The Galician Parallax (29 page)

‘This port needs expanding fast,’ said Chema as he offered Stan a donut. ‘We’re running out of capacity and with all the new, big containers coming off the production line we’ll be losing trade very soon. Depth, we need more depth.’

‘A couple of cruise-ship captains have voiced the same opinion, Chema.’ He poured himself another cup. ‘We all know the problem.’

‘Bloody politicians.’

Politically-appointed presidents run the Spanish ports. Depending on the whim of the party the investments tend to be partisan and short-lived. All it needs is a change in the local regional government and the ruling body is ousted and replaced by the opposition. The effect is that any workload of importance takes twice as long to implement and the result is that all infrastructure projects are behind demand by at least ten years. Meanwhile further down the coast and across the River Miño is Portugal. The city of Oporto is the new high-flyer on the Iberian coast with Viana do Castelo halfway down catering for smaller vessels. All are making smart moves to compete with their Galician counterparts.

‘Thank God we’ve got the fishing industry,’ said Chema. Stan gulped the remains of his coffee.

‘No comment.’

The
White Princess
was due in at 8 a.m. carrying over 3,000 tourists. Stan looked at his watch; it was seven-thirty. The summer heat had not yet hit the city as he walked out onto the wharf. At that moment his mobile rang. It was the civil guards’ HQ in Corunna advising him that an elderly Brit was in the Canalejo Hospital morgue. Stan took down the details. The
Princess
had just entered the bay and would dock within fifteen minutes. Stan called the embassy switchboard asking for the duty officer. Coincidentally, Danny Wilton was on duty.

‘I have a dead, retired naval officer in Corunna, Danny, could be a Lieutenant Commander James Bentley-Smith. I have no other information as he was plucked from the sea without any ID. A Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga is investigating and will give me more details later on this morning.’

‘How come the vagueness?’

‘Apparently an MOB…’

‘What’s that?’

‘Sorry, forgot you guys live in the prairie. A distress signal from a yacht indicating a “man overboard” was sent out some time ago. Info was traced back to my old lot in Falmouth. This could be the same person.’

‘OK, expert. I’ll check it out.’

Danny was on to the FCO London Spanish desk right away.

It wasn’t long before the identity of the lieutenant commander was traced back to Maiden Voyages. The body of the
Serene Maiden
’s passenger washed up on the shores of Galicia had been relayed immediately by the FCO once the details had been fed through from Stan’s office. The identity had been confirmed beforehand. The naval commander was a widower with no children and his nearest relatives had all passed away. He lived on his own, assisted by a full-time nurse-cum-domestic help and his nearest friends were a bunch of retired servicemen at the local club in downtown Bristol. On Friday evenings his regular darts and pints bash at the Coronation Tap pub completed his retired leisure time.

When Donald Simmons and Jerry Fulton had arrived back at Falmouth, the tragedy had been reported as per their own entries in the log that had been accepted by the authorities. What they told Mr Billson was another story. They had no choice but to tell him the truth. The “old boy” had passed away peacefully after a good bout of rum and the yachtsmen had decided to dump the body overboard with full gear almost immediately and steer away from the 200-mile limit to avoid Spanish enquiries before reporting the incident. Their log entries were rigged accordingly. Hoping the body would be discovered weeks or months later, they knew as good seamen that due to its decomposed state it would be difficult for a forensic to reveal the exact cause of death. However, there were other bureaucratic problems to sort out that kept Maiden Voyages on edge for several days. Despite the drugs being safely delivered to the warehouse, Mr Billson was not satisfied.

‘Who’s going to foot the bloody bill?’ asked Mr Billson over the phone.

Although she had a rough idea of what to do, Joan Flashman had called Manchester to check before any action was taken.

‘The problem is, sir, who’s going to take care of the body? Understand the British Consul in Vigo is handling the case. The old geyser had no relatives. I’ve checked out the insurance clauses on our passenger policy and think I can sort the money bit, but the Spanish side needs an answer, soon.’

Mr Billson told Joan to go ahead with whatever she saw fit and to close on the affair as soon as possible.

‘Got his teeth into a new bone,’ said one of the young clerks as she hinted at Sergio busily working away at his PC. The puzzled look on her colleague’s face prompted her to add, ‘He’s chewing gum again.’

The autopsy report on the lieutenant commander was complex, full of medical terms but the conclusion had revealed that he had died of exposure as a result of weeks in the ocean. There was no indication of foul play and the fact that he’d died of a heart attack before being dumped overboard was not mentioned. Sergio was checking through the Internet to verify the results out of his own curiosity. He was still puzzled that no distress signal device was found on the body. Still, the distances between the MOB and the actual discovery of the body kept humming in his mind although he knew that his knowledge of tides and other meteorological data was limited.

‘What the hell,’ he muttered after navigating for a couple of hours on the net. He picked up his mobile and dialled an unlisted number.

Stan had been assured by the Corunna undertakers that the yachting company’s insurance had confirmed payment of the recovery and all other costs related to the deceased lieutenant commander but that they were still awaiting final approval for disposal of the body. He had been in contact directly with the Foreign Office and as usual, until exhaustive checks were made back in the UK, they could not allow the Spanish authorities to complete the funeral transaction. As the undertakers were quite happy to wait for London to give the go-ahead there was nothing more Stan could do but just wait. About to check on the list of ships due in over the next week he received a call on his consular mobile.

‘Bullock, British Consul, can I help you?’

‘It’s me again, Lieutenant Quiroga from the civil guards, Sr Consul. It’s about that dead Brit; just wished to confirm that all is in order and if we could be of any further assistance.’

Before he could answer Sergio suddenly added, ‘I understand you were a coastguard back in England, sir.’

‘That’s right. Why?’

‘You must know all about currents, winds and all that.’

Stan, at first, wasn’t quite sure what the guard was driving at. He hesitated for a moment. ‘Are you puzzled at the distance between drop and recovery points of the body?’

‘I make it about a hundred miles give or take a few percentage points, but not understanding the ocean’s behaviour it could be perfectly normal, correct?’ Before Stan could answer Sergio added, ‘There was no beacon on the body either; wouldn’t you find that strange?’

Stan was curious. Up until now all the paperwork including police and magistrate reports, autopsy diagnostics, bills and undertakers’ requirements, except for the disposal of the body had been finalised, yet he knew that the guard had a point.
If I commit myself
, he thought,
it could open up a can of worms
. With tongue in cheek he told the lieutenant that to check on any other possible conclusions a thorough investigation would have to take place. Weather conditions of the whole period in question would have to be taken into account and that unless he was willing to open up the case, he as consul had done his work.

‘You’re right, Sr Consul. Let sleeping dogs lie as they say in your country, correct?’

Stan smiled as he hung up. ‘Clever bastard.’

Two days later, after an exhaustive search by the FCO for family or other ties, Danny Wilton gave Stan the go-ahead for the undertakers to organise a local burial in Galicia. It was Juan Jose, when he found out that the deceased was a British naval commander, who suggested that it might be a good idea for the officer to be buried in the British naval cemetery in Villagarcia.

‘This would be a great event for the locals,’ he told Stan, ‘I’m sure they’d be delighted.’

Within days, thanks to the Defence Attaché at the embassy, the British Admiralty in London gave approval. Next step was a visit to the town council for their comments.

An extremely nervous Joan Flashman was on the phone almost immediately.

‘What the hell are we going to do, sir?’

The BBC’s Cornish correspondent had found out about the events unfolding in Galicia regarding the lieutenant commander’s death and had called Maiden Voyages for an interview.

‘There’s going to be a big ceremony in some local British cemetery when they bury this naval guy we lost overboard last summer. The whole of the Spanish media is involved.’

Mr Billson was lost for words. He thought that the affair had been put to bed months ago.

‘Sir, are you there?’

He gained his composure. ‘Yes Joan, just calm down.’

They went over all the details of the tragedy once again to make sure that there were no loose ends.

‘Check with Jerry and Donald, also make sure that the Stantons are fully aware of what’s going on. You need to go over the facts with them again, just in case.’

When Stan had called on the town council and proposed a local burial for the deceased lieutenant commander, the mayor was overjoyed. He gave Stan his assurance that the council would take care of all the arrangements. It was Juan Jose who warned his son-in-law to be prepared for a real jamboree.

‘It’s been nearly seventy years since the last British naval seaman was buried there. Knowing the town, everyone will be involved and more.’

In the meantime the embassy in Madrid had agreed for a diplomatic representative to be present. The Spanish Navy organised a detachment of marines to march through the town and a group of local bagpipes would lead the parade. Meanwhile, representatives of the Spanish media in Galicia were quick to sniff out the event and contact their HQs who in turn spread the word across the Channel to the United Kingdom. The build-up was impressive as details of the mishap began to emerge. Saucy headlines competed amongst the British tabloids with samples such as “WWII sub basher rests at last” or the milder “British Commander finally honoured by Spaniards”, heading the list. The details of his tragic death intermingled with the reason for his voyage in the first place as many journalists poured ink over pages of daily news on the subject matter.

Despite the cumulus of menacing storm clouds that loomed above the town, there was a respite in the weather forecast that had warned of drizzly hours during the morning of this mid-September Saturday. Thus a humid but dry atmosphere with the exact touch of mild temperature gave television and newspaper cameras a clear vision of the event. Thousands of bystanders had lined the streets to watch and pay homage as the entourage of dignitaries who would be walking behind the hearse drove past en route towards the cemetery a couple of miles on the outskirts of the town. The Spanish Navy contingent was the first to arrive and immediately lined up on either side of the entrance gates. The pipers gathered on the opposite side of the street continuing their mini concert with a variety of Gaelic themes. The pallbearers lifted the coffin out of the vehicle and slowly entered the cemetery grounds towards the officer’s assigned resting place. Once it reached its destination a sole Spanish Naval bugler began to play a solemn note as the town’s Catholic priest delivered the last rites. On the opposite side of the coffin, Stan and Juan Jose were standing to attention between Captain John Sedgwick, the British Naval Attaché and the Mayor of Villagarcia. Seconds later Lieutenant Commander James Bentley-Smith, RN was finally lowered into his grave.

Once the ceremony was over, the usual dispersion of crowds took place by the local police whilst the rest of the ceremonial contingent intermingled with the usual chit-chat on the event. Press reporters and cameras swarmed on the authorities searching for an extra snip of fresh information to add to the worn out text for the following day’s editorials. Stan was being interviewed by Galician television surrounded by dozens of other reporters, mini recorders in hand, when he noticed an unfamiliar uniformed figure standing a few feet away that was not part of the burial committee or the crowd-control group. Minutes later, as he was about to board the awaiting limousine to return to the town council he was approached by a civil guard in uniform.

‘I’m Lieutenant Quiroga, Sr Consul, at your service any time.’ He looked around. ‘This town brings back memories.’

Not understanding a word, Stan shook hands politely, got into his awaiting car and told the chauffeur to drive off. Sergio saluted, smiled and walked away.

Sir Ralph Armstrong had recently arrived in Madrid as Her Majesty’s new Ambassador to Spain. It was his last posting before retirement. He hadn’t been in the post for more than a couple of months when a new diplomatic row between Britain and Spain had erupted involving a RN nuclear submarine,
HMS Sunbeam
that had been sighted too near Spanish territorial waters around Gibraltar. He was summoned to the Spanish Foreign Minister’s office for a “formal” explanation of the irresponsible incursion. As previous ambassador in Buenos Aires he was well versed in Britain’s territorial battles over her old colonies. Argentina consistently claimed sovereignty over the Falkland Islands and he had had similar meetings with the Argentine Government to discuss the matter.

‘You’ve just been to Galicia, John, are they as belligerent towards us as in Madrid over Gibraltar?’ he asked his naval attaché, Captain John Sedgwick. ‘I’m due there next week on this World Fishing Exhibition and hope I don’t meet up with yet another lot of bloody banners. Rather ironic that they’ve got the Falkland Islands’ governor as a special invite.’