The Galician Parallax (7 page)

To calm the waters, Yolanda was sent on a sabbatical to the United Kingdom. Juan Jose made sure she was far away from any limelight, and, thanks to his shipping contacts in Portsmouth, Falmouth College of Arts in Cornwall was suggested and chosen as the best and most remote place to calm down, and at the same time, hopefully improve her English.

‘You’re quite a celebrity, “Sir” Sergio,’ said Captain Eugenio Soto, commanding officer of the civil guard station in Villagarcia, as he reviewed Sergio’s transfer papers. ‘Bright; computer “wizard”; super detective,’ he looked up at the latest transferee, ‘and a young, loose cannon.’

Sergio was about to defend himself when Captain Soto softened his tone. ‘Relax Lieutenant. With all this drug shit still going on around here we could do with a bit of extra smart “snooping”.’

He looked up at Sergio and smiled. ‘You certainly fit the bill.’

The Bay of Arousa is one of the vast inlets on Spain’s north-west coast, famous not only for its tourist attractions but for its rich seafood breeding ground, particularly mussels, one of the largest beds in the world, as well as clams and cockles. It has numerous islands and peninsulas, Sálvora and Cortegada amongst the most well known, sprinkled with quaint villages spread along its shores catering for all sorts of visitors from golfers to yachters, gourmet cuisine lovers to artists, not forgetting the odd rich pensioner seeking a restful spa in a five-star hotel on the island of La Toja.

In recent years however, the town’s fame had taken a more sinister role and shifted to that of drug trafficking. The area was a well-known haven for most of the powerful Galician drug cartels that had been operating from here over the past three decades. The most famous was a clan known as the
Castriños
.

‘The
Castriños
is like an octopus,’ said Captain Soto. ‘It’s got dozens of tentacles, all poking into different holes.’

He handed Lieutenant Quiroga a list of the last year’s raids, including dates, locations and arrests.

‘I know you’ve got the rest of the background in that database of yours including some of this information, however, I need you to backtrack on them again, check out each one, see if they’ve grown new branches.’

Sergio was instructed to keep as low key and incognito as possible. He was to familiarise with the local scene and mix in with the community as a recent resident looking for a job. ‘Don’t stir anything, just report back on anything suspicious or unusual.’

Out in the main office of the town’s civil guards and at his newly assigned desk, Sergio switched on his laptop, opened his document file, clicked on “Villagarcia” and browsed until he found what he was looking for:
Jose María “Teixugo” Castro
. Main page read:
Head of the Castriños clan, still at large since 1994
. There were dozens of pages with supporting information.

He grinned. Kick off time!

Stan and Yolanda’s relationship had started on a sour note. From very different backgrounds, Yolanda’s snobbishness and Stan’s typical Cornish down-to-earth and outdoor life had clashed from the beginning, despite a common patch-up of apologies on their second encounter at the college. To top it all, realising that Yolanda was from Galicia, the very mention of Vigo had triggered off Stan’s recent memories of yet another clash of fishing disputes, this time between Britain and Spain, arch-enemies of old.

In 1988, the British Conservative Government passed the infamous Merchant Shipping Act that in effect tried to prevent Spanish trawlers from “poaching” in British territorial waters under the legally allotted “quotas”. There were other reasons such as the illegal use by the Spaniards of long-haul nets for tuna fishing. The case had originally been brought before the British Parliament by MPs from the south-west of England, mainly Devon and Cornwall. In the following years, British fishermen, backed by the protection of the Royal Navy, enjoyed a free hand at fishing within their coastal limits. However, in 1998 the European Court of Justice ruled that the British Merchant Shipping Act contravened the “freedom of movement” principle of capital and people and was considered illegal by European ruling. The Spaniards were delighted and took the case to the London Court of Appeal in the United Kingdom and the Spanish fishing industry sued the British Government. Compensation valued at an estimate of one hundred million pounds was granted to the owners of almost a hundred Spanish fishing vessels.

The Devon and Cornish fishing communities were shattered.

‘There’s more to my home town than fishing you know,’ retorted Yolanda once Stan had calmed down when they had confronted each other after his lecture on coastguard activity. ‘Why did you spout out about a Merchant Shipping Act, anyway?’

Stan thought for a moment and once again raised the rhetoric. ‘Do you know what happened last week? One of your trawlers from Vigo sank out there,’ he said pointing out towards the ocean. ‘And you know what; it was being chased by our navy! Now isn’t that a coincidence?’

He hadn’t quite realised what he’d said as Yolanda quickly picked up his slip of the tongue. ‘How should I know? Maybe Francis “bloody” Drake was after its gold.’

Stan was taken aback. For a split second neither said a word until he burst out laughing. ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’

As he apologised, both realised that their verbal attacking was going nowhere. Once they had calmed down, Stan began to explain all about the effect that the Spanish fishing fleet’s activity in the area over the years was having on the fishing industry of the south-west of England. How, in their eyes, the international maritime law was not on their side, nor was the British Government interested in their fate. He told her about the saga of his own family and the grief that had descended upon them at the time. For once, Yolanda kept quiet and listened to the other side of the story. Her own version would’ve been quite different, as she really had nothing to do with the fishing world. On the contrary, her family had more positive ties with Britain than Stan could ever imagine. There was another reason for her silence. It was Stan himself. They were, by now, out in the college gardens and walking towards the car park.

‘I’ve been ranting and raving all about us Cornish and you’ve said nothing. Tell me more about you and…’ with a sheepish grin, ‘… convince me I’m completely wrong.’

They were reaching Stan’s Land Rover but before she could answer, looking at his watch he cried, ‘Christ! I’ve got to get back to the station… tell you what… how about dinner tonight? I know a place…’

‘Yes!’ she said. ‘What time?’

Stan had dated many of the local women and was not immune to female charm. The odd tourist during the summer months added to his collection of conquests, but most had lasted a few weeks or a couple of months at the most. Yolanda was different. His first encounter had triggered off a strange attraction, a sort of intellectual challenge within him to educate this ignorant Spaniard on his native Cornwall. He realised that her background was not related to the fishing squabbles, but nevertheless was from that part of the world that had hurt the West Country people in the past.
She’s intelligent, spirited and besides, her English needs polishing
, he thought.

Yolanda’s chemistry chose an opposite path. Accustomed to sex on the first encounter she was baffled that Stan had not tried to lay a finger on her during their first dinner date. Throughout the meal he never fired any of the warning signals of arousal yet kept her on edge with his peculiar Cornish charm and interest in her own life and background. Yolanda discovered a venue for pouring out her own feelings and without realising she was opening up her soul to a complete stranger as she had never done before.

It was almost nine-thirty and the restaurant was on early closing hours. Smiling sheepishly she said, ‘You’ve made me feel as if I’m in a confessional. You’re the first person I’ve ever spoken to about Gerardo.’

Stan said nothing. He just stared into his coffee cup lost for words. He looked up at her and, completely ignoring her sorrow he said, ‘Tell you what. Let me show you around.’

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Searching through its contents he found a calendar. ‘Let’s see, today’s Thursday; I’m on duty tomorrow,’ looking up at her. ‘I guess its study time for you, so how about Saturday; first thing in the morning!’

Yolanda just nodded.

‘I’ll take you to the furthest western tip of England and beyond if I can.’

For the next couple of months, Stan and Yolanda coincided in their respective free-time zones to tour the west of Cornwall; from Penzance to Land’s End, from Bodmin and then on to Camborne to visit the School of Mines. Stan recited snippets of poetry from Shakespeare as he stood in the centre of the Minack Theatre off the cliffs of Porthcurno and stuffed Yolanda with Cornish pasties on every stop of the way.

‘Jesus! Don’t you people eat anything else?’ she mumbled sipping her half-pint of bitter to flush the remains of yet another as they lunched at the Small Cove Inn in St Ives.

It was during their visit to St Buryan when a strong thunderstorm broke out suddenly that they had to seek unexpected shelter.

‘As I was saying, this is where they filmed that horror movie
Straw Dogs
with Dustin Hoffman.’ Stan was wrapping his anorak round Yolanda’s shoulders. She was already soaking wet. ‘You know; the one about a bunch of local yobs that rape a professor’s wife?’

They were opposite the only bed-and-breakfast house in the village. It was eight-thirty and pitch dark. Yolanda was speechless; she just stared into Stan’s eyes, water trickling down all sides of her face. Without warning Stan gently pressed his lips against her forehead and then slowly lowered them onto her own. He retreated slightly, looking deep into her eyes. Neither said a word.

The crackling streaks of lightning continued to pound the soil as two lovers suddenly discovered each other.

The
Aegean Progress
, a 100,000-ton container ship was in for a two-week refit in Portsmouth docks. Its crew was given a brief week’s leave, most of the foreigners taking off to London whilst the odd Brit remained in the dock area. Jerry Fulton, second officer, was one of them. On the second day of his vacation, and after a short shopping spree including presents for his family up north, he stopped off for some brief refreshment in one of the famous maritime bars where many a seaman passed the time away and met up with the odd old acquaintance. Sitting at one of the corner tables was an old friend and former “mate” of Jerry’s, Donald Simmons.

‘Well I’ll be damned! What’re you doing here? Last I heard you were out in the Caribbean?’ said Jerry.

Donald stood up and gave Jerry a good bear hug and then slapped him across both arms. ‘Good to see you, mate. Sit down; how about a jug?’

Jerry saw that Donald was well into a pint of beer. It was barely ten-thirty in the morning. ‘Too early for me.’ He called over to a waitress and asked for a cappuccino.

Donald didn’t mince any words, as if he had been bottling up his ordeal for weeks. ‘Ship got busted; in Colón, Panama. Drug guys found two containers full of the white stuff.’

Jerry knew full well what the game was. He’d been through many similar searches. Donald lowered his voice. ‘You know the score, mate! You get paid off to turn a blind eye and hopefully you don’t get caught.’

Donald gulped the remainder of his beer and called over for another one. ‘I’m out of a job, mate!’ Donald saw the inquisitive look on Jerry’s face. ‘No, I wasn’t caught, the captain got the screws this time round and Colón isn’t the best of places to be locked up, mate!’

They spent the next couple of hours mulling over old times until nearly lunchtime. Donald was slightly drunk by the time Jerry tried to get up to bid him farewell. With bleary eyes, but sober enough to rationalise his thoughts, Donald hit Jerry with the proposal. ‘Look mate; you and I know the score, right? There’s money to be made, and big bucks at that, if you play your cards right!’

Jerry sat down again.

‘You’ve got contacts and so have I, right?’ With slow chosen words Donald continued, ‘Ever since I’ve been back… I’ve been toying with a new idea… to cash in on the “stuff”.’

‘Go on!’

Donald reminded Jerry of their experience on container vessels and the different runs that ships made depending on cargo. ‘We’ve been almost everywhere and also know the “dirty” routes and ports, right?’

Jerry nodded affirmatively.

‘One of the main inlets to Europe is the north-west of Spain, the Galician ports to be precise. So here’s the deal. Bring the shit in… through a yacht club.’

‘What? Are you nuts?’ retorted Jerry. ‘You’d never get away with that one!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Besides, when’s the last time you did any sailing?’

Ignoring his remarks, Donald turned unusually sober. ‘Nobody checks yachts if you’re known around a yacht club. You don’t even have to declare customs if you’re within the European Union.’

Jerry looked away, searching the room with a sense of guilt. He rubbed his nose.

‘All we’d need is a yachting partner. Someone who’s in the inner sailing circles; preferably snobbish. We’ll provide the rest, which is… ?’

For a couple of seconds Jerry pondered before answering. ‘Enlighten me.’

Donald whispered, ‘An area we know very well: Vigo Bay, mate. It’s full of yacht clubs and peddlers; it’s perfect.’

Jerry just stroked his chin. This time it was he who ordered a pint.

Juan Jose had flown to Madrid on the Sunday afternoon to attend the annual consular meeting the following day. He was staying at the Hotel Tres Sauces as usual, meeting up with all the other British consular representatives around Spain for a couple of drinks followed by the evening meal. Peter Jimenez from Murcia walked over from the main hall.

‘
Hola, amigo
Juan Jose. Good to see you again. Getting ready for the same old briefing?’