Death on a Galician Shore (16 page)

‘I spoke to José Arias this morning,’ said Caldas. ‘I haven’t seen Marcos Valverde yet. I’ve been to his house but only his wife was there. Things don’t seem to have gone too badly for him.’

‘Valverde’s clever and hard-working. He got out of fishing and went into construction. He must have made a lot of money.’

‘His wife said he’s just started a wine business.’

‘So I believe, but he’s not like your father, who makes wine because he loves it. He’s the only person I know who chooses the wine first and then the food to go with it. He’s not in it for the money or prestige, he simply wants to make good wine. That’s all that matters to him. But men like Valverde see a wine label as a way to status that money alone can’t buy.’

‘Is he honest?’

‘As much as anyone in construction can be. You’ve seen what they’ve done to the village in only a few years. There’s nothing left of the dunes, nothing left of anything,’ Trabazo lamented. ‘Before, when master builders built houses, around here they couldn’t produce something ugly even if they tried. Even the most modest houses had
charm. Later on I don’t know who the hell thought of using architects for building projects. Look what they’ve done. Rationalist buildings, they call them. But do you know what they are? Crap, Calditas, absolute crap.’

‘Well, Panxón isn’t as bad as some places.’

Trabazo waved his hand in disagreement. ‘In photographs from thirty years ago, the only thing that’s recognisable is the church. How could they have built so many houses in a fishing village like this? It’s unbearable in summer now.’

Caldas thought of Valverde’s wife and the months she must spend looking out of the huge window of her designer house, longing for the arrival of the hot weather and the holidaymakers.

‘Did you know that people are talking about Captain Sousa?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘They say they’ve seen him, and that he’s got something to do with the threats.’

Trabazo shrugged.

‘Do you think the other two are scared?’ asked the inspector.

‘Wouldn’t you be?’ said Trabazo.

‘I suppose I’d be concerned, at least,’ admitted Caldas. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘Sousa? Of course. He was a close friend. Not like your father, it was different. Do you remember me talking about my time fishing off Newfoundland?’

‘It rings a bell,’ said Caldas, lighting another cigarette.

‘I told you all about it when you were a boy, Calditas,’ muttered Trabazo with a smile. ‘Seems like my stories have become obsolete, like me.’

Lola arrived with a smoking earthenware dish on a tray. ‘I’ve brought you some chestnuts, as they’re in season.’

Trabazo removed his feet from the table so that his wife could set the chestnuts down. Caldas leaned towards the dish. It was an aroma he remembered well.

‘Lola stews the chestnuts with rue,’ said Trabazo. ‘Had you forgotten about the chestnuts as well?’

‘No, these I remembered,’ said Caldas, breathing in the smell he would always associate with that house. ‘You were telling me about Sousa and Newfoundland.’

Trabazo recounted how, after finishing his military service and
before going to university in Santiago, he’d spent a few months working on a cod trawler off Newfoundland.

‘Do you remember or not?’

Caldas made an equivocal gesture as he slit open a chestnut. He remembered the story but he didn’t want to interrupt Trabazo. He listened again to tales of cod as big as men, of nets taut to breaking point as they were hoisted from the water, and of noisy seals swimming alongside the boats.

‘Do you know something, Calditas?’ said Trabazo, just as he used to, to grab Caldas’s attention when he was a boy. ‘The seals would bark at us from the water. I was convinced they were complaining because we were taking all their fish, and my shipmates made fun of me. But you know what, Calditas? I was right. There are no more cod in Newfoundland. They’ve been fished out.’

Caldas remembered him describing the work on board when they were fishing on the Grand Banks. The cod were beheaded up on deck then passed to the scaler, who slit them open. Then they were boned, washed in a tank, and transferred to the hold, to be salted.

Trabazo also spoke about a storm, and a blonde in a bar in Saint Pierre. He hadn’t forgotten her eyes, as blue as the sea in summer, or her giant, drunken boyfriend who had almost torn his head off.

‘If one of my shipmates hadn’t stood up to him, I wouldn’t be here now telling you this story,’ he said, dunking a freshly peeled chestnut in his liqueur and popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly and swallowed, adding: ‘That shipmate was Antonio Sousa. Nobody called him captain in those days.’

As they made their way back along the hallway, accompanied by the smell of cooked chestnuts, Caldas asked, ‘Did you say Sousa had a son?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he live in the village?’

‘No, he left a while back to work in Barcelona. His father was buried years ago, but the rumour mill wouldn’t let him forget.’ Barcelona was a long way away.

‘Right.’

‘He’s a good lad,’ added Trabazo, putting his arm around the inspector. ‘I’d lay down my life for him, as I would for you.’

*

Opening a glass door, Trabazo beckoned to Caldas to follow. ‘Remember the sitting room?’ he asked, searching through a chest of drawers.

Caldas nodded. ‘I remember the picture,’ he said, indicating the enamel piece by Pedro Solveira that hung above the sofa. ‘My father’s always loved it.’

‘So have I,’ smiled Trabazo, taking an old photograph from a drawer. He brought it over to the inspector. ‘This is me with Sousa in a bar in Newfoundland,’ he said, holding out the black-and-white print.

In it, two men were raising their glasses to the camera. They wore the same expression, their eyes shining, mouths open. Caldas placed a finger on the younger of the two.

‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ he said, and Trabazo answered with a half-smile.

‘I still remember the song we were singing when the photo was taken,’ said the retired doctor.

Caldas now focused his attention on Sousa. He had curly hair and was slightly taller than Trabazo. Sinewy arms protruded from his rolled-up shirtsleeves. An elongated object, like a club, hung from his belt.

‘We worked hard but we had a lot of fun, too,’ said Trabazo, and pointed to a shadow in the background of the photograph. ‘The pianist would play till dawn.’

Caldas glanced at the blurry figure of the pianist, before looking more closely at the object attached to Sousa’s belt.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing.

‘Sousa called it the “
macana
”. It was a sort of club – a thick stick with a rounded end. I bet the blonde’s boyfriend hasn’t forgotten it. Sousa knocked him out with a single blow,’ laughed Trabazo, and Caldas tried to smile back.

‘Was it metal?’

‘The
macana
? No, it was made from a very hard wood. He won it from a Mexican in a card game, or so he claimed. He always carried it, right to the end. It must have gone down with him, with the boat.’

Caldas squinted, trying without success to make out the
macana
’s exact shape.

‘Have you got any other photos of him?’

‘Of Sousa?’

Caldas nodded.

‘No,’ said Trabazo. ‘But Don Fernando must have several. He used to take pictures of the fishermen in the harbour.’

‘Who’s Don Fernando?’

‘He was the village priest until a few years ago. But even priests aren’t exempt from ageing, so he’s retired. These days he only says Mass occasionally, when he gets a special request.’

‘Does he still live in Panxón?’

‘Yes. Where else would he go after a lifetime here? He’s still in the same house, behind the church.’

Estevez was waiting outside Trabazo’s house. Caldas got into the car, opened the window a crack and lay back in his seat.

‘Where to?’ asked Estevez.

‘The harbour,’ said Caldas, closing his eyes. ‘How did you get on?’

‘No luck, Inspector. No one in the area sells green cable ties. They say they’ve never even seen any. They’ve got black or white, but not green.’

‘Right.’

‘How about you?’

‘I’ve been told about an incident involving a police officer on the jetty in the harbour. Would you mind telling me what the hell happened?’

‘I told you: he spat at me, Inspector. What did you expect me to do – just go on my way?’

‘You said you didn’t do anything to him.’

‘No, no. What I said was that I felt like throwing him into the sea but, as God is my witness, I restrained myself.’

‘But you did hit him …’

‘With an open hand,’ said Estevez defensively, as if the fisherman should have been grateful for being slapped rather than punched. ‘They were driving me nuts, I couldn’t get them to answer any questions.’

‘That’s no reason to beat them up.’

‘I told you, he spat at me. Anyway, I only hit one of them.’

‘I don’t care, Rafa. I’m tired of this. If you feel jumpy and need to get it out of your system, just smash something.’

‘Smash something?’

‘Yes. Anything but strike someone again without good reason.’

They parked on the jetty. Justo Castelo’s traps were still stacked against the wall, a few metres away. The tide was at its height. At the bottom of the slipway, by the water’s edge, they saw José Arias’s imposing bulk. He was no longer wearing the waterproof hat he’d sported that morning. His hair was curly and as dark as the stubble on his chin. His trailer, with the rowing boat on it, was also down by the water.

‘Shall I come with you?’ asked Estevez.

‘Yes,’ said Caldas. ‘But let me do the talking.’

The policemen made their way down the slipway. A plastic bucket full of horse mackerel stood beside the fisherman.

‘Are you going fishing?’

‘No,’ replied Arias in his deep voice. ‘I’m just rowing out to the boat to bait the traps. I won’t be going out until after the funeral.’

‘Do you have a minute?’

‘Yes, but no more.’

Caldas didn’t want to waste time either.

‘Did you know that Castelo found something graffitied on his boat one morning?’

Arias nodded.

‘Do you know what it said?’ asked the inspector.

‘Pretty much.’

‘You didn’t see it?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘It was a date,’ said the inspector, though he knew he didn’t need to. ‘The twentieth of December 1996. Does it mean anything to you?’

Arias looked him in the eyes.

‘You know it does, Inspector.’

‘There was something else. A word.’

Arias raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Beneath the date was the word “Murderers”. Do you have any idea why someone should have written such a thing on Castelo’s boat?’

‘No,’ replied the fisherman, though it sounded more like a ‘yes’.

‘Are you sure?’ insisted Caldas.

The fisherman nodded and looked down at the fish that would serve as crab bait.

‘He never mentioned it?’

‘Who?’

‘Castelo.’

‘I told you, El Rubio and me, we didn’t speak much.’

‘Do you know what the people of the village think?’

‘How would I know that?’

Estevez snorted and Caldas looked round. His glare was enough to stop Estevez from speaking.

‘There’s been talk of Captain Sousa,’ said Caldas. ‘I think you knew him well.’

‘Years ago,’ admitted Arias, again meeting the inspector’s gaze.

‘People claim to have seen Sousa in the village. They say he was the one threatening Justo Castelo.’

Estevez stepped back, out of range of the spitting that invariably followed any mention of the captain.

The huge fisherman, however, did not spit or touch metal. He simply said that he hadn’t seen Sousa and apologised for being unable to spare any more time.

‘Just one more thing,’ said Caldas. ‘Have you been threatened yourself?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes,’ said Caldas.

Arias shook his head, but his eyes told a different story.

Four old men were playing dominoes at the table by the window. Two others were watching the game, sitting at the corners of the marble table, between players. A third man, in a fisherman’s cap, stood watching, holding a glass of liqueur. They were the only customers that afternoon.

They didn’t look up as Caldas and Estevez entered and crossed the bar. The policemen took stools at the end of the counter furthest from the domino players’ table, and ordered coffee. The waiter was different from the one that morning. The television was switched on but muted, and the only sound was the clacking of dominoes on the marble table.

Someone had left a copy of Justo Castelo’s death notice on the counter, by the cash register.

When the waiter served their coffee, they quietly introduced themselves.

‘You’re here about El Rubio, aren’t you?’ the waiter said, gesturing towards the notice.

Caldas confirmed that they were and said that someone had seen Castelo at the bar on Saturday afternoon, the day before he died.

‘Yes, he was here, sitting right where you are now,’ the waiter said, also keeping his voice down.

‘Do you remember what time?’

The waiter was about to reply when the sound of dominoes on marble rang out, as loud as a gunshot, followed by a burst of laughter and swearing. At the only occupied table, players and spectators
were all talking at once, debating the previous round. Then one of them shuffled the tiles and the voices quietened. After another slam of dominoes on the table, silence returned and the waiter said:

‘At eight, as usual on a Saturday.’

‘He was a regular?’

‘Most of the fishermen in the village are,’ he said, gesturing to a point somewhere behind the policemen. Caldas wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the domino players or the boats moored on the water. ‘El Rubio had coffee here every day. Always at the same time. During the week he came in for a while before going out fishing. On Saturdays he’d have a drink around eight.’

José Arias had said that the last time he’d seen Castelo alive, he’d been talking to the waiter. Caldas lit a cigarette before asking about it.