Death on a Galician Shore (17 page)

‘El Rubio wasn’t chatty,’ said the waiter, before adding: ‘But on Saturday he seemed different.’

‘Different?’

The waiter nodded. ‘Wouldn’t you be on the day you decided to commit suicide?’

Caldas and Estevez exchanged looks.

‘I realise now that he was trying to warn me, but I didn’t get it then,’ said the waiter.

‘To warn you?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t see that until I found out that his body had been washed up on the beach. You don’t know how sorry I am I didn’t get what he was trying to tell me. He was odd, but a good guy. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.’

‘What was it he said to you?’

‘That he was going to end it.’

‘Is that how he put it?’

‘Yes. He finished his drink, leaned on the bar and muttered: “I’m going to end it”. Then he got up and left. How was I to know that’s what he meant?’ he said regretfully.

Caldas drew on his cigarette. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Had he had much to drink?’

The waiter shook his head. ‘The same as usual. The same drink he had every Saturday.’

‘Did he seem anxious?’

‘Maybe … He must have been for some time. You know what they say in the village?’

‘No,’ Caldas lied.

‘They say he was being harassed.’

‘Castelo?’ said Caldas, as if it was the first time he’d heard this.

The waiter nodded.

‘Do they know by whom?’

‘That’s the weirdest part. Over ten years ago, a boat from the village, the
Xurelo
, sank. The skipper drowned, but some people are saying the boat’s reappeared and that the skipper’s come back to get revenge.’

‘Do you think Castelo really was scared of the skipper?’

‘I don’t know, Inspector. It’s what I’ve heard.’

A loud slam on the marble table signalled the end of another game of dominoes.

‘Who claims to have seen the boat?’ asked Caldas, raising his voice above the hubbub of the players’ voices.

‘No idea, Inspector,’ said the waiter but, pointing at the man in the fisherman’s cap approaching the counter for a refill, he added: ‘But they say he knows something.’

Caldas bought the man a drink. He was getting on in years. Beneath the visor of his captain’s cap, he had thick eyebrows, a hooked nose and lively eyes surrounded by lines scored by the sun and salt wind.

‘We were just talking about Justo Castelo,’ said Caldas.

‘Terrible shame. He was so young.’

‘Are you a fisherman, too?’

‘I’m retired, but I still go out to sea. Fishing – well, that’s another matter.’

Caldas smiled. ‘Not much out there?’

‘How could there be? The sea needs a rest, like all of us. If it doesn’t get one, it can’t reproduce. I bet you can’t reproduce if you’re tired, can you?’

Caldas finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

‘How well did you know Castelo?’

‘Same as everyone else,’ the fisherman replied. ‘More or less.’

‘Had he seemed more anxious lately?’

‘Maybe.’

Caldas simply nodded and looked him straight in the eye, letting the seconds pass. The man in the cap, made uncomfortable by the silence, added:

‘I can’t say for sure whether he was or wasn’t.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ muttered Estevez.

‘Not because I don’t want to,’ said the old sea dog. ‘It’s just that I don’t know. El Rubio hardly ever said a word.’

‘Don’t worry. That’s fine,’ said Caldas.

He was trying to think of how to bring up the subject of Captain Sousa, when the slamming of dominoes on the table speeded up, heralding the end of the game. Worried that the man in the cap would be drawn back to the players’ table by all the shouting that would erupt at any second, he got straight to the point.

‘Have you seen Captain Sousa?’

The fisherman choked on his drink.

‘Touch metal,’ he said, coughing, and tapping his knuckles on a metal napkin ring.

Estevez quickly tipped his stool back to get out of the fisherman’s reach, only just managing not to fall over. He needn’t have done so, however, as the man in the cap spat backwards, over his own shoulder. He didn’t seem too concerned about his aim.

‘We’ve heard that some fishermen here have seen him again,’ Caldas went on once the man had done with hawking. ‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’

‘Could be.’

‘You’ve seen the skipper?’

‘Not exactly.’

Caldas saw he’d have to prompt further: ‘What about his boat?’

The fisherman ran his hand over the cap.

‘Did you see Sousa’s boat?’ Caldas pressed.

‘The
Xurelo
, yes,’ the man replied at last.

At that moment, Caldas’s phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number on the display but, when the caller identified himself, the inspector withdrew and motioned to Estevez to continue the interview.

Caught a little off-guard, Estevez began, ‘Was it out at sea?’

‘Didn’t I say it was a boat?’

‘But were you at sea yourself?’ Estevez insisted.

‘Where else would I be?’

‘Well, I don’t know. You could have seen it from the harbour.’

‘Could have, but didn’t. I was fishing.’

‘OK then. Where were you?’

‘I told you,’ said the man in the cap. ‘I was at sea.’

Estevez took a deep breath.

‘The sea’s a big place,’ he said. ‘Could you be a little more specific?’

‘Over there,’ replied the fisherman, pointing towards the wall of the Refugio del Pescador as if human eyesight could pierce it. ‘By Monteferro.’

‘Are you sure that the vessel you saw was the
Xurelo
?’

‘Yes, I think it was.’

‘You think so, or you know for sure?’

The fisherman remained silent.

‘Fine, it seemed to you that it was the
Xurelo
,’ said Estevez.

‘That’s right.’

‘Was there anything about the boat that helped you distinguish it from others?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me. What led you to believe that it was the
Xurelo
?’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I’m the policeman here and I’m the one asking the questions.’

‘That’s true,’ said the man.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Could you please tell me what the fuck made you think that the boat you saw was this Captain Sousa’s boat?’

‘Didn’t I say I saw it?’

Estevez took another deep breath. ‘Didn’t you think it odd to see a boat that sank years ago?’

‘Wouldn’t you think so?’

‘Yes, I would definitely think it odd,’ said Estevez, now focusing more on resisting the urge to grab the fisherman by the lapels than on getting a definitive answer out of him. ‘But I’m asking you: what did you think?’

‘I didn’t think anything.’

‘How long did you see it for?’

‘Not long.’

‘A minute?’

‘Less than that.’

‘How much less?’

‘I don’t know. As soon as I realised it was the
Xurelo
, I started the engine and headed out of there.’

Estevez suspected he’d paused to spit overboard. ‘Which way?’ he asked.

‘Which way what?’

‘Which way did you head out of there?’

‘Back to the harbour, of course.’

‘You didn’t see it again?’

‘The
Xurelo
?’ said the fisherman, turning his finger on his temple.

‘You think I was going to look back when I was scared out of my wits?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘I am telling you.’

‘Did you or didn’t you look back?’

‘I thought I told you: I didn’t.’

When Caldas returned, Estevez was on his feet.

‘Thank God you’re back, boss,’ whispered Estevez, for once snorting with relief.

He told him what the man in the cap had said and Caldas took over:

‘So you only saw the boat for a moment.’

The old man nodded.

‘And only that one time?’

‘Yes, thank God.’

‘Do you know of anyone else who’s seen the boat?’

The fisherman gave him a few names.

‘Would you let the police know if you see it again?’ Caldas asked him.

‘I doubt I will,’ said the fisherman with a slight smile.

‘How can you be sure?’

The man slipped his hand inside his shirt and showed them the amulet hanging round his neck. ‘I’ve got this to protect me.’

It was a fist with the thumb protruding between the index and middle fingers, like the one found in Justo Castelo’s pocket.

‘A
figa
?’ said Caldas.

The old man nodded. ‘Others carry horseshoes, bay leaves or little bags of salt.’

The bag of salt! Caldas hadn’t thought of it since the day before.

‘Salt?’ he asked, surprised to hear that this was also believed to be a lucky charm.

‘Yes,’ replied the fisherman. ‘But I prefer the
figa
. Don’t you?’

Seagulls were still clustering on the slipway when they came out of the Refugio del Pescador. Arias was baiting traps on his boat. On the huge, almost deserted beach, a boy in a wheelchair was playing with a Labrador. He was throwing a ball into the sea and the dog was running after it, swimming out to retrieve it, leaping around the wheelchair, waiting for the boy to throw the ball again and bounding after it once more.

Walking to the car, Caldas thought about his father. And about the dog that greeted him excitedly and followed him among the vines.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Estevez.

‘To Valverde’s house.’

‘Again?’ objected Estevez.

Caldas nodded.

‘That was Valverde on the phone. His wife gave him my card. I’ve arranged to drop in there now, before the funeral. Let’s see what he knows about the skipper.’

‘It was many years ago, Inspector,’ said Marcos Valverde. ‘We’ve hardly spoken since.’

He was wearing a dark suit and tie. Caldas wondered whether it was for the funeral or he always dressed like that. Valverde was slim and not very tall. He had thick, straight, dark hair, combed back. Trabazo had said that Castelo, Arias and Valverde were the same age, but Valverde looked younger than the other two. Hours at sea had left no mark on his face and only the slightly greying hair at his temples hinted at his age.

‘If you were such good friends, why did you stop seeing each other?’

‘I couldn’t say. These things happen. I suppose it’s a defence mechanism, so as not to be constantly reminded of that dreadful night.’

‘Could you tell me what happened?’

‘When the boat went down?’

Caldas nodded, and Valverde took a deep breath, summoning his strength.

‘It was at night,’ he began. ‘It was very dark and seas were very heavy. Waves were washing over the deck. We had to shout to make ourselves heard. The skipper was at the helm, struggling to maintain our course.’

‘Where were you heading?’ interrupted Caldas.

‘We were on our way back to Panxón, near the island of Salvora.’

‘That’s a long way from here. Why didn’t you shelter in a port that was nearer?’

‘You’d have to ask the skipper,’ muttered Valverde. ‘But I suppose it was because we had a full hold. It was our second night and the weekend was coming up. He can’t have wanted the catch to rot on board.’

‘Right. So what happened?’

‘It was all so fast. The skipper yelled at us to hold on. Then we heard a terrible sound, as if the hull were breaking apart. The boat stayed still for a moment on the sandbank, then it started to list. Before we knew it we were in the water and when a flash of lightning lit up the sea, the
Xurelo
had disappeared. So we started swimming like crazy. We had to get through the breakers to reach shore.’

‘Were you wearing life jackets?’

‘We were near the coast, but without them we wouldn’t have reached shore. The skipper ordered us to put them on a few minutes before the boat went down.’

‘He didn’t put one on himself?’

‘El Rubio handed him one, but the last I saw of him he was gripping the helm, shouting, and, no, he wasn’t wearing a life jacket.’

Caldas nodded gravely.

‘The skipper’s only concern was to get the boat upright again, no thought for himself,’ added Valverde. ‘Captain Sousa was like that. A brave man, right to the very end.’

‘That was the last you saw of him alive?’

Valverde clicked his tongue to confirm this.

‘What happened after that?’

‘We were exhausted, battered and frozen. We climbed up on to the rocks and headed towards the lights. Arias and I were quiet, but El Rubio couldn’t stop crying. At daybreak we were brought back here. Captain Sousa’s body didn’t turn up until weeks later. It got caught up in a trawler’s nets.’

‘I know,’ said Caldas. ‘What happened after that between the three of you, the crew?’

‘We went our separate ways. El Rubio carried on fishing, Arias left the village and I got by as best I could.’

Caldas glanced around, at the straight lines of the sitting room and the huge window overlooking the bay.

‘You haven’t done too badly.’

‘Don’t be fooled by what you see, Inspector. I haven’t always lived in a house like this. Nothing’s been handed to me on a plate.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Can I ask you something, Inspector?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Why are you looking into a fisherman’s suicide?’

‘Routine,’ Caldas lied.

Valverde looked sceptical. ‘Two policemen come all the way from Vigo on a routine investigation?’

‘It’s procedure,’ Caldas assured him and changed the subject: ‘Did you know Justo Castelo was being harassed?’

‘I’d heard something like that. Someone painted the date of the sinking on his rowing boat. Is that what you mean?’

Caldas concurred.

‘As you can see, it’s hard to keep anything secret here,’ added Valverde.

‘There was a word painted on the boat as well,’ said Caldas.

‘What was it?’

‘“Murderers”.’

‘What?’ asked Valverde, but it was obvious from his expression that he didn’t need to hear it again.

‘“Murderers”,’ Caldas repeated anyway.

When Valverde remained silent, Caldas said, ‘You didn’t know?’

Valverde shook his head.