The Galician Parallax (16 page)

‘We need to act here first. Our cell up north has been discovered.’

A week later, three men were found shot dead in a bungalow in Galicia.

‘The show’s over. Three months’ work for nothing.’

Captain Eugenio Fonseca of the civil guards was looking over the dead bodies in the small bungalow a couple of kilometres from the town. One had a single shot in the head and was lying on the floor in the bathroom. He had been shot whilst relieving himself as his fly was still open and his hand was clutching his penis. The other two were sprawled out in the living room with three shots each, two at chest level and a third straight in the head. There were no signs of any struggle. He continued to walk around the house.

‘These guys knew who the killers were.’

Sergio, from one of the bedrooms, called the forensic inspectors. ‘Looks like they’d been sniffing,’ he said pointing at the remains of a cocaine party.

As the guards continued their search, it was apparent that whoever had annihilated the occupants had gone to great lengths to remove incriminating evidence including all identification.

Captain Fonseca was losing his patience. ‘Where are all the guns and explosives we were meant to find? No credit cards or false IDs either.’

At that moment, Sergio walked out into the hall carrying a large, scruffy rucksack that was in one of the bedrooms. He had searched through the contents and at first did not notice anything odd, yet something caught his eye. ‘Found this under the bed, sir. I wonder what part of the Basque country these come from.’

Sergio was holding a mat and a collar of beads.

After a quick look, the captain gave it back and walked towards the exit. ‘OK, I want a full list of everything around here. The magistrate should be arriving soon, you all know the routine.’

Back at HQ, Sergio was wrapping up the surveillance report on the dead suspects. The case had taken a twist and was now in the hands of the criminal investigation section of the national police department. He couldn’t take his mind off the rucksack, the only piece of evidence that didn’t fit the picture.

If these nuts were meant to be ETA terrorists, why were they murdered?
he thought.

Donald and Jerry were celebrating their initial run transporting the first lot of cocaine into the UK. The two newborn drug smugglers could not believe their success. They were tucked away in a corner of the pub going over the details of the trip.

‘Can’t believe how smooth it’s been,’ said Jerry. It was gone nine in the evening and they were into their third pint.

The
Pollyanna
had appeared on the scene entering the small Falmouth harbour around noon after its round trip down to Lisbon. Jerry had been waiting nervously at the pier with the truck drivers ready with a new crate of “empty” fenders. Once the yacht had dropped anchor and moored onto the allotted buoy, he started the outboard motor of their rubber dinghy and headed out to pick up the passengers. It wasn’t long before they were all back on the pier, Mr and Mrs Robertson thanking the yachtsmen for such a wonderful holiday.

‘Sure you don’t need any help?’ said Glen as Jerry headed back to the yacht. ‘She’s in the usual mess.’

‘Let’s get back uptown,’ said Don. ‘He’ll join us later.’

The fender swap was carried out in the same manner as that of the outbound voyage. The drivers nonchalantly loaded the truck, drove to Penryn and hid the fenders in the warehouse to wait for the right moment to unpack and transport the drugs north. The
Pollyanna
was once again “legal” and ready for the next trip. Donald was eager to know what happened in Vigo as he knew that it was his turn on the next trip.

‘I tell you, that Sr Perez is real cool.’

Both yachtsmen were familiar with the trajectory of each voyage and how to treat their paying passengers acting as navigation instructors and guides during the port visits. It was routine in La Rochelle with a stop at the old city visiting its two ancient towers, La Chaine and St Nicolas and a tour of the famous aquarium. Next stop Santander and suntan time enjoying one of the longest sand dunes on the northern Iberian coast. Once in Corunna a visit to the tomb of Sir John Moore was a must, the British general who fought one of the fiercest battles during the Napoleonic wars of the nineteenth century and died saving his army from the French onslaught. The final stop on the southbound journey was Lisbon and almost all of the passengers who ventured on the
Pollyanna
were taken on a tram ride around the old city ending up at a typical Portuguese restaurant before being prepared and briefed for the return voyage. The only stop involving the longest stay was at Vigo. This time, however, was different. Jerry was nervous.

At Lisbon, Jerry had called Sr Perez at the given number, told him the estimated time of arrival and was then given instructions on how to proceed once the
Pollyanna
had berthed at the Cangas wharf. After going through the usual immigration procedures, Jerry was to make his way to a bar opposite the marina called Francisco’s.

‘Just ask for Pepe the barman and tell him to call me, Sr Perez,’ the contact had said.

‘I did just as he said,’ said Jerry. ‘Within an hour this short, stocky Spaniard in a blue dirty overall walked in and made his way to the table I was seated at.’

‘That’s him,’ said Donald. ‘How did he actually recognise you?’

‘I was to order two bottles of Heineken, place them at the centre of the table and wait.’

Jerry went on to explain how both men then left the bar and went down to the wharf where
Pollyanna
was berthed. There were two other workers at the marina waiting alongside with two crates containing the “drug” fenders.

‘Boy was I…’

Donald suddenly froze. ‘What about Glen and the Robertsons?’

‘Come on, Don. Have you forgotten our business?’

It was Glen’s turn to escort the passengers on their visits. Once they had docked, they were soon on their way to Santiago to visit the cathedral clearing the way for the swap.

‘It’s your turn next, mate.’

The
Pollyanna
was scheduled to sail in a couple of weeks. Two new passengers had signed up for the voyage.

Sniggering and giggles filtered through the air into the head secretary’s office at the magistrate as a third deliveryman within a week brought her a neat but simple bouquet of a dozen roses.

‘Pretty persistent is our boss’ admirer,’ said one of the admin clerks in the main office.

‘Hope she doesn’t throw them in the bin like the other lot,’ said another. ‘They’re so beautiful.’

Expectancy reigned for a few minutes whilst the messenger left the room. Just as Gloria Menendez emerged with the flowers clutched firmly in her hand, a stern look on her face, Sergio appeared at the main entrance. Computers, shuffling of papers and an odd telephone that kept ringing froze, as all eyes were glued to the couple.

‘Good morning all,’ he said addressing the clerks. He walked towards Gloria oblivious to the human silence and said, ‘I tried white, then red and now yellow. They don’t come in any other colours.’

Gloria said nothing; didn’t move.

‘I suppose I could try mixing them next time.’

When Sergio had personally handed Gloria the final report on the several months of surveillance of the suspected ETA terrorists, he was still reeling in disgust at not being allowed to pursue the investigation now that it had turned into an interesting murder case. Once again the civil guard internal machinery kicked into place and a complete new team, cooperating with the national police force had taken over. He inadvertently let his anger spill out at the time by cursing the whole system including the judicial sector. Gloria had thrown him out of her office.

This time round, he was off duty and trying to apologise for his previous behaviour. He still had to work with the courts and Ms Menendez in particular as she was a vital link in the chain. On the other hand, his suspicion of an unrelated piece of evidence collected at the scene of the crime had bugged him ever since and he still didn’t want to let go. Gloria ushered him into her office and once they were both behind closed doors addressed him with fury.

‘Lieutenant, you know the rules. You were also clever enough not to leave a calling card, but this time the whole bloody office knows who had sent me roses. What the hell do you expect me to do? Say, “OK, let bygones be bygones”, give you a medal, or what?’ Gloria was almost in tears, choking on every other word.

Suddenly, it was Sergio’s turn. The tone of conversation took on a new dimension.

‘Shut up, will you? How do you think I feel? After months of work, just when we thought we were onto something… whoosh. The bimbos get their heads blown off and I’m meant to go back to “business as usual” whilst some other smart arses are handed a ticket on the gravy train.’

Gloria just stared at him.

‘Look, I realise I was rude last time but honestly, I didn’t mean it.’

There was still no response from Gloria.

Astutely he changed tactics. ‘Did the judge comment on the final report? I mean…’ He paused for a moment. ‘There was a piece of evidence that didn’t fit the picture; a rucksack with odds and ends including… damn it, an Arab prayer rug.’

Gloria just shook her head.
It was too much for one session with this nutcase
, she thought.

‘Any further news from our brothers in Spain?’ asked Hamjour. He looked across at the others seated around the dining room. Newspaper cuttings, maps and other assorted documents were spread out in an orderly manner across the large table, each with distinct interrelated numbers and other markings.

‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ said Atta. ‘Anyway, Europe will follow as soon as our mission here is accomplished.’ He stood up. ‘Praise be to Osama. Praise be to Allah.’

The rest followed suit. ‘Praise be to Osama. Praise be to Allah.’

The Bullock’s moved into their refurbished flat on the eighth floor at the beginning of the summer season. The layout consisted of four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living room, similar size kitchen, study and two magnificent balconies overlooking the Vigo Bay. Baby Gabriel’s bedroom was large enough to house a nursery. There was no shortage of “stuff” to occupy every available space in the apartment. It was filled with a mixture of old inherited furniture and Yolanda’s avant-garde additions. Dozens of photographs of the Mauro clan and the odd family portrait were spread out everywhere, intermingled with Stan’s additions of his own Cornish memorabilia. On the practical side, every possible piece of electrical mod-con equipment had been purchased and installed. Even Stan’s old PC had been substituted by the latest version on the market, compliments of his father-in-law.

‘Not bad,’ said Stan once the family had settled in, ‘I suppose I could get used to living here.’

Yolanda ignored his remark as she continued to prepare her son’s dinner. Stan stepped out onto the balcony and looked out towards the Royal Yacht Club. It was mid-evening; the sun, as bright as ever, was casting its rays on the scenery below announcing the beginning of the sailing season. A shiver went through Stan’s spine. Ever since his arrival he had spent all his time adapting to his new family status and learning all about the shipping industry and never given thought to any leisure. There was a school regatta just ending as dozens of single-sail dinghies bobbing up and down over the slight swell half a mile offshore were returning to the club. The arriving Cangas ferry was weaving its way through the armada. Yolanda joined him on the balcony with young Gabriel in her arms. He was beginning to doze off. She began to imitate the baby’s gurgles edging him on into slumber land. Stan was not paying attention.

I’ll get Gabriel into one, one day
, he thought as he continued to gaze across the bay. Gabriel was finally sound asleep. Yolanda went back inside to tuck him into his cot. Minutes later she returned and snuggled up to Stan.

‘Dad doesn’t really like the sea,’ she said, ‘never understood why.’

‘Reminds me of my own father.’

Yolanda looked puzzled.

‘All he ate was sausages and mash. He never liked fish.’

They both smiled as Stan put his arm around her. Yolanda sensed a feeling of anguish emitting from within him. Her own life had changed dramatically since the beginning of her relationship with Stan and the birth of their son. She felt happy and fulfilled. Yolanda remembered how she had persuaded him to start a new life in her own home town and he not only had accepted but had adapted remarkably well. Her main fear had been her own father’s acceptance. But Juan Jose acknowledged the inevitable union and had gone even further to engulf Stan in the Mauro household placing him in the correct ranking in the family hierarchy. But Yolanda felt something was still missing. Something was bothering Stan. She followed his gaze.

‘Why don’t we buy a yacht?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Nothing fancy, just for the three of us.’

08:35 EST. John Steeper had been on night duty at the back office sorting out the mail and was handing over to his relief, Cecilio Bernardez, when his supervisor called over from the front counter.

‘John, need you to take on the duty again tonight. Jason has called in sick.’

John was overdue on a week’s leave. He looked at Cecilio. ‘What the hell?’

He walked out of the sorting room and waved at his supervisor on his way out. ‘OK. See you tomorrow.’

As he was about to turn right along Vesey St. towards a car park just opposite the North Bridge to pick up his truck and drive back home, he had second thoughts. He decided for a quick breakfast at a coffee shop on Church St. Ten minutes later, as he pushed open one of the swing doors, the drone of a large jet aircraft punctured his eardrums. Seconds later, there was a large explosion. He looked up. The sky had turned bright red.