Death on a Galician Shore (3 page)

In the kitchen Caldas’s father poured two cups of coffee from the thermos. He added a little milk and sugar to one, and handed the other to his son.

‘Shall we go outside?’ he asked, indicating the door as he rummaged around on the countertop.

In the courtyard they met Maria, returning to the house, broom in hand.

‘Maria never misses
Patrolling the Waves
,’ said his father.

‘Yeah, she told me,’ replied Caldas, grimacing in an attempt at a smile.

They walked around the house and went to lean on the stone parapet overlooking the estate. His father was about to say something
when the inspector’s mobile rang. Caldas gave a deep sigh on seeing Estevez’s name on the display.

‘Work?’ whispered his father.

‘My assistant,’ said Caldas, moving a little distance away and taking his cigarettes from his trouser pocket before answering the call.

‘How did it go?’ he asked, holding a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

‘I’m still here at the harbour.’

‘With the dead man?’

‘Looks like he had help.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘His hands were tied.’

People throwing themselves into the sea to commit suicide often tied their hands or feet to make sure they succeeded.

‘He could have done it himself,’ the inspector pointed out.

‘No, boss. For some reason the pathologist doesn’t think he killed himself or drowned fishing for trout.’

‘Not many trout in the sea,’ said Caldas drily.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah.’

Caldas took a drag on his cigarette. He had a feeling he was going to regret letting his assistant go to Panxón alone.

‘Do you know who he was?’

‘He was from the village. A fisherman. They’re going to transfer the body to Vigo for identification and autopsy. And someone from Forensics is going to come by, to look for clues.’

‘Nobody recognises him?’

‘Not with any certainty, no. You know what these people are like,’ said Estevez. He’d lived in Galicia for several months but he still wasn’t used to the locals’ ambiguous way of expressing themselves.

‘See if you can get them to give you something more definite,’ said the inspector, then regretted it instantly, knowing how forcefully his assistant could go about things. ‘But be gentle, Rafa,’ he added. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘Don’t you worry, boss. Leave it to me,’ said his assistant, in a tone that Caldas found far from reassuring.

*

The inspector rejoined his father and picked up the cup he’d left on the parapet.

‘Is your assistant getting used to things here?’

Caldas sipped his coffee. ‘No, I don’t think he ever will.’

His father traced letters in the air with his pen.

‘Shall I enter him in my book?’ he asked, as if there could be no more cruel punishment.

When Caldas didn’t reply, he added: ‘I can always erase his name later. He wouldn’t be the first I’ve removed.’

‘It’s up to you,’ the inspector said, and his father noticed his preoccupied air.

‘Something up, Leo?’

‘A client,’ Caldas said, clicking his tongue.

‘Murdered?’

‘Could be,’ said Caldas.

‘Would you like us to drive back to Vigo now?’ asked his father.

‘No, don’t worry,’ replied Caldas, well aware that his father didn’t like spending any more time than he had to in the city.

‘I could try to get in to see your uncle this morning.’

‘There’s no need. Really.’

‘It would almost suit me better, Leo,’ insisted his father. ‘I’ve got things to do here this afternoon.’

‘All right then,’ said Caldas gratefully, knowing his father was lying.

They contemplated the rows of white posts supporting the vines, while the inspector finished his cigarette.

‘It’s looking pretty, isn’t it?’ said his father proudly.

‘Yes, it is,’ whispered Caldas. ‘Even though autumn doesn’t suit vines.’

His father gathered up the cups and headed back to the house. Caldas heard him muse: ‘Does autumn suit anyone?’

Just before they reached the police station, and as the traffic lights turned red, Caldas suddenly made a vague excuse and got out of the car. He watched it disappear into the Vigo traffic, feeling guilty. This was a difficult time for his father.

As they left the estate they had exchanged a few words about his uncle, lamenting the illness that was consuming him from within, forcing him to breathe through a machine. They had spent the rest of the journey in silence, Caldas with eyes closed, his father with his eyes on the road and mind on the hospital.

Only once they were in the city, driving down the sloping streets to the police station, did the inspector’s father ask about Alba. To cut the conversation short, Caldas had said he had no news, that he hadn’t heard from her for several months. But his father persisted with his questions despite these evasive answers. Why did he always insist on raising the most awkward subjects at the last minute? If the aim was to prolong their time together, he should have learned his lesson by now. The unwelcome questions only precipitated Caldas’s departure, leaving them both with a bitter aftertaste.

In the police station Caldas made his way down the aisle between the two rows of desks to the far end of the room. He opened the frosted glass door to his office, hung his raincoat on the coat rack and sank into his black desk chair.

Gazing at the piles of papers on his desk, he continued thinking about his father until Superintendent Soto came in and brought him back to reality.

‘How did you get on in Panxón?’

‘I didn’t have time to go, Superintendent. Estevez is dealing with it.’

‘You sent Estevez on his own for the removal of a body?’ asked Superintendent Soto.

When Caldas’s silence confirmed this, the superintendent shook his head disgustedly and left the room, muttering.

Caldas picked up the phone. He dialled Olga’s extension and told her to send Estevez straight into his office as soon as he got back to the station.

He remained at his desk, ignoring his stomach, which was informing him noisily that it was well past lunchtime. He took the opportunity to go through some of the papers that had accumulated on his desk, pencilling notes in the margins before placing them on a different pile. Every time he put down a document, he checked his watch and glanced at the door. He wondered how his assistant was getting on with the recovery of the drowned man’s corpse. He also thought about his father and his own abrupt exit.

At a quarter to three, as he was leafing through the statements of witnesses to the hold-up of a jeweller’s in the Calle del Principe, the city’s main shopping street, Rafael Estevez’s bulky form appeared at the glass door.

‘That was some morning I’ve had, boss,’ he snorted as he came in.

Caldas was starving. And he thought he’d rather hear what Estevez had to say somewhere else, safe from interruptions. He put the robbery statements down on top of a heap of papers and stood up.

‘Have you had lunch yet?’ he asked. ‘My treat.’

‘Thanks, but I couldn’t eat a thing,’ replied Estevez. ‘You can’t imagine the state that guy’s body was in.’

Before his assistant had a chance to go into detail, Caldas took his raincoat, folded it over his arm and went to the door.

‘Do you mind filling me in on it while I have something to eat?’ he said. ‘All I’ve had this morning is coffee and if I leave it any later I won’t get served.’

‘It’s not raining today,’ said Estevez, pointing at the raincoat.

‘I know,’ said the inspector, hurrying out.

Estevez followed him out into the street, where the sun was just peeking between clouds.

They crossed the Alameda, stepping through fallen leaves, and headed along the Calle del Arenal with its elegant stone buildings. The façades with their ironwork balconies had overlooked the container port for several decades now, but still seemed to be wondering where the beach and sea had disappeared to.

The Bar Puerto was still packed. As usual at lunchtime, the customers wore a mixture of suits, blue overalls and thick fishermen’s clothing. Caldas glanced at the plates being emptied at the nearest tables.

‘Pity you’re not hungry,’ he said.

‘There was foam coming out of his nose,’ Estevez recalled, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

‘Later, Rafa,’ said the inspector. There would be plenty of time to hear the more macabre details once he’d eaten.

Cristina came to fetch a bottle of brandy from the bar near the door.

‘Can we still get something to eat?’ asked the inspector, raising his voice above the din of overlapping conversations.

‘We’ve always got something for a radio star,’ teased the waitress. Then she took the bottle to the back of the dining room so that two dockworkers, lunchtime regulars like Caldas, could add brandy to the coffee with which they were rounding off their meal.

When she returned, she indicated a couple of tables with empty places.

‘Would you rather sit here or over there?’

At the table nearest to them, three veteran seafarers were sitting with a young man in a dark suit who was avidly devouring a bowl of soup and a sports paper. At the other sat the dockworkers to whom Cristina had taken the brandy.

‘The one at the back,’ said Caldas. ‘And would you mind not seating anyone else with us once those two have left?’

‘Don’t worry, Leo. At this time of day we only get the odd straggler.’

As they headed to their table they passed the kitchen. The white-tiled walls were hung with cooking pots, awaiting their turn on the stove. The dented metal revealed many years of use, but they gleamed as if they had been polished.

Caldas and Estevez stopped before the low counter separating dining room and kitchen. The inspector leaned over to examine the chiller cabinet where the shellfish was usually displayed. It was empty.

‘No point in looking. There’s no shellfish on a Monday,’ said one of the cooks behind the counter. She was washing a pan before returning it to its place on the wall.

‘What do you use to make them shine like that?’ asked Estevez, pointing at the pan.

‘Plenty of elbow grease, son,’ said the cook. ‘Like to have a go?’ she added, holding out the soapy pan.

Estevez declined the offer with a smile and followed Caldas to the back of the restaurant. He exchanged a glance with the dockers sharing their table and settled back in the chair facing the inspector.

Cristina brought a tureen and placed it between them. When she removed the lid, fragrant steam spread across the table making Estevez sit up, nostrils flaring.

The waitress returned with a carafe of chilled white wine in one hand, and plates, glasses and cutlery in the other.

‘Rafael doesn’t need a plate,’ Caldas said. ‘He won’t be eating.’

Estevez looked at the tureen like a little boy peering up into the sky for the balloon that’s just got away.

‘Why don’t I leave one just in case?’ asked Cristina.

‘OK. Just in case,’ agreed Estevez.

Caldas filled his bowl with soup and returned the ladle to the tureen. Estevez helped himself immediately.

‘I thought you couldn’t eat a thing,’ the inspector remarked.

‘A little soup can’t hurt,’ replied his assistant, filling his bowl to the brim.

Caldas blew on his first spoonful to cool it before lifting it to his lips: ‘You’re right about that.’

Estevez had had a second helping and was refraining from a third by the time Cristina came to take their order for the main course. She offered them
bacalao a la gallega
, cod with potatoes, or squid in its ink with rice. Caldas chose the squid.

‘Would you like something else?’ Cristina asked Estevez.

The soup had blotted out all thoughts of the drowned man’s foaming nose and restored the policeman’s habitual voracious appetite.

‘What do you recommend?’ he asked.

‘The squid’s turned out really well,’ said Cristina, adding almost immediately: ‘But the cod’s been popular, too …’

She left her words hanging and Estevez stared, awaiting her verdict. After a few seconds, as none came, he asked:

‘Well?’

‘They’re different,’ the waitress said simply.

‘I know that. But one of them must be better,’ insisted Estevez.

‘They’re both really good,’ said Cristina with an open smile. ‘Which do you like best?’

‘Forget it,’ muttered Estevez, realising he wasn’t going to get a definite answer. ‘I’ll have the same as him – the squid. And a salad.’

As soon as Cristina was out of earshot, Estevez complained: ‘I don’t know why the hell I bother asking these people anything.’

He realised that Caldas was staring at him in silence across the table.

‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I forget you’re one of them.’

At four in the afternoon, when all that remained of the policemen’s squid in ink were dark stains on their paper napkins, the last few customers of the Bar Puerto stood up. Caldas watched them as they left.

‘Tell me about the drowned man,’ he said to his assistant, picking up a teaspoon to stir his coffee.

‘He was found floating at the water’s edge, but by the time I got there he’d been laid out on the sand. There was foam coming out of his nose and mouth.’

‘You’ve already told me.’

‘I just can’t get it out of my head. And he was icy,’ Estevez explained, clenching his teeth as if a shiver had just run through him.

‘Haven’t you ever seen a drowned man before?’ asked Caldas, surprised.

‘Back in Zaragoza, occasionally we had to fish someone who’d committed suicide out of the river, but I never got too close. You know I’m not keen on dead people, Inspector,’ said Estevez a little sheepishly.

‘And the living aren’t too keen on you,’ murmured Caldas, picturing, for the second time that day, the drowned pharmacist about whom he’d dreamed so often as a child. ‘Come on, get on with it. Did you find out who he was?’

‘His name was Justo Castelo. He was a fisherman from the village.
He went out in his boat yesterday morning and wasn’t seen again. The boat hasn’t turned up yet.’