may have been that.’

Then he told the superintendent about Rebeca Neira again, about the article in the newspaper that had aroused his suspicions, and the missing persons report filed by Diego, the woman’s teenage son. He showed him the place in the report where the boy stated that he’d seen two men with his mother, one of them with very fair hair.

‘And you say you went there?’ asked Superintendent Soto.

‘This morning,’ said Caldas. ‘As I said, the woman never turned up. Her closest friend is convinced that she was murdered that night. When the son got home the next morning he found the house spick and span, and, though he noticed that things had been slightly rearranged, he didn’t pay much attention. The following day, when his mother’s friend was at the house, he was alarmed when he found grounds in a coffee pot, which had only been cleaned on the outside. His mother was very fussy and would never have left it like that. Then he realised that everything that had been on the table and worktop had disappeared.’

Superintendent Soto looked through the report.

‘None of that information is in here,’ he said. So Caldas told him about Deputy Inspector Somoza, of his humiliation of Diego Neira in the days following his mother’s disappearance, of the boy’s dejected departure from the village and his phone calls to the pharmacist assuring her that he hadn’t forgotten the fair-haired fisherman.

‘There was no investigation?’

‘No, none,’ replied Caldas. ‘Searches were conducted in the area,
but then it was all forgotten. The son left the village and everyone assumed he’d gone to join his mother.’

Now Caldas told him about the Bar Aduana:

‘The missing woman often bought cigarettes there,’ he said. ‘The bar closed years ago but the owner still remembers that night.’

Soto listened carefully as the inspector recounted how the owner had left the gallery open so that the fishermen could eat out of the rain.

‘He didn’t see the crew,’ said Caldas. ‘But he recognised the captain. The man still can’t understand what possessed them to set sail in such a terrible storm.’

‘They didn’t want anyone to place them in Aguiño in the morning,’ said the superintendent.

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you think they were all in on what happened to the woman?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And that policeman? What was his name?’

‘Somoza,’ said Caldas. ‘He had a score to settle with Rebeca Neira and didn’t do a thing to try to find her or shed light on her disappearance. He didn’t even go and interview the bar owner.’

‘What about the neighbours?’

‘They assumed she’d gone off with someone of her own free will.’

Raising his eyebrows, Soto handed back the report. ‘Have you tracked down the son?’

‘Not yet. All we know is that until six or seven years ago he was living in Neda, near Ferrol. That’s it.’

‘Have you contacted the police station there?’

‘Yes, I had a word with Inspector Quintans,’ said Caldas. ‘He agreed to get back to me this afternoon or tomorrow.’

Soto nodded. ‘You talked about two people in the boat. Do you know who his accomplice was?’

‘Not yet. But we’ve got footage from a security camera on a house near the turning that leads to the lighthouse,’ continued Caldas. ‘Barcia should be going through it right now.’

After a silence, the superintendent asked, ‘How the hell did he find them?’

‘The news,’ said Caldas. ‘Justo Castelo caught a rare tropical fish. It was all over the news. He was even interviewed on TV.’

‘When was that?’

‘Last year. He had all the time he needed to check out the area and make his move. Diego Neira must be about twenty-eight or -nine by now. Do you know how many men that age there are on the beach in summer? He could have watched El Rubio for weeks without arousing any suspicion, waiting to be led to his mother’s killer.’

‘Do you think he’ll go after the others?’

‘I don’t know. Anyway, only one of the two fishermen is still in the village.’

‘Who?’

‘Valverde.’

‘Have you questioned him?’

‘Yes, but he’s scared. He won’t say a thing.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘Arias? He’s vanished. I’m afraid it was my fault,’ said Caldas. ‘On Saturday morning we went to Panxón and asked him if they’d put in to port in Aguiño the night of the wreck. He was evasive and claimed not to be able to remember exactly what happened, but a few hours later he disappeared.’

‘Is he the one who lived in Scotland?’

‘That’s him,’ said Caldas. ‘He claimed that he and Castelo hadn’t spoken since they stopped working together on the boat, but a neighbour saw Castelo go into his house on Saturday afternoon, the day before he was murdered, and he seemed pretty jumpy.’

‘Maybe he was afraid of something.’

‘Maybe,’ said Caldas with a shrug. ‘We only know about that one lot of graffiti, but there must have been more. I think the boy spent months tormenting them before he acted.’

‘Well, all his games have got him into quite a bit of trouble.’

‘Yes.’

Rubbing his eyes, the superintendent asked, ‘Do you think that man, Arias, has gone back to Scotland?’

‘It’s possible. He lived there, he knows the place.’

‘Have you checked flights?’

‘Not yet,’ said Caldas.

‘Do you think he killed the woman?’

‘I think this is the second time he’s disappeared.’

Soto nodded. ‘The son will go after him.’

‘I expect so,’ said the inspector, adding quietly: ‘I would.’

‘Just in case, keep an eye on the developer.’

Caldas said he would.

He was getting to his feet when Soto asked, ‘Why did he kill him like that?’

‘Like what?’

The superintendent put his wrists together. ‘Throwing him into the sea with his hands tied, as if it were suicide.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Caldas, standing. ‘Will you have a word with the judge about the woman’s disappearance?’

‘I will,’ said Soto, ‘but first find the son.’

Caldas looked at his watch and cursed under his breath. He went to his office to get his raincoat and headed out with the black notebook under his arm. At the entrance to the building he bumped into Estevez.

‘Where are you off to?’

‘The radio station,’ replied Caldas, showing him the notebook. ‘It’s Monday.’

‘Have you had lunch?’

‘No.’

He turned into the Calle Castelar, lighting a cigarette to take the edge off his hunger, and crossed the Alameda, dodging the children running about under the watchful eyes of their mothers. By the statue of Mendez Nuñez, a couple of white-haired tourists were peering at a map of the city. Caldas assumed they’d come from the liner he and Estevez had seen sailing into the estuary that morning.

By the stone fountain, a puppy was chasing pigeons, which flew up into the air repeatedly to get out of its way. The puppy’s owner was holding a plastic bag scrunched up in his hand and Caldas smiled at the thought of his father crouching to scoop the large brown dog’s excrement into a similar little bag.

He took two quick drags on his cigarette before stubbing it out and going inside the modernist building. After greeting the doorman, he took the stairs to the first floor, made his way down the radio station
corridor and looked in at the control-room door to say hello to the technician and Rebeca.

Through the glass he saw the fool Losada sitting at the microphone.

He pushed open the heavy studio door and slipped inside. The theme tune was already playing.

‘You’re late,’ muttered Losada.

The inspector did not reply. He sat down by the window, switched off his mobile phone and set it on the desk beside the black notebook. Looking at Rebeca, Losada’s producer, in the control room, he wondered what the other Rebeca had been like, the one who had been missing since that night in 1996. Then he looked out at the people walking along the Alameda.

The presenter signalled to the technician and opened the programme intoning the usual string of nonsense with false gravitas: ‘… scourge of hooligans, implacable defender of upright citizens, fearsome guardian of our streets, Inspector Leo Caldas. Good afternoon, Inspector.’

‘Hello.’

He didn’t put on his headphones until Rebeca held up a sign with the name of the first caller.

‘Welcome to
Patrolling the Waves
, Laura,’ said Losada, as if receiving her at court.

The woman explained that she’d been penalised for driving without wearing a seat belt.

‘I’ve been fined for not being tied into my seat,’ she complained, ‘but in buses people are standing up, packed in, some even carrying small children. It’s just a money-making scheme – fines, tickets …’

Many listeners rang in to report crimes. Others, like this woman, simply wanted to get something off their chest. All Caldas could do was offer them a sympathetic ear.

‘Right,’ he murmured.

Instead of ending the call and moving on, the presenter leaned in to the microphone and said in his pompous voice, ‘Laura, let’s hear the patrolman’s response.’

The inspector spread his arms in exasperation, looking at Losada in disbelief. Response? What was the idiot on about? Did he think Caldas could change the traffic laws?

But Losada just carried on, raising a hand to signal for the Gershwin tune.

Caldas told him to switch off the microphones, and when the red light went out he demanded an explanation.

‘Just say anything,’ replied Losada.

‘And I thought I asked you not to play that music any more. I find it too distracting.’

‘I’m not going to get rid of it just because of that,’ said Losada superciliously.

‘What do you mean, “just because of that”?’

The red light came on again as Losada took his finger off the button.

‘Well, Inspector?’ he said, lowering his hand so that ‘Promenade’ faded out. ‘What do you have to say to our caller?’

Caldas resorted to the first bromide that came to mind. ‘The law isn’t perfect but it’s what we’ve got. I’ll have a word with the City Police anyway and pass on your comment.’ Then he wrote in his notebook:
City Police one, Leo nil
.

The next caller was the chairman of a residents’ association in the district of Teis. Seagulls were nesting on the roof of their building and they attacked anyone who tried to remove them.

City Police two, Leo nil
.

Then came a couple of complaints about noise at night, three about traffic, and one man called in angry about the paint on zebra crossings becoming slippery in the rain.

‘How many days a year does it rain here in Vigo?’ he asked. ‘A hundred and twenty? Wouldn’t it make sense to use non-slip paint?’

As before, the damned tune started playing before Caldas had a chance to respond.

He couldn’t be bothered to complain to Losada again. He gave in. With the sound of the clarinet and piano in his headphones, he turned to the window. A girl was crossing the Alameda, feet splayed and pregnant belly showing beneath her clothes. Caldas calculated that Rebeca Neira must have been even younger when she became pregnant. Still a child herself, she’d had to be both mother and father to the newborn. Too difficult. Caldas sighed, imagining how scared
Diego must have felt, how upset when he saw Somoza do nothing and the law appear to mock him. He couldn’t blame him for taking action.

‘Well?’ said Losada in his affected voice, staring straight at Caldas.

‘Huh?’

‘Zebra crossings … slippery paint …’

‘Oh, right,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ll pass on the complaint to the City Police.’

City Police nine, Leo nil
.

During the ad break that followed the call, Losada berated Caldas. ‘Could you please pay a bit more attention?’

‘I’ve told you, that tune puts me off,’ Caldas mumbled. But he wasn’t thinking about the music any more. Or the gardens outside the window. The only thing on his mind was Diego Neira, Rebeca Neira’s disappearance and Justo Castelo’s death.

He thought of Superintendent Soto’s words: ‘Why did he tie his hands?’ he’d asked. The inspector had not been able to come up with an answer.

The eleventh caller was a woman on the verge of tears. She’d lost her dog during their morning walk and was offering a generous reward to anyone who found it. Then a man called in about the unpleasant smells coming from a restaurant that had just opened next door.

‘Good afternoon, Eva,’ Losada said to the next caller with feigned warmth.

‘I’m calling because my son and his friends are being bullied by a group of boys in the park.’

‘How old is your son?’ asked Caldas.

‘Eleven.’

‘And the other boys?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Eva. ‘My son and his friends won’t say who they are.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘I know it’s only kids’ stuff – I mean, they’ve just had a bit of a scare and a few coins stolen – but they won’t go to the park any more and I’m worried it’s going to get worse. Do you think we should get
our son to report them to the police, Inspector?’ the woman asked and, on Losada’s signal, the music started.

While he waited for the Gershwin to end, Caldas’s thoughts returned to Panxón and El Rubio’s final hours. He thought of the superintendent’s question, and reflected that the fisherman must have been as scared as the caller’s son. What if Diego Neira had tied his hands to force him to reveal who’d gone inside the house with his mother? The day of the autopsy, Guzman Barrio had said that the blow to the head might have happened by chance. It seemed unlikely but the pathologist never ruled anything out. What if he was right? What if El Rubio had banged his head on some part of the boat while trying to get away? Maybe the spanner hadn’t played a part at all.