Death on a Galician Shore (39 page)

‘He’s gone away, Inspector,’ said a woman’s voice from above.

‘How do you know?’ Caldas asked the woman with the curlers leaning out of her window. ‘He left on Saturday evening. He was carrying a suitcase.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ replied the neighbour with sudden dignity. ‘I don’t pry into other people’s business.’

Caldas walked back to the harbour. The market had been closed for hours but the air still smelled strongly of fish. He passed the Refugio del Pescador. Inside, at one of the marble tables a game of dominoes was in progress.

Crossing the road towards the slipway, he saw the
Aileen
loaded
with traps, moored to its buoy. He looked at the jetty and wondered how long Justo Castelo’s traps would remain there, stacked against the white wall.

‘Would you like to come fishing, Inspector?’ said a voice behind him.

He turned round. The old salt who claimed to have seen the
Xurelo
in the mist was peering at him from beneath his captain’s cap.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I asked if you’d like to come fishing,’ the man said with a smile.

Caldas tutted and made his way to the jetty. Outside the yacht club, two freshly painted wooden boats were drying in the sun. Passing El Rubio’s traps, he approached the anglers. In a metal bucket, a fish he didn’t recognise was flapping about.

At the end of the jetty, he looked out, letting the breeze blow sea spray into his face. On the side facing the open sea there were great concrete blocks that had been blunted by the wind and waves.

A small boat was entering the harbour and Caldas recognised Manuel Trabazo’s sky-blue
gamela
.

When he reached his buoy, the doctor leaned over the side to retrieve the mooring line with a hook. He tied up the fishing boat, jumped into his small rowing boat and began rowing towards the stone slipway.

Caldas stood waiting for him down by the water’s edge.

On the beach, the boy in the wheelchair was throwing a ball for his dog.

‘Look what you missed, Calditas,’ said Trabazo, holding up a plastic bag. He was grinning beneath his white fringe.

Caldas opened the bag. Inside were half a dozen sea bass. The gills of one or two were still fluttering feebly.

‘They’re from my rock,’ said Trabazo with a wink. ‘All six in under an hour.’

The inspector helped him haul his boat on to the trailer and then pull the trailer up to the level section of the slipway.

‘Doctor!’ the old sea dog called out from the door of the Refugio del Pescador.

Trabazo looked up and the man said mockingly, ‘Your friend doesn’t want to come fishing.’

‘Don’t be mean, Pepe,’ Trabazo shouted back.

‘Why did you tell him?’ asked Caldas in a whisper.

‘They saw me set sail with you and come back on my own,’ said Trabazo, laying the oars inside the boat and winding a chain around them. ‘What could I say – that I’d thrown you overboard?’ He pulled the chain tight and secured it with a small padlock. ‘I hear they’re letting your uncle out.’

‘Yes, he’s being discharged this afternoon.’

‘Will he be better off at your father’s than in hospital?’

Caldas shrugged. ‘At least he’ll have company.’

‘That’s something.’

‘Yes.’

Trabazo looked round and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘What’s the time?’

Caldas looked at his watch. ‘One o’clock.’

‘Already?’ said Trabazo with a whistle. ‘Time for my medicine. Why don’t you come along?’

The inspector followed his old friend to the bar of the Refugio del Pescador. Trabazo ordered a glass of white wine. So did Caldas.

Half an hour later, Estevez collected the inspector and they drove back to Vigo. Estevez had found all the Land Rovers. None was the one caught on the security camera in Monteferro.

At a quarter past two they drew up outside the police station. Caldas went in to see if there was a message from Quintans.

‘Nothing,’ said Olga, and the inspector left again.

‘Coming for lunch?’ he said to his assistant.

‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Right.’

By the time he got to the Bar Puerto he was too late for
percebes
. The display cabinet was empty, and Cristina confirmed that the few that had come in that morning had already been shared out among the customers.

He sat at the back at a table with two dockworkers he’d seen there before. He ordered scallops and fried sardines and, in honour of his assistant, a salad.

Cristina brought an earthenware jug of chilled white wine, and Caldas poured himself a glass while he waited for his meal and thought again of Diego Neira. He now knew the essentials – who he was and what his motives were, even the make of his car. It was only a matter of time before they tracked him down, but the sooner the better if they wanted to stop him killing again. Caldas was hoping that the superintendent would then agree to persuade a judge to reopen the case of Rebeca Neira’s murder. However much harm the
son had caused, he had a right to know what had happened to his mother, to bury her remains and lay his own grief to rest.

It was frustrating that Quintans was taking so long to come up with a photograph. Diego Neira wasn’t from Panxón but he was familiar with the area, the rock pool and the habits of the fishermen. Caldas was sure he’d spent time near the harbour, probably in July or August, blending in with the other tourists, staying in a rented house, at a campsite or hotel.

The scallops arrived and Caldas didn’t so much devour as inhale them. Meanwhile, he told himself that if he hadn’t received any useful information from Quintans by the following day he’d go to Neda himself to find something.

Cristina brought the sardines and the salad, humming ‘Promenade’.

‘What’s that you’re humming?’ asked Caldas.

‘No idea,’ she said, removing the plate of empty scallop shells and gesturing towards the other side of the restaurant. ‘They were singing it over there.’

He finished his meal with coffee. Then he paid, and walked back to the station smoking a cigarette. He looked into his office: no Post-it notes on the desk. He closed the door and went to see Soto to fill him in on the latest developments. He told him about the video and explained that it wasn’t Castelo that Hermida’s wife had seen setting out in the boat.

‘I still don’t understand why he bound Castelo’s wrists,’ said the superintendent once Caldas had finished.

‘Because it was perfect. On one hand, it meant he could make it look like suicide and finish Castelo off quietly, without arousing suspicion. Nobody would look into the suicide of a depressive. On the other hand, I’m sure being tied up made El Rubio tell him what happened in Aguiño that night in the hope that he’d let him go.’

‘Nice guy that Neira.’

Caldas clicked his tongue. ‘It’s not all his fault.’

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

‘I’m sure of it. If he planned all this to kill the accomplice, he’s hardly going to leave the killer alive.’

‘Do you reckon he’s gone after Arias in Scotland?’

‘If Castelo talked, I think it’s very likely.’

‘And if he didn’t?’

‘In that case Valverde’s got a problem,’ said Caldas. ‘Neira may want to get rid of both of them.’

‘To make sure he hits his target?’

‘Exactly.’

Estevez dropped him off outside the hospital. Caldas crossed the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor. He walked down the corridor of closed doors and opened the one numbered 211.

Uncle Alberto smiled behind the green mask. He was sitting on the bed, now stripped, in trousers and a sweater that were too loose for him. The table where the radio and newspapers had been was empty and a leather holdall sat, packed, on the floor.

‘Hello, Leo,’ said his father, looking out of the window at the city.

‘Shall we head downstairs?’

‘We’ve got to wait for the ambulance.’

‘I thought you were going in the car.’

‘So did I, but the doctor thought it better to have an ambulance. For the oxygen,’ he added.

A male nurse entered pushing a wheelchair with an oxygen cylinder on the back. He disconnected the breathing mask from the wall and attached it to the cylinder. Then he helped Alberto into the chair.

They proceeded down the corridor in single file, Uncle Alberto with his green mask leading in the wheelchair and, behind him, the nurse, the inspector’s father and, finally, Caldas carrying the leather holdall.

As the ambulance door closed, the inspector asked his father, ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll take the car.’

Caldas saw his father’s car a short distance away and nodded. He felt bad about not going with them, but he had too much to do.

‘Will you both be all right?’

‘Sure.’

‘I was planning to come and see you this weekend.’

‘OK,’ said his father, heading towards the car. ‘If you get a free moment.’

Caldas stood at the kerb waving as they drove off. Once they’d disappeared from sight, he walked back to the police station and shut himself in his office. He made a few calls and went through the papers that he’d moved from one pile to another that morning. At seven his mobile rang.

He didn’t recognise the number.

‘Inspector Caldas?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Ana Valdés.’

The name meant nothing to him but the voice was familiar.

‘Do I know you?’

‘I’m Marcos Valverde’s wife, from Panxón. Don’t you remember me?’

He may not have known her name but he hadn’t forgotten her smile.

‘Yes, of course. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said, ‘but as you gave me your number …’

Caldas cut short her apology. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Our front gate has been damaged.’

‘What?’

‘The garden gate. Several panels have been torn off.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. I found it like that when I got home.’

‘Was the house broken into?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No, no one.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘Marcos was in the house. He didn’t hear anything.’

‘But you’re both OK? Your husband’s OK?’

‘Yes, we’re fine, but pretty worried.’

With good reason, thought the inspector. ‘Where are you calling from?’

‘I’m in the car on my way to Vigo. I’m not spending the night in that house.’

‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’ he said, and immediately regretted it.

‘Yes, we’ve got a flat in the centre. I often stay there on Saturday nights after a concert. But I’m concerned about my husband.’

‘Is he still at the house?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He’s trying to get hold of a carpenter. He’s going to meet me in town once the gate’s fixed.’

‘Have you reported it to the police?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Marcos was adamant that we shouldn’t.’

‘I assume he doesn’t know you’re calling me?’

‘No. Please don’t tell him.’

‘Fine,’ said Caldas. ‘But we’ll have to go over there.’

He heard a sigh of relief. ‘I’d be very grateful, Inspector.’

‘No need to thank me. I’m just doing my job.’

He expected her to end the call but she asked, ‘Do you think this has something to do with what they’re saying in the village?’

‘I don’t know, but please don’t worry about that now.’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Valverde’s wife. ‘I’m scared.’

When he hung up, Caldas went to the superintendent’s office, collecting Estevez en route.

‘Someone’s tried to get into Valverde’s house.’

The superintendent looked up from the document he was reading.

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. His wife got home to find the front gate smashed up. She’s just phoned to tell me.’

Soto asked the same question as Caldas himself earlier: ‘Is the husband all right?’

‘Yes. He was in the house but didn’t hear anything.’

The superintendent rubbed his forehead. ‘Do you think it was Diego Neira?’

‘I’m not certain,’ replied Caldas. ‘But Valverde is.’

‘Did he say so?’

‘No, but he didn’t want to call the police, and they’re not staying at the house tonight. He’s trying to find someone to fix the gate as soon as possible and then he’s leaving.’

‘Do you know where they intend to go?’

‘They’re coming to Vigo. Apparently they’ve got a flat here. She’s already on her way.’

‘Are you going out to Panxón?’

‘Yes, if only to have a look.’

Soto rubbed his forehead again. ‘If Neira was there this afternoon, his car can’t be far away.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘It’s a 4x4, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, a Land Rover. Light-coloured and rather old. Clara Barcia has the details,’ said Caldas.

‘OK then,’ said Soto, picking up the phone. ‘You two head over there. I’ll make sure the car’s found.’

The inspector urged Estevez to drive faster and, a little more than fifteen minutes later, they caught sight of the Templo Votivo del Mar by the light of a moon still as full as the night before. They’d travelled in silence, Estevez concentrating on the road and Caldas leaning back, eyes closed and window open a crack.

He opened his eyes as Estevez stopped the car at the bottom of the steep hill, headlights pointing at the gate of the Valverdes’ house. There was a large hole in the bottom corner by the pillar on which the gate was hinged. Leaving the lights on, they got out of the car to inspect the damage.

The gate was made up of four horizontal panels each about half a metre wide held together with iron fittings. The two lower panels had been partly pulled aside, leaving a gap big enough for even Estevez to crawl through.

‘They prised them off from the pillar side,’ said Estevez.

Caldas agreed and peered through the gap. Valverde’s black sports car was parked in the courtyard.

He couldn’t see the huge sitting-room window from there but he could tell from the brightness of the garden that there were lights on inside the house.