Death on a Galician Shore (13 page)

Caldas took out his pack of cigarettes and lit one. They were leaning on the handrail at the Playa de la Madorra, watching the waves break on the dark strip of seaweed along the shoreline.

‘Where did you say they found him?’

‘Over there, in the seaweed,’ replied Estevez, pointing.

Caldas looked at the spot his assistant had indicated and then to either side of it. To the left, a small spit of land sheltered the bay. On this, beyond the reed bed that they could see from where they were standing, were the fish market, the yacht club and a few houses. Panxón’s huge expanse of sand extended beyond but was hidden from sight. To the right, at the end of the beach, rose Monteferro. That morning, the silhouette of the mountain was as grey as the sky and sea, and the monument at its summit was almost obscured by mist. Off the tip of the promontory, the two dark humps of the Estelas Islands emerged from the sea.

‘There was foam coming out of his mouth,’ added Estevez.

‘Yes, you said,’ replied Caldas, reflecting that Castelo’s body could have been dragged there from anywhere, like the seaweed whose smell was almost stopping him enjoying his cigarette.

He descended the steps to the beach and headed towards the water. The rain had formed a dark layer on the sand, a crust that cracked with every step. Caldas stopped a few metres from the water’s edge and stood contemplating the waves, with the cold sea wind making the tip of his cigarette glow more brightly. He pictured the
fisherman’s dead body caught in the tangle of seaweed, buffeted by the same waves now breaking before him.

They’d spoken to several locals after their conversation with the carpenter, all of whom described Castelo as a calm, quiet man, too reserved to have enemies among the people of the village. No one had ever seen him with any women other than his sister and mother, or knew of any friends apart from Arias and Valverde, the fishermen he’d broken off contact with after the shipwreck of the
Xurelo
. Although he sometimes spent evenings at the Refugio del Pescador like the other fishermen, El Rubio neither played cards nor drank too much. There seemed to be nothing in his life apart from fishing, the contraptions in his shed and his visits to his mother.

Caldas had been surprised not to hear the kind of excessive praise usually heaped upon the recently deceased, but there hadn’t been any criticism either. He got the impression that they were neither sorry nor glad that Castelo was dead. The inhabitants of Panxón maintained the same cautious distance from the dead fisherman that he had kept from them in life.

However, like the damp crust cracking beneath his feet to reveal the white sand beneath, the civility that had surrounded Justo Castelo’s life had been fractured by superstition upon his death.

No one in Panxón doubted that El Rubio had taken his own life and, though they didn’t say so openly, they all sought culprits in the past, in the fear of the ghost of a skipper drowned years before, whose mere mention made seafarers touch metal and spit on the ground.

The word and date painted on the dead man’s rowing boat also pointed to the sinking of the
Xurelo
. The carpenter had remembered the word and date daubed on the wood even though he’d only glimpsed them fleetingly. Caldas was waiting for confirmation from Forensics, hoping that some trace on the paintwork, the shape of the letters and figures, or some other clue might lead to the culprit.

He drew on his cigarette one last time before bending down to bury it in the sand. He remained crouching, admiring the waves. He could watch the sea, hypnotised, for hours, just like a fire. He loved watching the waves rise as they approached the shore and then
collapse violently and continue towards the beach as a line of foam. He found it unspeakably cruel that someone had thrown the fair-haired fisherman into that same relentless sea, after striking him on the head and tying his hands.

Apart from Hermida’s wife, no one had seen Castelo set out on Sunday morning. Most people were sleeping late on their day off, and the few awake at that early hour had been deterred by the wind and rain from leaving their houses before mid-morning. Hermida’s wife had watched the fisherman from her window, as he rowed out to his boat. Then she’d seen him put out to sea, alone and with the boat’s light on, at around six thirty.

The yacht club caretaker hadn’t seen Castelo depart as he was only on night duty during the tourist season. His shift hadn’t started till seven in the morning and no boat had left the port on that sad, grey October morning after that hour.

Estevez had telephoned the port of Baiona, across the bay, and there had been no activity there either. The weather had been too bad for leisure craft to set sail, and fishing boats were banned not only from catching fish but even from putting out to sea on a Sunday.

Caldas looked up from the crest of a wave to the horizon. It was just a blur between sea and sky. He couldn’t believe that, on the morning of the murder, Castelo’s boat – with no one but himself on board – had been the only vessel out in that area of ocean. The fisherman’s body had been dragged by the tide on to that beach, but where was the boat? Forensics officers were searching every inch of the coast. It had to turn up sooner or later.

Caldas made his way back to the road across the crusted sand. His assistant was still leaning on the metal handrail.

‘Find something, Inspector?’

Caldas looked at him grumpily. What did Estevez have in mind? Buried treasure?

‘You were crouching there for some time,’ Estevez said defensively.

‘No,’ said Caldas, ‘I didn’t find anything. Did you find out where that other fisherman lives? Valverde?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think you can get us there?’

‘Of course, it’s right nearby.’

‘Come on then.’

‘Have you seen the state of your shoes?’ said Estevez before getting into the car.

‘Yes,’ Caldas replied without bothering to look.

Estevez left the Playa de la Madorra behind, took the turning to Monteferro and then, a little further on, turned on to a narrow lane that descended steeply between tightly packed houses. The lane came to a dead end before a large gate.

‘This must be it,’ said Estevez.

They got out of the car, walked up to the dark wooden gate and rang the bell several times. There was no response. At the side, on the pillar to which the gate was hinged, there was a letterbox, but the space left for the owner’s name was empty. Caldas couldn’t see any letters inside.

Estevez, who had been peering through a gap between panels in the gate, grasped the top as if about to vault over.

‘I don’t think there’s anyone here,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to go in?’

Caldas looked at him aghast. ‘We’re not here to burgle the place,’ he said. He sighed, convinced he’d never understand how Estevez’s mind worked, and returned to the car.

There was no room to turn the car around so Estevez had to reverse up the hill but, after a couple of minutes, despite the racket from the engine, they’d only managed to back up a few dozen metres.

‘Sure we’ll be able to get out?’ asked the inspector.

Estevez jerked his chin towards the rear-view mirror.

‘We will if that car moves.’

Caldas turned around in his seat. There was indeed a red car behind theirs. The inspector lowered the window and stuck his head out.

‘There’s no exit,’ he shouted.

He thought he saw the driver of the red car gesturing for them to drive forward, so he told Estevez to return down the lane to the house.

As they neared the gate, it opened automatically. Estevez drove through and pulled up in the courtyard beyond.

‘Is that a house?’

‘What do you think?’ replied Caldas, staring at the façade that gave on to the courtyard. It was a smooth, blank concrete wall.

‘I don’t know. It looks like a nuclear bunker,’ said Estevez.

The red car drew up alongside them and a young woman in a yellow raincoat got out of the driver’s seat. She came up to the inspector’s lowered window. She had an angular face and dark, very short hair.

‘You can turn around here,’ she said. ‘The council ought to put up a
No Exit
sign at the top so that people don’t drive down here by mistake.’

‘We’re not here by mistake,’ said Caldas through the open window. ‘We’re looking for Marcos Valverde’s house. Is this it?’

‘Yes. Marcos is my husband,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Inspector Caldas, from Vigo Police Headquarters.’

‘From
Patrolling the Waves
?’ asked the woman.

Caldas nodded.

‘Has something happened to my husband?’

‘No, no, everything’s fine,’ Caldas reassured her. ‘We just need to talk to him about something.’

‘Marcos isn’t here at the moment,’ she said hesitantly.

‘In that case maybe you can help. We’ll only take a few minutes of your time.’

They carried the woman’s shopping bags, following her along the gravel path.

Caldas looked around. There was a small rock garden dotted with herbs and a lawn with a row of leafless fruit trees. Up ahead, he spotted lemon verbena growing at the foot of the concrete wall.

As they turned the corner, the bunker was transformed, revealing a façade made entirely of glass overlooking a sloping garden and, beyond, the sea. Caldas reflected that life hadn’t treated the fisherman
too badly if this was his house. It looked like the seaside residence of an avant-garde architect rather than the home of a man who, only a few years earlier, had been a friend and crewmate of José Arias and Justo Castelo.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asked as they entered.

The policemen declined. While she went to put the shopping away in the kitchen, they waited in a living room that looked like a homage to straight lines and sharp edges. The wrought-iron fireplace at one end of the room was square, as were the chairs and prints on the wall. The bookcase, sofa, table and state-of-the-art sound system were all rectangular.

Estevez went to the huge window to admire a view that encompassed the entire bay, from Panxón to Baiona. Caldas went out to the garden for a moment to shake the sand from his shoes. On his return, he approached the bookcase, which was made of the same concrete as the façade giving on to the courtyard. He was looking over the classical music records when the woman returned to the living room. She had removed the yellow raincoat. She wore a white shirt with the top buttons undone, and tight trousers that showed off a shapely figure that was if anything too curvaceous for that house.

‘Do you like music, Inspector?’

‘Not as much as you or your husband, I suspect.’

‘Me,’ she said. ‘But I sometimes listen to your show as well. I didn’t know you were real.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ said Caldas, and she smiled just as Alba used to, turning down the corners of her mouth.

Caldas ran his eyes over the hundreds of records ranged on the shelves, wondering whether the tune Justo Castelo had stopped whistling shortly before his death was among them.

‘Do you know “Solveig’s Song”?’ he asked.

‘Of course. It’s Grieg. It’s there somewhere,’ she said, seating herself in one of the square armchairs. ‘Please, sit down.’

‘You’re not from here, are you?’ asked the inspector.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m from Madrid. My family spent the summer here for years, but this is only my second winter in Panxón.’

‘And how are you finding it?’

‘I’m dying for the hot weather and crowds to arrive,’ she said with a resigned smile. ‘I never thought it would be so hard.’

‘Tell me about it,’ snorted Estevez, speaking for the first time.

‘At least you live in a beautiful house,’ said Caldas. ‘Did you design it yourselves?’

‘No. We bought it last year. The previous owner was an architect from Madrid, a friend of my family’s. He was planning to retire here.’

‘So how come he sold it to you?’

She looked up at the high ceiling. ‘Marcos knew how much I liked the house and didn’t let up until my parents’ friend agreed to sell it to us. He always achieves what he sets out to do, you know. He has that gift.’

‘I see. Where is he now?’

‘Working, as usual. Everything he has he got through hard work.’

‘And what does your husband do?’

‘Too many things. He can’t sit still. Construction, cars … He’s even started making wine.’

‘Wine?’

‘Yes. He’s planning to bottle his first vintage next year. In fact, he’s probably at the vineyard right now. It’s what takes up most of his time these days. He likes to keep an eye on things. They’re pruning the vines at the moment, so he goes there every morning.’

Caldas decided to broach the subject that had brought him there. He glanced around in search of an ashtray but couldn’t see one so gave up on the idea of a cigarette.

‘Has your husband ever spoken of his time as a fisherman?’

He saw in her eyes that she now understood the reason for their visit.

‘You’ve come about the suicide of that fisherman, haven’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Caldas, toying with the cigarette packet in his pocket. ‘Did you know that your husband used to work with him?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Has he told you about it?’

‘He doesn’t need to. Marcos rarely talks about the past, but I can always find someone ready to make insinuations. Things you’d rather not hear.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘This is a small village, Inspector. Don’t be fooled by the number of houses,’ she gestured through the window towards the buildings along the beach. ‘In winter they’re all empty. I dislike gossip, so I
only go into the village when I absolutely have to. I don’t want people talking about me or telling me other people’s private business.’

‘Did you know that the boat your husband and Castelo worked on together sank?’

‘Of course I do, Inspector. And that one man died.’

‘But you’ve never spoken to him about it?’

‘Once,’ she replied. ‘But Marcos got angry. I suppose it’s understandable that he’d want to forget something so traumatic.’