Death on a Galician Shore (29 page)

One of the women halted the bidding and selected the best items. José Arias meanwhile headed towards the entrance, carrying his empty baskets in one hand and a blue plastic bag in the other. If he was surprised to see the policemen there, he didn’t show it.

‘Good morning, Inspector Caldas.’

‘Do you have a moment?’ asked Caldas.

‘You’re here to speak to me?’

Caldas nodded, and lit his first cigarette of the weekend. ‘But we’re not in a hurry,’ he said and, gesturing towards the plastic bag that contained several wriggling crabs, added: ‘Go ahead and finish what you’re doing.’

Arias glanced back inside the fish market. The auctioneer’s chant floated out through the open door.

‘Now’s fine,’ said the fisherman in his deep voice. Caldas realised that Arias would rather talk there in the empty street than later when the auction was over. ‘Is it about El Rubio’s phone call?’

‘You tell me,’ replied Caldas and motioned towards the spot where the fisherman had released the female crabs the previous Tuesday.

Arias crossed the road and went down the slipway. The policemen followed, making their way between rowing boats lit up by nearby street lamps.

‘You don’t know?’

‘I don’t like being lied to,’ said the inspector.

The fisherman halted. ‘I told you, I’d forgotten about the call.’

‘I know.’

‘So what do you want?’

Caldas drew on his cigarette before answering, ‘The truth.’

‘I told you the truth, Inspector. El Rubio lost one of his fenders out at sea and …’

‘Do you expect us to believe that?’ Caldas interrupted.

‘I don’t expect anything,’ said Arias slowly. The plastic bag rustled in his hands.

‘Do you remember the date painted on Castelo’s rowing boat?’

The fisherman nodded.

‘There was the word “Murderers” as well,’ said the inspector.

‘I know. You said.’

‘What happened that night?’

‘The boat went down. You already know.’

‘Apart from that.’

‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘What happened to Captain Sousa?’

‘He drowned,’ said the fisherman gravely.

‘Why was the boat out at sea instead of sheltering in port like all the other fishing boats?’

‘It was the skipper’s call.’

‘So you didn’t put in to port?’

The tip of the inspector’s cigarette glowed.

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

The fisherman nodded.

‘You’re lying to me again,’ said Caldas.

‘What did you say?’

The plastic bag rustled again as Arias gripped it more tightly. Caldas was glad Estevez was with him.

‘Did you put in at a port?’ Caldas pressed.

‘No,’ replied the fisherman, but then corrected himself: ‘I don’t remember.’

‘You stopped in Aguiño, didn’t you?’ asked Caldas.

‘Where?’

‘Aguiño,’ repeated Caldas. Arias said nothing, simply looking towards the beach.

‘What happened that night?’

‘It was a long time ago, Inspector,’ said Arias, dodging the question. ‘I’m telling you, I don’t remember.’

‘You can’t have forgotten.’

‘Well, I have.’

In the dawn hush, the plastic bag rustled again.

‘What really happened to Captain Sousa?’ asked the inspector. ‘Why did someone daub “Murderers” on Castelo’s boat? Why was El Rubio killed?’

Arias opened his trembling hands and the baskets and plastic bag fell to the ground. Caldas shrank. Had Estevez not been there, he would have backed away.

‘Didn’t you hear the inspector?’ interjected his assistant, not looking in the least bit intimidated.

‘I can’t remember anything,’ Arias whispered, eyes cast down.

They questioned him a little longer, but his answer remained the same.

‘He remembers the whole thing,’ said Estevez, opening the car door.

Caldas stubbed out his cigarette on the ground. ‘I know.’

The inspector had seen the fear in the fisherman’s eyes and he wondered what had really happened on the
Xurelo
. Why was Arias so afraid of someone finding out the truth?

‘Aren’t we going to arrest him?’ asked Estevez.

‘And charge him with what?’

Estevez shrugged, started the car and reversed. As Caldas lowered the window he saw the fisherman on the slipway. He was sitting on one of the boats, like a felled colossus. His orange waterproofs glowed in the early-morning light. On the stone slipway, the crabs had found their way out of the plastic bag and were scuttling down to the sea.

They stopped for breakfast at a bar facing the Playa de la Madorra. Estevez leafed through the newspaper. The sinking of the Galician trawler on the Great Sole Bank filled the front page.

‘Did you see the rescue on TV?’

Caldas said he had. Through the window he contemplated the fortress at Baiona, which was still lit up, across the bay, and the waves breaking on the seaweed-strewn shore.

As they returned to the car the bells of the Templo Votivo del Mar struck nine o’clock. They took the road to Monteferro and turned off to the left, down the narrow street that led to the large wooden gate.

They got out of the car and pressed the buzzer. Marcos Valverde’s wife answered.

‘Hello, this is Inspector Caldas,’ said Caldas.

The gate slid open, revealing the grey concrete bunker-like façade.

There were two cars, wet with dew, parked in the courtyard. One was Mrs Valverde’s red SUV. The other was a black sports car. In the gravel garden, pansies were beginning to open in the first rays of the sun.

Caldas was hoping Mrs Valverde’s smile would greet him, but it was her husband who came out. His hair was wet and combed back as if he’d just got out of the shower. He was wearing a dark green poloneck and beige corduroy trousers.

‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Caldas, thinking how different Valverde looked without his suit and tie. ‘I apologise for coming so early.’

‘Please don’t worry. I’ve been awake for hours.’

‘Could we speak to you for a few minutes?’

‘Of course,’ said Valverde, but didn’t invite them in.

Caldas saw the verbena growing against the house and was tempted to go and inhale its fragrance. Instead he took his packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

‘Do you smoke?’

Valverde shook his head. The inspector placed a cigarette between his lips and held the lighter to it.

‘My father remembers you,’ he lied. ‘He sends his regards.’

‘Thank you,’ said Valverde. ‘But I’m sure you didn’t come here just to tell me that.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Caldas gesturing towards the house full of sharp edges. ‘Do you recall our conversation the other day?’

The former crewmate of Arias and Castelo nodded.

‘Do you remember that I asked why you didn’t shelter in port the night of the wreck?’

‘Yes, of course. I told you, we had a full hold. I assume that’s why the skipper decided to return to Panxón.’

‘Would you mind if I repeat the question?’ said Caldas, drawing on his cigarette.

Valverde looked at him, then at Estevez, then at the inspector again.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s very simple. Did you put in somewhere the night the
Xurelo
sank?’

‘I already said we didn’t.’

‘Are you sure?’

Valverde opened out his arms and smiled. ‘Of course I am.’

‘You haven’t forgotten anything?’

‘Of course not.’

Caldas spoke very slowly: ‘In that case, I can only think that you were lying before and are lying again today.’

‘What?’ said Valverde, no longer smiling.

‘You know that things didn’t happen as you’ve said. I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth now.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

Caldas unfolded the missing persons report. ‘I know that you and your shipmates spent a few hours in Aguiño.’

Valverde turned back towards the house for a moment before replying, ‘Who told you that?’

‘Is it true?’

This only drew a snort from Valverde.

‘Is it true or not?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Valverde. ‘I don’t remember clearly.’

‘Don’t give us that. Is it true or isn’t it?’ said Estevez, taking a step forward.

‘What do you want me to tell you?’

Caldas gave him the same answer he had given Arias a little earlier: ‘The truth.’

Valverde stared at the ground, shaking his head.

‘I can’t.’

‘One man has already died,’ said the inspector. ‘Two if you count Sousa.’

Valverde now met his gaze. ‘I know.’

‘Yet you still won’t say what happened on the boat that night?’

Valverde said nothing.

‘You won’t tell us what happened to Captain Sousa?’ the inspector persisted.

‘I can’t,’ repeated Valverde.

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘As I said to you before, anyone can feel afraid.’

‘What are you and Arias so scared of?’ continued Caldas. ‘What happened that night?’

Just as Arias had done earlier on the slipway in the harbour, Valverde took refuge in his failure to remember, like a tortoise retreating into its shell.

‘Would you like me to jog his memory?’ Estevez whispered in the inspector’s ear. Caldas knew just how his assistant would accomplish this.

‘No,’ he said quietly, and then warned Valverde: ‘Maybe a judge can make you talk.’

‘Maybe, Inspector Caldas,’ said Valverde. ‘Maybe.’

*

Estevez turned the car around in the courtyard and set off up the hill between the closely packed houses. The large wooden gate closed behind them.

‘He’s scared shitless,’ said Estevez. ‘They both are.’

‘I know,’ said Caldas.

‘Why didn’t you let me have a go?’

‘A go?’

‘You know …’

‘Right.’

Caldas opened the window slightly and closed his eyes, but Captain Sousa’s weather-beaten face appeared behind his eyelids so he opened them again.

‘I’ll be five minutes,’ said the inspector, opening the car door. He walked up the hill to the Templo Votivo del Mar and went inside. He soon returned, holding an envelope.

‘What have you got there?’ Estevez asked as Caldas climbed into the passenger seat.

‘A photo of the crew of the
Xurelo
. We’ll go to Aguiño on Monday. I want to see if anyone recognises them.’

Estevez glanced at the photograph. In the foreground, Captain Sousa was sitting on a stool, his woollen cap pulled down to his eyebrows. The three younger men stood smiling behind him, in their waterproofs.

‘Are we going back to Vigo?’ asked Estevez.

‘Would you mind if we stopped off at the lighthouse?’ said Caldas.

Estevez sighed and set off for Monteferro, but instead of taking the paved road to the summit, he turned right, along the track leading to Punta Lameda, driving through the eucalyptus woods and skirting around the mountain.

There was a yellow car parked by the lighthouse and Estevez pulled up behind it. The sky was blue and waves crashed against the rocks with great surges of foam. The Cies Islands rose straight ahead, their white sandy beaches gleaming in the morning sun. There was no one around.

They made their way to the place where Castelo’s boat had been found. The rock barrier that sheltered the pool was partly visible.
The air smelled of forest and sea, and screeching seagulls could be heard above the roar of the waves.

Caldas went to stand on a smooth rock, close to the water’s edge but beyond the reach of splashing waves. Out at sea, he glimpsed the triangular white sails of racing yachts. Two huge freighters from Vigo were heading for the mouth of the
ria
. Caldas could make out the containers on the deck of the nearest one. He could also see the lifeboats beneath blue covers, beside the gunwale. He reflected that he wouldn’t have been able to see it all so clearly on the morning of Castelo’s death, when sheets of rain would have obscured the view.

As he watched the wake fade behind the freighter, Caldas thought of the previous night. While tossing and turning in bed longing for the sound of Alba’s pendant jingling, he had found a small space in his mind for Justo Castelo’s murder. If no boats had set out that morning from the ports close to Panxón, maybe the murderers had come from a larger vessel. Caldas lit a cigarette, cupping the lighter with his hand to shield it from the wind, and looked out at the freighter again. He wondered if the skipper of a ship would allow one of its dinghies to be lowered without good reason.

Caldas stood leaning over the pool, reflecting that only someone who plied the coast regularly would know about the small reef that protected it from the waves. Only someone familiar with the shoreline of Monteferro would know that the pool was sheltered by a rock barrier and that at low tide the water there was quite still.

As he took another drag on his cigarette, the wind blew the smoke in his eyes. When he opened them again the freighter had grown smaller on the horizon. The ship was moving out to sea, and the idea of a murderer from elsewhere receded with it.

‘I still think it’s stupid sinking the boat right next to the shore when you could do it out at sea,’ said Estevez, coming to stand beside him.

‘We went over all that yesterday.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Estevez. ‘And you convinced me about the spanner. They can’t have cared where it landed. Like you said, no one investigates a suicide.’

‘That’s what I think.’

‘But this is different,’ said Estevez.

‘This?’

‘The sunken boat. No one would look for a weapon if they believed El Rubio had thrown himself into the sea, agreed, but they’d still look for the boat. So why leave it here?’

‘Because the water at the bottom of the pool is quite still and the boat would stay down there much longer.’

‘But why did they want to hide it?’

‘So that prints would be washed away, I assume.’

‘What prints?’ asked Estevez. ‘If they attacked him from another boat, they can’t have left many. Anyway, this pool doesn’t have special cleansing properties. I don’t see any difference between sinking the boat here and doing it elsewhere.’