Death on a Galician Shore Read online

  Approaching a flowerbed, he pinched a sprig of lemon verbena in his fingers and inhaled the fragrance.

  ‘I hear you enjoyed the soup,’ said a voice behind him.

  Maria, who came every morning to clean the house and prepare his father’s meals, was sweeping up the russet leaves shed overnight by the sweetgum tree.

  ‘Very much, Maria,’ said Caldas.

  ‘The trick is to skim it well,’ she said, still sweeping. Then, wanting to return the compliment, she added: ‘I really enjoy Patrolling the Waves. We never miss it.’

  The inspector wondered how on earth they received the show out there. Surely Radio Vigo only covered the city itself?

  He thanked her and changed the subject: ‘Have you seen my father?’

  ‘He was heading that way, with the dog,’ she said, pointing beyond the winery to the river. ‘Don’t you want breakfast? There’s hot coffee in the thermos.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ said Caldas, slipping out of the courtyard.

  He made his way around the house. Leaning with his elbows on the stone parapet, he looked out over the seven hectares of terraced vineyards sloping down to the river.

  A few hundred metres below, a tractor was parked on the path beside one of the plots to the right. Caldas could make out a few people among the vines and remembered his father saying over supper that they had begun pruning.

  He lit a cigarette and remained leaning on the parapet, savouring the peace and quiet. He was about to call the station, to tell them not to expect him until the afternoon, when his mobile rang shrilly in his pocket. He answered, seeing his assistant’s name on the display.

  ‘Are you on your way here, boss?’ asked Rafael Estevez by way of greeting, before Caldas could speak.

  ‘Is something up?’

  ‘We got a call about half an hour ago from Panxón. A man’s body’s been found in the water.’

  ‘A fisherman?’

  ‘How should I know, Inspector?’

  Caldas’s assistant, who came from the province of Aragon, was obviously in fine form from first thing in the morning.

  ‘Had we had a report of anyone missing?’ asked the inspector, aware that sometimes it took days for bodies to be washed ashore.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘D’you mind telling me how long you’ll be?’ asked Estevez with customary impatience. ‘The coroner set off for Panxón ten minutes ago, and the pathologist called to ask if we could pick him up en route.’

  Caldas glanced at his watch and reflected that all the hassle was starting much too early this Monday. He was glad to be well away from the city.

  ‘Well, you pick him up en route.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get there till this afternoon, Rafa.’

  ‘You don’t think so, or you know so for a fact?’

  ‘Don’t start, Rafa. I was just about to call to let you know.’

  Estevez hung up with a grunt. Caldas thought of phoning the superintendent to let him know he wouldn’t be in that morning and have him assign someone to go with Estevez, but changed his mind. It was only a drowned man after all.

  He headed along the path between the vines that cut through the estate to the river like a sinewy scar. The vines in the upper part had yet to be pruned, though autumn had already divested them of their foliage, with only a few branches retaining a languid leaf or two.

  He stopped when he was level with the tractor and stood watching in silence as the workers took five or six stems on each vine and tied them to the wires. They chose stems that already had several buds, from which shoots would sprout in the spring, and cut off the others. Later, before moving to the next section of vineyard, they would collect in the tractor any pruned branches that might serve as kindling and leave the rest to rot on the ground.

  The osier bindings with which he’d helped his father tie in the first stems were now made of plastic, but nothing else seemed to have changed.

  Ten metres or so further down, the brown dog that had greeted them the day before appeared on the path. A moment later, Caldas’s father emerged from the same row of vines holding a pair of pruning shears, his rubber boots glistening with dew.

  Caldas went to meet him.

  ‘There are spare boots in the storeroom,’ said his father, looking at his son’s shoes.

  Caldas shrugged. ‘I’ll stay on the path.’

  ‘It’s up to you. Have you seen the new planting?’ asked his father, motioning towards the river.

  Caldas had seen it but said he hadn’t. They set off that way, with the dog ahead of them, nose to the ground, scurrying among the vines. Now and then the brown shape reappeared on the path, its head erect, making sure they were still following, before resuming its distracted scampering.

  ‘What’s its name?’ asked the inspector, pointing at the dog during one of its appearances.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not mine,’ said his father without stopping.

  They continued down the path, which turned right at an angle, parallel to the river, as it reached the lower part of the estate. On either side there were several rows of white posts with wires stretched between. At the foot of each post, a new vine was just visible.

  Caldas’s father explained that they’d had to use a digger to level the ground and that they’d left a larger than usual gap between vines so that the tractor could manoeuvre more easily. The inspector listened in silence, nodding as if he were hearing it all for the first time.

  While his father stopped to tie a loose stem to a post, Caldas headed through the rows of vines to look out at the river that flowed several metres below.

  The stretch of river that ran past the estate had many whirlpools. If they wanted to swim they had to walk upriver for half an hour, to a bend with a beach where the water slowed. They’d set out after lunch and return along the bank, as it was growing dark. In childhood the days had seemed longer.

  Seeing the water and hearing the murmur of the current, he remembered Estevez’s call about the man swept away by the sea. He thought of the night the pharmacist had drowned in the rapids. He had waited in the car while his father had helped the police as they scoured the riverbank, probing beneath the water with wooden poles. Later they’d driven back to Vigo for the night while the police continued their search downriver.

  The pharmacist’s body hadn’t turned up for another three days. She was found by men fishing for lampreys eight kilometres from the spot where she’d fallen in.

  Years later, the inspector learned that the pharmacist had jumped into the river and that she couldn’t swim. But for months, she had swum beside him in his childhood nightmares, begging him to save her from the swirling current that always swallowed her in the end. The young Leo would wake, terrified and drenched with sweat, as wet as if he really had been swimming.

  Caldas looked at his watch: Estevez would have got to Panxón by now and he was sure he wouldn’t hear any more about the case until the afternoon, when he was back at the station.

  His father joined him and they stood watching the river, the leaves and branches swept along by the current.

  ‘You should have put on boots.’

  ‘Right,’ said Caldas, staring at the water.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked his father after a pause.

  Caldas shook his head.

  ‘Shall we go back for coffee?’ said his father.

  As they made their way up to the house, he lamented: ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of planting in this area before.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t think sandy soil was good for vines.’

  ‘Well, you’ll see, it’ll make wonderful wine. Not this year, obviously, or next, but in five years time I think the best wine on the estate will come from these vines. And if I’m right, I’ll plant over there too,’ he said, pointing to the other side of the path.

  ‘Five years?’

  ‘Five or six. Onc
e the vines have grown.’

  ‘Isn’t that too long?’

  ‘I don’t set the schedule. That’s how long they take to mature.’

  ‘I know,’ said the inspector. ‘I meant, aren’t you planning to retire before then?’

  ‘Retire? And do what?’

  Caldas shrugged. ‘Anything …’

  ‘Isn’t all this anything?’ said his father, spreading his arms to encompass the vine-clad slopes on either side of the path. ‘At my age, the only way to have peace of mind and not dwell on things is to keep busy. The alternative is to resign yourself to living through other people and sit waiting for time to pass and do its work.’

  Caldas felt he’d ruined his father’s morning. He was sorry he’d spoken. His father, however, added with a smile: ‘Besides, when you’re retired, you don’t get holidays.’

  In the kitchen Caldas’s father poured two cups of coffee from the thermos. He added a little milk and sugar to one, and handed the other to his son.

  ‘Shall we go outside?’ he asked, indicating the door as he rummaged around on the countertop.

  In the courtyard they met Maria, returning to the house, broom in hand.

  ‘Maria never misses Patrolling the Waves,’ said his father.

  ‘Yeah, she told me,’ replied Caldas, grimacing in an attempt at a smile.

  They walked around the house and went to lean on the stone parapet overlooking the estate. His father was about to say something when the inspector’s mobile rang. Caldas gave a deep sigh on seeing Estevez’s name on the display.

  ‘Work?’ whispered his father.

  ‘My assistant,’ said Caldas, moving a little distance away and taking his cigarettes from his trouser pocket before answering the call.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked, holding a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

  ‘I’m still here at the harbour.’

  ‘With the dead man?’

  ‘Looks like he had help.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘His hands were tied.’

  People throwing themselves into the sea to commit suicide often tied their hands or feet to make sure they succeeded.

  ‘He could have done it himself,’ the inspector pointed out.

  ‘No, boss. For some reason the pathologist doesn’t think he killed himself or drowned fishing for trout.’

  ‘Not many trout in the sea,’ said Caldas drily.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Caldas took a drag on his cigarette. He had a feeling he was going to regret letting his assistant go to Panxón alone.

  ‘Do you know who he was?’

  ‘He was from the village. A fisherman. They’re going to transfer the body to Vigo for identification and autopsy. And someone from Forensics is going to come by, to look for clues.’

  ‘Nobody recognises him?’

  ‘Not with any certainty, no. You know what these people are like,’ said Estevez. He’d lived in Galicia for several months but he still wasn’t used to the locals’ ambiguous way of expressing themselves.

  ‘See if you can get them to give you something more definite,’ said the inspector, then regretted it instantly, knowing how forcefully his assistant could go about things. ‘But be gentle, Rafa,’ he added. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, boss. Leave it to me,’ said his assistant, in a tone that Caldas found far from reassuring.

  *

  The inspector rejoined his father and picked up the cup he’d left on the parapet.

  ‘Is your assistant getting used to things here?’

  Caldas sipped his coffee. ‘No, I don’t think he ever will.’

  His father traced letters in the air with his pen.

  ‘Shall I enter him in my book?’ he asked, as if there could be no more cruel punishment.

  When Caldas didn’t reply, he added: ‘I can always erase his name later. He wouldn’t be the first I’ve removed.’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ the inspector said, and his father noticed his preoccupied air.

  ‘Something up, Leo?’

  ‘A client,’ Caldas said, clicking his tongue.

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Caldas.

  ‘Would you like us to drive back to Vigo now?’ asked his father.

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ replied Caldas, well aware that his father didn’t like spending any more time than he had to in the city.

  ‘I could try to get in to see your uncle this morning.’

  ‘There’s no need. Really.’

  ‘It would almost suit me better, Leo,’ insisted his father. ‘I’ve got things to do here this afternoon.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Caldas gratefully, knowing his father was lying.

  They contemplated the rows of white posts supporting the vines, while the inspector finished his cigarette.

  ‘It’s looking pretty, isn’t it?’ said his father proudly.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ whispered Caldas. ‘Even though autumn doesn’t suit vines.’

  His father gathered up the cups and headed back to the house. Caldas heard him muse: ‘Does autumn suit anyone?’

  Excuses

  Just before they reached the police station, and as the traffic lights turned red, Caldas suddenly made a vague excuse and got out of the car. He watched it disappear into the Vigo traffic, feeling guilty. This was a difficult time for his father.

  As they left the estate they had exchanged a few words about his uncle, lamenting the illness that was consuming him from within, forcing him to breathe through a machine. They had spent the rest of the journey in silence, Caldas with eyes closed, his father with his eyes on the road and mind on the hospital.

  Only once they were in the city, driving down the sloping streets to the police station, did the inspector’s father ask about Alba. To cut the conversation short, Caldas had said he had no news, that he hadn’t heard from her for several months. But his father persisted with his questions despite these evasive answers. Why did he always insist on raising the most awkward subjects at the last minute? If the aim was to prolong their time together, he should have learned his lesson by now. The unwelcome questions only precipitated Caldas’s departure, leaving them both with a bitter aftertaste.

  In the police station Caldas made his way down the aisle between the two rows of desks to the far end of the room. He opened the frosted glass door to his office, hung his raincoat on the coat rack and sank into his black desk chair.

  Gazing at the piles of papers on his desk, he continued thinking about his father until Superintendent Soto came in and brought him back to reality.

  ‘How did you get on in Panxón?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to go, Superintendent. Estevez is dealing with it.’

  ‘You sent Estevez on his own for the removal of a body?’ asked Superintendent Soto.

  When Caldas’s silence confirmed this, the superintendent shook his head disgustedly and left the room, muttering.

  Caldas picked up the phone. He dialled Olga’s extension and told her to send Estevez straight into his office as soon as he got back to the station.

  He remained at his desk, ignoring his stomach, which was informing him noisily that it was well past lunchtime. He took the opportunity to go through some of the papers that had accumulated on his desk, pencilling notes in the margins before placing them on a different pile. Every time he put down a document, he checked his watch and glanced at the door. He wondered how his assistant was getting on with the recovery of the drowned man’s corpse. He also thought about his father and his own abrupt exit.

  At a quarter to three, as he was leafing through the statements of witnesses to the hold-up of a jeweller’s in the Calle del Principe, the city’s main shopping street, Rafael Estevez’s bulky form appeared at the glass door.

  ‘That was some morning I’ve had, boss,’ he snorted as he came in.

  Caldas was starving. And he thought he’
d rather hear what Estevez had to say somewhere else, safe from interruptions. He put the robbery statements down on top of a heap of papers and stood up.

  ‘Have you had lunch yet?’ he asked. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Thanks, but I couldn’t eat a thing,’ replied Estevez. ‘You can’t imagine the state that guy’s body was in.’

  Before his assistant had a chance to go into detail, Caldas took his raincoat, folded it over his arm and went to the door.

  ‘Do you mind filling me in on it while I have something to eat?’ he said. ‘All I’ve had this morning is coffee and if I leave it any later I won’t get served.’

  ‘It’s not raining today,’ said Estevez, pointing at the raincoat.

  ‘I know,’ said the inspector, hurrying out.

  Estevez followed him out into the street, where the sun was just peeking between clouds.

  They crossed the Alameda, stepping through fallen leaves, and headed along the Calle del Arenal with its elegant stone buildings. The façades with their ironwork balconies had overlooked the container port for several decades now, but still seemed to be wondering where the beach and sea had disappeared to.

  The Bar Puerto was still packed. As usual at lunchtime, the customers wore a mixture of suits, blue overalls and thick fishermen’s clothing. Caldas glanced at the plates being emptied at the nearest tables.

  ‘Pity you’re not hungry,’ he said.

  ‘There was foam coming out of his nose,’ Estevez recalled, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  ‘Later, Rafa,’ said the inspector. There would be plenty of time to hear the more macabre details once he’d eaten.

  Cristina came to fetch a bottle of brandy from the bar near the door.

  ‘Can we still get something to eat?’ asked the inspector, raising his voice above the din of overlapping conversations.

  ‘We’ve always got something for a radio star,’ teased the waitress. Then she took the bottle to the back of the dining room so that two dockworkers, lunchtime regulars like Caldas, could add brandy to the coffee with which they were rounding off their meal.

  When she returned, she indicated a couple of tables with empty places.

  ‘Would you rather sit here or over there?’