Death on a Galician Shore (14 page)

‘I guess so. Did your husband keep in touch with his former crewmates?’

‘Not at all, as far as I know. Not with El Rubio or that giant, Arias.’

‘But they were close friends at one time.’

‘I don’t think they were that close, Inspector. Marcos doesn’t have much in common with them.’

‘Do you know them?’

Valverde’s wife shook her head.

‘Arias only by sight. He came back to the village not long after I moved here. I’ve ordered shellfish from El Rubio a couple of times, if I’ve been entertaining. I’ve had more to do with his sister, the teacher. She must be devastated.’

‘Yes,’ said Caldas, thinking how different the two women were.

‘You know something, Inspector? I felt sorry for that man, El Rubio. He was always alone and he looked unhappy. Really unhappy. I don’t think anyone was surprised that he killed himself.’

‘No,’ said Caldas tersely, and then pushed on. ‘Has your husband seemed worried lately?’

‘He’s always worried about something. Marcos is like that.’

‘What I mean is, has anyone tried to scare him?’

‘I know what you’re referring to. Surely you don’t believe in village hallucinations?’

Valverde’s wife and Rafael Estevez both stared at him, awaiting his response, and Caldas suddenly felt himself blushing.

‘What do you mean?’ he stammered, squeezing the packet of cigarettes in his pocket.

‘Come now, Inspector. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Captain Sousa, the skipper of the shipwrecked boat. They say his ghost has been appearing and hounding El Rubio. I’m sure there are plenty of locals prepared to swear it was the skipper who
drove him to suicide. You don’t believe that nonsense, too, do you?’

‘It’s not a question of what I believe. Have you noticed your husband looking anxious, scared?’

‘Of the ghost?’

‘Of anything.’

‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Marcos doesn’t have time for superstition.’

Valverde’s wife saw them to their car. Caldas stepped off the path a moment to run his hand over the lemon verbena.

‘We’ll need to talk to your husband,’ he said, inhaling the fragrance on his fingers. ‘Do you know if he’s going to Castelo’s funeral this afternoon?’

‘I think so.’

Caldas gave her his card. ‘This is my number,’ he said. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

‘Anything?’ she asked, and for a split second Valverde’s wife disappeared and he saw Alba again, smiling at him.

Caldas blushed for a second time and lit a crumpled cigarette, trying to hide his embarrassment behind a veil of smoke.

‘Nice to meet you, Inspector Caldas,’ she said, and her shirt parted further as she held out her hand.

‘Likewise,’ he replied, taking her hand and making a superhuman effort not to stare at her breasts.

He climbed into the car, wondering how a man could have gone from working on a small fishing boat to having a house and a wife like that in so few years. He was still pondering when the high-pitched ring tone of his mobile sounded.

‘I thought we were meeting for lunch,’ said his father.

Caldas looked at his watch, saw that it was almost two and swore. He’d forgotten to phone and say he couldn’t make it.

‘I’m still in Panxón,’ he said apologetically. He was still feeling guilty about his brusque exit from the car the day before, when his father had asked about Alba, and he hated letting him down like this. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.’

‘We could meet an hour later, if you like. I’ve got things to do.’

So had Caldas: he wanted to go to the cemetery for the funeral and speak to the crewmembers of the
Xurelo
and the waiter of the Refugio del Pescador who’d chatted to Castelo that Saturday afternoon.

‘The thing is, I need to be here early this afternoon.’

‘I’ll see you later at the hospital then?’

‘Maybe,’ he said, knowing that he almost certainly wouldn’t get back to Vigo in time for visiting hours. ‘Do you know how Uncle Alberto is doing today?’

‘About the same as yesterday.’

‘Right.’

‘So you’ll be having lunch in Panxón?’ asked his father, without a hint of the disappointment that Caldas knew he must be feeling. ‘Yes, we’ll have a quick bite to eat here.’

‘If you get a moment, you could drop in on Trabazo.’

Trabazo! It was a long time since Caldas had heard the name. ‘Have you heard from him?’

‘We spoke this morning.’

It couldn’t be a coincidence. ‘Today?’

‘Yes. He asked about you. He always listens to your show.’

‘You didn’t tell him I was working in Panxón, did you?’

‘No, of course not. But I know he’d love to see you.’

Looking down at the sand darkened by the morning’s rain, the policemen walked along the promenade, which ran along the top of the sea wall. The wall defended the village when, during winter storms or at spring tides, waves engulfed the Playa de Panxón.

As they neared the covered restaurant terraces where the inspector had suggested they eat, Estevez asked, ‘Where did you mean?’

‘There,’ replied his boss, pointing in the direction of two almost identical terraces.

‘But which one?’

The last time Caldas had eaten there he’d been with Alba, one summer. Then there had been no screens or heaters. He couldn’t remember which terrace they’d sat at, only that, though the food had been good, he’d felt uneasy. The tables couldn’t be reserved and there were too many people on the promenade, a few metres away, staring at the diners, waiting for someone to vacate a table and swooping like excitable seagulls.

‘That one,’ he pointed to the terrace on the right, though he could just as easily have chosen the other. He was merely pleased that the promenade was empty of holidaymakers ready to pounce.

Only two other tables were occupied. Caldas and Estevez seated themselves at one a little distance from the rest and, after looking at the menu, they decided to share a potato omelette and a plate of octopus with clams.

‘And two glasses of white wine,’ said Caldas.

‘Could you bring a salad as well?’ said Estevez as the waiter was about to return to the kitchen.

Lately, his assistant always insisted on ordering salads.

‘Are you taking care of yourself?’

‘No,’ Estevez assured him. ‘It’s just that the lettuce is great here.’

‘Here?’

‘In Galicia.’

‘Oh, right.’

When the waiter had brought the wine, Caldas raised his glass to his lips and gazed at the harbour and the boats swaying on the water, moored to the buoys. He made out Justo Castelo’s mooring. The rowing boat was gone. He hoped Clara Barcia would find something that would help them get this investigation going.

‘Are you thinking about the ghost, or Mrs Valverde’s tits?’ asked Estevez, bringing the inspector back to the table.

‘What was that?’

‘You heard me,’ smiled Estevez.

‘Right,’ said Caldas, taking another sip of wine.

‘Can I ask you something, Inspector?’

‘Of course.’

‘What do you think of the Captain Sousa story?’

‘I don’t think anything.’

‘But do you believe that Castelo’s death is connected to the shipwreck?’

‘Maybe,’ Caldas admitted, ‘but it may also have nothing to do with it.’

Estevez snorted like a bull. ‘I don’t know whether to go for a piss or shoot myself. Would it kill you to be a little more specific?’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Well, what you really think about this bloody ghost business.’

‘I know as much as you: Castelo received threats and, not long after, his body washed up on the beach.’

‘But don’t you find it odd that everyone’s blaming a man who drowned over a decade ago and whenever they mention him they spit all over your shoes?’

‘A little.’

‘A little?’

‘OK, Rafa, it seems rather strange. Is that what you want to hear?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Estevez. ‘Why is it so difficult for you people to say things clearly?’

The waiter set the dish of octopus and clams down on the table and the delicious aroma of the seafood made them postpone their discussion. Then the freshly made omelette and salad arrived. In the local style, the salad consisted simply of lettuce, tomato and onion dressed with olive oil, white wine vinegar and coarse salt. Only once they were having their coffee did Estevez bring up the subject of the drowned skipper again.

‘Have you definitely ruled out suicide?’

Caldas resisted the urge to give him a silly answer to put an end to the conversation; he knew that thinking aloud often helped him work things out.

‘Yes, I think we can rule it out,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

‘But, as we’ve heard, everyone agrees that El Rubio wasn’t exactly a happy camper. The only person who doubts he committed suicide is his sister.’

‘His sister, and the facts. There’s the green cable tie that he couldn’t have fastened himself, and the blow to his head.’

‘Which blow?’ asked Estevez. The day before, he’d left the autopsy room before the pathologist had shown Caldas the wound. ‘His head was covered in them.’

‘Yes, but almost all of them occurred post mortem,’ explained Caldas. ‘Only two of the blows happened while he was alive. One to the forehead, possibly from a rock. The other to the back of the head. Look at this.’

Caldas fished out of his trouser pocket the slip of paper on which the pathologist had drawn the outline of the object that had struck El Rubio from behind. He unfolded it and placed it on the table, in front of his assistant.

‘I haven’t shown you this, have I?’

Estevez shook his head slightly.

‘He was hit on the back of the head with something this shape. Some sort of bar with a rounded end. According to the pathologist, it was a very violent blow, so violent it probably knocked him unconscious.’

‘It looks like the knob of a walking stick,’ said Estevez.

Caldas looked at the drawing again. ‘Could be, but Dr Barrio leans towards it being the kind of spanner used for wheel nuts. In any case, it doesn’t look like suicide.’

‘No.’

Caldas drew on his cigarette, reflecting that placing an order for a new boat from the carpenter didn’t point to suicide either, nor did the threat painted on the rowing boat, nor the anxiety that caused the abandonment of a long-held habit.

He folded the piece of paper and returned it to his back pocket.

‘What about motives, Inspector?’

‘Are you interrogating me?’

‘No, I’m just trying to find out what the hell you think.’

‘Right. And what do you think?’

Estevez gave him a hard stare and Caldas felt sure he was going to make one of his characteristically gruff remarks.

‘It’s strange,’ he said instead. ‘The bloke had no girlfriend, no enem ies, and nothing worth killing him for.’

‘He had a house.’

‘I don’t think he was killed over that.’

‘People have been killed here over a lot less, Rafa. For moving a boundary stone one metre this way or that.’

‘I’m not saying it’s out of the question, but I doubt that nowadays anyone would be so interested in Castelo’s house that they’d kill him for it.’

‘Since when are you the property expert?’

‘I’m not, you just have to walk around the village. There are
For Sale
signs everywhere. Developers aren’t going to invest in more land when they’ve still got houses for sale.’

‘Right,’ said Caldas, who hadn’t noticed this. ‘Well, what then?’

Estevez took his time before replying. ‘I think the most solid clue is the threat painted on the boat. Maybe that Captain Sousa has a relative … Do you think that’s possible?’

Caldas nodded.

‘I don’t know why you’re so interested in my opinion when it’s almost the same as yours.’

‘Almost?’

‘Yes.’

*

They paid for their meal and walked back to the car. Estevez had left it parked on the jetty, near the yacht club. They saw a few new customers in the Refugio del Pescador, but the waiter was the same one who had served them in the morning.

‘Where are we going now?’

Caldas looked at his watch. There were still more than two hours until Justo Castelo’s funeral.

‘Do you remember the cable tie around the dead man’s wrists?’

‘Of course.’

‘I want you to go to all the shops and department stores where you might get ties like that. Both here and in neighbouring villages. See if you can find one like it.’

Estevez nodded. ‘You’re not coming?’

‘No. I’ll tell you where to drop me. I’m going to see a friend.’

Lola was drying her hands on her apron as she opened the door and kissed him on both cheeks. She led him quickly through to the back of the house.

‘He’s in the garden,’ she said, holding Caldas’s arm. ‘He’ll be delighted to see you.’

He couldn’t remember when he’d last walked down that hallway. It must have been twenty-five years ago, maybe more. The walls seemed lighter and the doors opening off it smaller, but he recognised the smell. It had endured intact in his memory and he could have distinguished it from a thousand others. The first whiff took him right back, to the days of his childhood, when this hallway was like a magic tunnel leading him to Manuel Trabazo.

In those days, Caldas saw Trabazo as Manuel, the Portuguese fisherman played by Spencer Tracy in the film
Captains Courageous
. Tracy was dark-haired and stocky, not lean and grizzled like Trabazo, but to Caldas they were one and the same. He’d seen the film dozens of times: a little rich boy falls overboard from an ocean liner and is rescued by a fishing boat, where one of the crew, Manuel, teaches the spoilt brat to laugh and sing. Just as Trabazo had tried to teach him so many times.

Caldas always cried in the scene where Manuel, smiling and speaking Portuguese so that the boy won’t understand, orders one of his shipmates to cut the rope trapping him, knowing that he will be dragged to the bottom of the sea with the fish. The young Leo was afraid that Trabazo would end up there too one day.

*

Trabazo lay in a hammock wearing knee-high boots, dark trousers and a thick woollen jacket. A fringe of white hair partly hid his weatherbeaten forehead and closed eyes.