At the table nearest to them, three veteran seafarers were sitting with a young man in a dark suit who was avidly devouring a bowl of soup and a sports paper. At the other sat the dockworkers to whom Cristina had taken the brandy.
‘The one at the back,’ said Caldas. ‘And would you mind not seating anyone else with us once those two have left?’
‘Don’t worry, Leo. At this time of day we only get the odd straggler.’
As they headed to their table they passed the kitchen. The white-tiled walls were hung with cooking pots, awaiting their turn on the stove. The dented metal revealed many years of use, but they gleamed as if they had been polished.
Caldas and Estevez stopped before the low counter separating dining room and kitchen. The inspector leaned over to examine the chiller cabinet where the shellfish was usually displayed. It was empty.
‘No point in looking. There’s no shellfish on a Monday,’ said one of the cooks behind the counter. She was washing a pan before returning it to its place on the wall.
‘What do you use to make them shine like that?’ asked Estevez, pointing at the pan.
‘Plenty of elbow grease, son,’ said the cook. ‘Like to have a go?’ she added, holding out the soapy pan.
Estevez declined the offer with a smile and followed Caldas to the back of the restaurant. He exchanged a glance with the dockers sharing their table and settled back in the chair facing the inspector.
Cristina brought a tureen and placed it between them. When she removed the lid, fragrant steam spread across the table making Estevez sit up, nostrils flaring.
The waitress returned with a carafe of chilled white wine in one hand, and plates, glasses and cutlery in the other.
‘Rafael doesn’t need a plate,’ Caldas said. ‘He won’t be eating.’
Estevez looked at the tureen like a little boy peering up into the sky for the balloon that’s just got away.
‘Why don’t I leave one just in case?’ asked Cristina.
‘OK. Just in case,’ agreed Estevez.
Caldas filled his bowl with soup and returned the ladle to the tureen. Estevez helped himself immediately.
‘I thought you couldn’t eat a thing,’ the inspector remarked.
‘A little soup can’t hurt,’ replied his assistant, filling his bowl to the brim.
Caldas blew on his first spoonful to cool it before lifting it to his lips: ‘You’re right about that.’
Estevez had had a second helping and was refraining from a third by the time Cristina came to take their order for the main course. She offered them bacalao a la gallega, cod with potatoes, or squid in its ink with rice. Caldas chose the squid.
‘Would you like something else?’ Cristina asked Estevez.
The soup had blotted out all thoughts of the drowned man’s foaming nose and restored the policeman’s habitual voracious appetite.
‘What do you recommend?’ he asked.
‘The squid’s turned out really well,’ said Cristina, adding almost immediately: ‘But the cod’s been popular, too …’
She left her words hanging and Estevez stared, awaiting her verdict. After a few seconds, as none came, he asked:
‘Well?’
‘They’re different,’ the waitress said simply.
‘I know that. But one of them must be better,’ insisted Estevez.
‘They’re both really good,’ said Cristina with an open smile. ‘Which do you like best?’
‘Forget it,’ muttered Estevez, realising he wasn’t going to get a definite answer. ‘I’ll have the same as him – the squid. And a salad.’
As soon as Cristina was out of earshot, Estevez complained: ‘I don’t know why the hell I bother asking these people anything.’
He realised that Caldas was staring at him in silence across the table.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I forget you’re one of them.’
The Drowned Man
At four in the afternoon, when all that remained of the policemen’s squid in ink were dark stains on their paper napkins, the last few customers of the Bar Puerto stood up. Caldas watched them as they left.
‘Tell me about the drowned man,’ he said to his assistant, picking up a teaspoon to stir his coffee.
‘He was found floating at the water’s edge, but by the time I got there he’d been laid out on the sand. There was foam coming out of his nose and mouth.’
‘You’ve already told me.’
‘I just can’t get it out of my head. And he was icy,’ Estevez explained, clenching his teeth as if a shiver had just run through him.
‘Haven’t you ever seen a drowned man before?’ asked Caldas, surprised.
‘Back in Zaragoza, occasionally we had to fish someone who’d committed suicide out of the river, but I never got too close. You know I’m not keen on dead people, Inspector,’ said Estevez a little sheepishly.
‘And the living aren’t too keen on you,’ murmured Caldas, picturing, for the second time that day, the drowned pharmacist about whom he’d dreamed so often as a child. ‘Come on, get on with it. Did you find out who he was?’
‘His name was Justo Castelo. He was a fisherman from the village. He went out in his boat yesterday morning and wasn’t seen again. The boat hasn’t turned up yet.’
‘What kind of boat is it?’
‘I don’t know – one of those small ones. He worked on his own. He fished for shrimps and crabs using those mesh crates they drop on the seabed. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Traps,’ said Caldas.
‘That’s right – traps. He sold his catch at the market in Panxón.’
‘Age?’
Estevez shrugged: ‘Early forties. I’ve got his details back at the station. Single, no partner or children. Mother lives in the village, with the sister and her husband.’
‘Did you speak to them?’
‘I saw the sister, but I didn’t interview her, if that’s what you mean. Bad enough for the poor woman to get that news. I said we’d transferred her brother’s body to Vigo for an autopsy. She was anxious to know when they’d be able to have the funeral and I told her we’d release the body as soon as possible. She’s agreed to come by this afternoon to identify him.’
Caldas was reassured to hear that his assistant could behave with tact when required.
‘You didn’t see the husband or the mother?’
‘No. The husband’s away on a fishing boat somewhere off the coast of Africa. The mother’s a semi-invalid. Not the day to go and pay a social call.’
‘No, of course not. On the phone you said the man’s hands were tied, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right, boss. Wrists bound with a plastic tie, like the kind used for fastening cables and pipes. It’s a flexible strip with a hole at one end. You insert the tip and pull to adjust it,’ he explained, miming the gesture. ‘You know the sort of thing I mean. Once you pull it tight you can’t loosen it without breaking it,’ he said, repeating the motion.
Caldas nodded, still stirring his coffee. He’d rather have lit a cigarette, but in the Bar Puerto they were as strict about not smoking as they were with the cooking times of their shellfish, so he had to make do with stirring coffee.
‘What about the legs?’
‘They were bent back. And stiff as a statue’s.’
‘Were they tied as well?’ the inspector asked.
‘No, only the hands.’
‘What about the face?’
‘A complete mess – bloated, with eyes wide open as if he’d seen a ghost,’ said Estevez, opening his own eyes wide. ‘It was all bashed up. And I’ve already mentioned the foam …’ He now shut his eyes tight as if trying to erase the memory.
Caldas knew exactly what his assistant was talking about. On one occasion, weeks after a freighter had sunk, some fishermen had found the body of one of the crew. It had been pounded against the rocks for days and served as fish food, so the Forensics people had had to identify it from dental records.
‘Of course, boss. He’d gone fishing.’
Beyond the counter, the cook had finished washing up the last pan from lunch. After drying it carefully with a cloth she returned it to its hook on the wall.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Caldas, watching the woman.
‘What d’you mean, you don’t think so?’ said Estevez, turning around. ‘You don’t think I can tell the difference between a guy who’s clothed and one who isn’t?’
‘Don’t be silly, Rafa. I don’t think he’d gone fishing,’ said Caldas, indicating the empty display cabinet between kitchen and dining room. ‘There’s no seafood on a Monday because fishermen don’t fish on Sundays.’
‘Well, this one was spotted in his boat early in the morning. You tell me where he was off to otherwise.’
‘I don’t know. Who did you say saw him?’
‘I didn’t say,’ replied Estevez. ‘Someone mentioned it this morning.’
‘And did you confirm it?’
‘No.’
Caldas reflected that maybe it was a good thing that he hadn’t. Estevez didn’t exactly resemble a tame bloodhound when he was following a trail. They’d have time to check all the details in due course.
‘D’you know if there were any marks on the body?’
‘Any marks? I told you, the face was all beaten up.’
‘Apart from that, Rafa. Did anything else show up when he was examined?’
Estevez hesitated: ‘The body was covered in green seaweed so you couldn’t really see, but, no, I don’t think there was anything else. Anyway, it was the pathologist who looked at him.’
‘Dr Barrio?’ asked Caldas, and his assistant nodded.
‘And the Forensics people filmed it all,’ added Estevez. ‘You know they never go anywhere these days without that camera of theirs.’
‘Did they find anything?’
Estevez shrugged. ‘They looked around, but the guy was washed up by the sea so I doubt they’ll find any clues.’
‘Right,’ said Caldas, reassured by the flashes of common sense in his assistant’s account.
‘And you say he was found on the beach at Panxón?’
‘Yes, but not the bigger one. Another one beyond it, between the harbour and the mountain with the monument at the top.’
‘Monteferro,’ said Caldas.
Estevez nodded.
‘It’s a smaller beach, with loads of seaweed on the shoreline. Apparently it’s not the first time a corpse has washed up there.’
‘Do you know who found him?’
‘A pensioner from the village. He goes out for a walk every morning and saw the body in the seaweed, from the road, and called the local police. It was them who called us. I’ve got the old boy’s name back at the station.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Yes, of course. To him and others. But they didn’t tell me much. You know people here …’
‘I know, I know,’ interrupted Caldas.
‘Would you do me a favour, boss?’ asked Estevez suddenly.
‘Of course.’
‘Could you stop doing that with your spoon? You’re making me nervous.’
The sound of the spoon scraping the sides of the cup stopped instantly and Caldas reddened slightly.
‘Of course,’ he said again, downing the rest of his now almost cold coffee.
Then he left enough money on the table to pay for both him and Estevez, and stood up. He was keen to see Guzman Barrio and hear the pathologist’s findings first hand. He’d go there after the radio station.
The Jingle
By the time they left the Bar Puerto, autumn had resumed its hostilities. After a few hours without rain, a vault of clouds had settled overhead and now emptied itself upon the city.
Estevez walked close to the buildings, trying to shelter from the rain. His raincoat was hanging on a hook back at the station. He wondered aloud how Galicians could make sense of weather that went from springlike to wintry in a few hours, and cursed whenever a large drop landed on his head.
The inspector walked beside him in silence, not admitting that they didn’t try to make sense of the climate, they simply lived with it.
At the entrance to the building on the Alameda, Caldas checked the time and lit a cigarette. He watched his assistant run through the park back to the police station, dodging puddles and cursing, and then just stood staring at the rain lashing down. When he’d finished his cigarette, he greeted the doorman and ascended the stairs to the first floor. He pushed open the door to the radio station, took his notebook from the pocket of his raincoat, hung the coat on the rack at the entrance and made his way down the long corridor to the control room where a technician was going over the order of calls with Rebeca, the producer.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said when she saw the inspector. ‘Santiago’s already asked for you twice.’
Through the glass Caldas could see that fool Santiago Losada already at the microphone. With a sigh of resignation, he slipped inside the studio. The host welcomed him with his customary friendliness:
‘Late as usual,’ he said, signalling to the technician to start the programme.
‘As usual,’ replied Caldas, choosing the seat closest to the window.
He took out his mobile phone and, switching it off, placed it beside his notebook on the desk. Then he turned to look out at the Alameda where a small group of foreign cruise passengers were braving the bad weather. They walked with heads down, the hoods of their yellow raincoats up, determined to see the sights featured in their guidebooks before returning to the liner and sailing on to the next port.
That morning, when he’d mentioned retirement and his father had turned around and asked what he would do if he gave up the vineyard, Caldas had been about to suggest that he travel, see the world. Now, watching the tourists wandering in the rain in a foreign city, he was glad he’d kept quiet.
‘Off we go,’ announced Losada drily. The inspector opened his notebook and put on his headphones, wondering if the host’s set was as uncomfortable as his. He’d have to swap them one day to check.
As in every other edition of the show, call after call related to matters that fell within the remit of the City Police: potholes, zebra crossings that were slippery in the rain, drivers crashing into parked cars and speeding off … Caldas simply listened and took down the details in his notebook, wondering how a radio phone-in show could be so popular when the callers’ problems were so rarely solved.
After the seventh call, he tallied the score: City Police seven, Leo nil.
The Patrolling the Waves theme tune played until Rebeca, on the other side of the glass, held up a slip of paper with the name of the eighth caller of the day.
‘Good afternoon, José,’ said Losada.
‘Good afternoon. I’ve called in before,’ declared the man.
‘Could you refresh our memory?’ the presenter urged. ‘The show does get hundreds of calls.’
‘Your head’s bigger than your audience,’ thought Caldas, feeling the urge to insult the host on air. He wished the caller would put Losada in his place, but the man on the line sounded like a wimp:
‘It’s about police vehicle stops,’ he said. ‘They keep picking me. I don’t even use the car much – only at weekends.’
Caldas remembered the man. He’d called the show recently, accusing his local police of ordering him out of the car and breathalysing him at every turn.
‘I remember you, José,’ said Caldas, to move things along. ‘Have you been breathalysed again?’
‘This Saturday. Three times.’
‘Three?’
‘Yes, Inspector, three. Once in the morning and twice in the afternoon.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘On Sunday I saw the officer out of the window so I left the car at home. Just in case. And would you believe it, when I walked past him in the street, he was watching me the whole time. I thought he was going to
breathalyse me again.’
‘Tell me something, is it always the same officer?’
‘This Saturday, yes. But last week it was a different one.’
‘And what were the results?’
‘The results?’
‘Of the tests,’ said Caldas. ‘Were any positive?’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘None of them?’
‘None, Inspector. I hardly drink.’
Caldas thought the caller sounded puzzled rather than angry with the police. Caldas shared his bewilderment.
‘What can I do, Inspector?’
While he was trying to come up with an answer for the caller, Caldas saw Losada signal to the sound technician. A tune, more suited to a cartoon than a police phone-in, began to play in his headphones. It was highly distracting, and he had to glance at the caller’s name on the sign again before he could answer him.
‘Here’s what we’re going to do, José,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come down to the radio station the day of our next show and afterwards we can go and have a word with the chief of the City Police. Let’s see if he can persuade his officers not to stop you all the time. How’s that?’
The caller hung up and Caldas wrote in his notebook: City Police eight, Leo nil.
After another two calls, Patrolling the Waves came to an end. Caldas freed himself from the oppressive headphones while Losada sonorously exhorted his audience to tune in for the next show.
When the red light indicated that they were off air, Caldas asked Losada: ‘What was that music?’
‘What music?’
‘The jingle you had playing when I was about to answer the breathalyser man, and all the callers after that.’
‘Ah!’ smiled the presenter. ‘I thought it would be a great idea to play a tune while you’re thinking.’
‘What?’
‘To make it more fun for the audience. Just while you’re thinking,’ he said, smugly sure of himself.
Caldas was horrified. If he didn’t stop this arrogant fool right now, pretty soon there’d be a trumpet fanfare after each answer.
‘Didn’t it occur to you that it might do the exact opposite – that a silly little jingle like that might actually distract me?’ said Caldas. ‘Anyway, what do you mean “while I’m thinking”? What the hell do you suppose I’m doing the rest of the time?’
Death on a Galician Shore Page 3