The Galician Parallax (2 page)

When Stan arrived at the Vigo railway station the following morning, he walked up to the news-stand to purchase the local paper. The news of the death was in the left-hand corner of the front page. He skipped through the pages searching for the section with the full report. There were no photos, just a few lines suggesting a suicide and that the police were still checking it out.
Thank God for that
, he thought,
at least the press is not making a meal out of it
. He hailed a cab and headed straight for the port. It was quarter to eight in the morning and the
Caledonia
was due to dock in fifteen minutes. Once on board, Captain Reynolds gave Stan the usual documents plus the ship’s log for countersignature confirming satisfaction with all routine docking activities handled by the agent’s staff. He just flipped through the front-page checklist before signing both copies.
Fuel and water: OK. Pilot: OK. Wharf and gangway procedures: OK. Immigration and customs: OK. Passenger movement: None
. Stan would normally stay for a coffee with Captain Reynolds and discuss any “off the cuff” business that needed attention. Not this time.

‘I’ve got to get back to the office, Captain; urgent business.’ He began to perspire heavily as he walked down the gangplank and across the docks towards his office. Stan had second thoughts.

The Taboada police station was just around the corner from the Mauro Shipping Agency. Instead of reporting back, Stan headed for the station.
The Caledonia can wait
, he thought,
she’ll be around all day
. It was already nine and the entrance was crowded with immigrants and Spaniards queuing to renew or receive new ID cards. There was a third line of foreigners; all awaiting appointments with the authorities, hoping for legal residence permits. Stan knew his way around as he’d visited the police on several previous occasions to interview the odd delinquent Brit. He made his way through the melee and managed to make the elevator halfway down the corridor. Lieutenant Garcia’s office was on the third floor.

‘The lieutenant isn’t in yet, Sr Bullock. He won’t be long.’ Stan thought for a moment and then smiled at the young secretary.

‘He’s across the park isn’t he?’ She smiled back.

Stan found Garcia at the counter of the
Alameda
coffee shop. The place was chocker full of the morning “
cafelito
” mob, all eating and munching their daily breakfast of coffee and
churros
. Most were deeply immersed in the bar’s freely available daily newspapers. Garcia was checking the sports page of the
Atlantico
, the local rag, as Stan sat down beside him.

He looked up. ‘Sr Bullock. What a surprise; thought you were in Madrid.’ He put the paper down. ‘Sorry about the dead man. Sad case when people take their lives. The corpse is at the Nicolas Peña Hospital for the autopsy.’

‘I’m waiting for a call from Madrid as they’re in contact with the family.’ Stan was still a bit nervous but determined to find out more. ‘Lieutenant, how do you determine that it was… ? I mean…’

Garcia smiled as he interrupted Stan in mid-sentence. ‘Instinct first, Sr Bullock; investigation next; suicide notes; hundreds of scientists with rubber gloves turning the room upside down only appear in the movies. Unless the forensic finds anything unusual with the body, it’s a clear case of suicide.’

Lieutenant Garcia nevertheless assured Stan that all possible angles of the investigation would be concluded. ‘No stone will be left unturned. Remember Sr Consul, that we have all the deceased’s belongings. Once the funeral arrangements are dealt with, his relatives will have to sign off the register at the magistrate’s before disposal. More bureaucracy, I’m afraid.’

More headaches for me
, thought Stan, still not sure of the procedures. He was about to leave when a call came through on his mobile. It was Danny from Madrid advising him that London had forwarded NOK flight details. According to the e-mail, a Ms Joan Flashman would be on flight IB578 arriving in Vigo around 1 p.m. on Friday.

Two days later, Stan was at the airport with his driver holding up the usual identification card with “Joan Flashman” printed in large letters, when a middle-aged woman dressed in scruffy jeans and blue polo-necked jumper appeared through the exit gate. Her only luggage was a small green rucksack hung over her shoulder.

‘Ms Flashman? I’m Stan Bullock, the consul; very sorry to…’ He was cut short.

Far from bereaved, the woman looked worried and nervous yet went straight to the point. ‘Cut the sorrow. Your London people briefed us on procedures but left the details to you; so, what next?’

A startled Stan thought
what the hell
? Before he could answer Joan cleared the mystery. ‘It’s OK. I’m the company secretary from Maiden Voyages. Donald Simmons and his sister have been estranged for years. He has no other family. Need to clear this up as soon as possible.’

Stan was not quite sure how to take the icy reception, nevertheless, without uttering another word he escorted her out into the car park and once in the car ordered the driver to head for the magistrate’s office and thence on to the funeral parlour.

‘What are the family’s wishes regarding the remains of Sr Simmons, Srta Flashman?’ asked the funeral parlour manager as he handed her an initial set of papers to sign. ‘The consul will take care of the repatriation documents later.’

Joan Flashman had brought the appropriate power of attorney authorising her to deal with the body including the retrieval of Donald’s belongings at the magistrate’s office. ‘They would prefer cremation and local burial as soon as possible; any problem?’

In the usual diplomatic manner the manager enquired about payment, as there was no indication of insurance or other means of reimbursing the costs.

‘What’s the total bill, please?’

The manager began to rummage through the documents and fiddle with a hand calculator when Joan added, ‘I’ll be paying in cash; is that OK?’ She turned and looked at Stan. ‘When the ashes are ready, please take them and scatter them across the bay. Is there anything else that needs my presence? I’ve got to catch the evening flight back to Madrid for some unfinished business.’

Without another sign of either grief or feeling, and as the manager handed her the receipt, Joan pulled out a wad of 200-Euro bills and paid the cost in full. As they were approaching Stan’s car and pointing at the boot, he asked, ‘What about his belongings?’

Joan Flashman thought for a moment. ‘I’ll take care of his PC. You can hand over the rest to a charity.’

His passport would be returned to the General Consulate in Madrid.

‘Your wife’s already gone home,’ said Penelope, Stan’s secretary, as he finally got back to his office. It was gone seven-thirty in the evening.

‘It’s been a hell of a day; hope you calmed her down as usual.’ Without a word, Penelope pulled out an envelope and handed it to her boss.

‘She gave me this. Concert starts in an hour’s time.’

‘Shit.’

A few days after Donald Simmons’ death, Stan received the unexpected visit of a Corunna-based civil guard, Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga. He was in his office preparing for the visit of another cruise ship, the
Fountain of the Sea
.

‘Good morning, Sr Consul, remember me?’

Stan recalled the face and then smiled. ‘Yes, of course… Lieutenant Quiroga, the case of the drowned retired British Navy officer last year. What brings you to Vigo?’

‘Just a hunch, Sr Consul, just a hunch; it’s this suicide last week involving a Brit; something didn’t click.’

Stan was puzzled at first, then inquisitive. ‘How come the civil guards up north have taken an interest?’

‘They haven’t. It’s personal. Some authorities are quick to get rid of foreigners who suddenly die on their patch. The tourist trade is too important for them to be embarrassed by a death, especially of those who commit suicide.’

Stan followed the argument through confirming the details of the investigation until it suddenly dawned on him. ‘I see you’re well versed.’ Sergio explained that he’d read the news in the papers and that his curiosity had taken over. He then asked for the police report.

‘Let’s say I have a suspicious mind if other cops react too quickly.’

Once again, Stan looked puzzled. Sergio clarified that access to confidential information between different sectors of the country’s security agencies was quite common. If a department feels that an incident or event needs further checking just in case it may relate to other criminal investigations, the authorities in question are quite happy to hand over any details of a particular case. ‘No different to your country Sr Consul or between our countries’ police, wouldn’t you say?’

‘OK, I give in. What’s it got to do with me, anyway? I’ve carried out all the consular duties; you know that.’

Sergio hesitated for a moment, looked behind him to make sure they were not within hearing distance of a third party, turned and said, ‘I think that your Brit, Donald Simmons, did not commit suicide.’

Stan was taken aback. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t you notice anything odd with the deceased’s belongings? No, of course not; you’re not a cop.’

‘Go on.’

‘The report had said that Simmons had hung himself with one of the curtain cords yet there was no knife in the room. The second clue was that he was due to leave the next day, but not back to England. His airline ticket was an open-ended round trip to Santo Domingo.’

Stan thought for a moment and simply responded, ‘So what, a worldly tour like many others?’

‘Could be,’ Sergio smiled. ‘I suppose it does justify an extra-large suitcase. I did some of my own research and checked on any previous visits to Spain by a Mr Donald Simmons. Guess what? He’s been in and out of Galicia several times over the past six months.’

‘Sounds like a world traveller; what’s so odd about that?’

Sergio ignored the remark. ‘There was one other piece of evidence that the police overlooked; a holiday brochure titled
Maiden Voyages
.’

Stan’s apprehension began to turn.

‘I looked it up on the Internet. It’s a round-trip yachting business that includes trips down to Lisbon from Falmouth in the UK. The page lists among others, two large yachts, the
Serene Maiden
and the
Gentle Maiden
. They alternate on the runs. Names of the business directors: Glen Richards, Jerry Fulton, Ron Stanton, Mavis Stanton and… guess what… a Mr Donald Simmons.’

Both men stared in silence.

‘Coming back to this British naval officer you dealt with last year. He disappeared off a yacht and the body appeared much later on the rocks off Corme, right?’

‘Yes; go on.’

‘It was the name of the yacht that struck a chord…
Serene Maiden
.’

‘Could’ve been a coincidence but there’s still another point which is even more puzzling. A few days ago a couple of Algerian criminals were arrested; caught with several packets of cocaine, false documents and a dozen stolen credit cards.’

‘I remember the press saying it was just another drug raid; pretty routine around here wouldn’t you say?’

‘You may be right.’ Sergio got up and picked up a calendar on Stan’s desk. For a few seconds he browsed through the pages and then put it back. ‘But you see, Sr Consul, amongst all the garbage these guys had on them was a diary with strange jottings and dates…’

‘Wait. I’m losing you… all this investigation, what’s it got to do with me?’

Again Sergio fell silent as if searching for the right words. ‘The suicide case was closed just under a week ago. All info filed. My cop colleagues who caught these goons are up in Orense; another province, another town and another police station.’

Stan was more confused than ever. Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga, a civil guard from the Corunna HQ, 180 miles away, was offloading conjectural information and analysis on a dead Brit down in Vigo. Sergio sat down and again picked up the desk calendar. He looked up at Stan and then bent forward towards him as if intending to whisper.

‘I apologise, Sr Consul.’ He paused for a moment. ‘When they translated some of the notes in their diary there was mention of meetings with “a contact” in Vigo including the day Simmons died.’

‘How come the police in Orense didn’t come to the same conclusion?’

‘Good question, but they didn’t. There’s a hell of a lot more to these related incidents, but…’ He got up, leaned on the desk and in an odd pleading manner said, ‘I may need your help, Sr Consul, because… I think… Mr Simmons may have been murdered, Sr Consul.’

Stan instinctively began to scratch his nose followed on by rubbing his chin. Ms Flashman’s odd reactions were still vivid in his mind.

‘What exactly is it you want from me, Lieutenant?’

Sergio suggested a more relaxed and convenient place to talk. Stan looked at his watch, thought for a moment and reached for his jacket.

‘Let’s go across the road.’

Thirty or so years ago an eccentric German beachcomber called Man turned up at the small seaside resort of Camelle and began to live and build a small museum on the rocks with all kinds of rubbish that the sea threw up from time to time; tin cans, driftwood, dried seaweed and other objects turned into avant-garde miniature monuments of all shapes and sizes that even the likes of Picasso and Dali would envy. Over the years, he became a sort of mascot protected and pampered by the townsfolk who used his works of art as an advert in their local tourist campaigns. When the infamous oil tanker
Prestige
broke up and sank off the Galician coast in November 2002, spilling oil sludge along the coast, alas his lifetime “children”, as he called his achievements, turned into an oily heap of black smelly compost. Within days a heartbroken artist sat down on the rocks and passed away.

Sergio and Gloria decided to motorbike down to the town to visit the remains of the museum. She was clearing and washing up the breakfast leftovers when Sergio blurted out from the living room, ‘Did I ever tell you about our department checking this guy out for drugs about six years ago?’