Caldas looked at the pathologist. ‘Could he have been in the water since Saturday night?’
‘As I said, a day or two. I can’t be any more accurate when it comes to the sea.’
Caldas nodded. ‘In that case it’s clear.’
Estevez was still mystified. ‘What’s clear?’
‘Don’t you see?’
All three looked blank.
‘Castelo was killed on Saturday night. He was struck on the head, tied up to make it look like suicide and thrown into the sea,’ said Caldas. ‘To complete the deception, the killer had to make sure the boat wasn’t moored to the buoy at daybreak. He had to get it out of the harbour so that everyone would think that, like many before him, El Rubio had decided to go fishing for the last time. To set sail and jump into the sea. Do you follow now?’
They did.
‘The man who murdered him had been biding his time for months. He knew what he had to do. Before heaving Castelo over the side, he took the float with the keys to his fishing boat and to the padlock for his rowing boat. The next day was a Sunday. A Sunday in winter. The streets would be deserted, the harbour empty. Castelo’s killer drove his car to the natural harbour by the lighthouse at Punta Lameda. There he’d be able to get rid of the boat and come ashore without being seen. He could sink the boat in the pool where it would remain until the following summer, when El Rubio’s death would have been forgotten.’
He paused to draw on his cigarette before continuing.
‘He left his car there and, in the dark and wearing waterproofs like the dead man’s, he walked to Panxón. When he got to the quayside, he dragged Castelo’s rowing boat into the water, rowed out to his fishing boat and then headed as fast as possible for the lighthouse. There he came ashore, scuttled the boat in the pool, got into his car and left the scene.’
Estevez was amazed.
‘So it was only one man.’
‘Yes, just one.’
Diego Neira had acted alone, and had turned out to be more of a cold-blooded killer than Caldas had hoped.
‘I thought it was strange someone knowing El Rubio was going to set sail on a Sunday,’ Estevez murmured.
Caldas agreed.
‘What about the good luck charms – were they part of the set-up too?’ asked the pathologist.
The inspector shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But knowing how superstitious fishermen are …’
They were silent for a moment, then Dr Barrio pointed at the screen and said, ‘So that’s the man who killed him.’
‘I think so.’
‘Do you have any idea who he is?’
‘His name’s Diego Neira.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked the pathologist.
Caldas stood up. ‘You explain it to him, will you?’ he asked Estevez. ‘I’m going to get rid of this cigarette butt in the toilets.’
Little by Little
It was dark by the time they left the Forensics offices. Estevez drove the inspector to City Hall so that he could pass on the callers’ complaints to the City Police.
‘So he didn’t tie him up just to make him talk,’ Estevez remarked.
‘No,’ Caldas murmured, not opening his eyes. ‘He didn’t settle for simply scaring him into talking. It’s not what I thought.’
‘Do you think Castelo told Neira the name of his mother’s killer?’
‘Quite likely.’
‘Then he’ll kill again.’
‘If he can, yes,’ the inspector mumbled.
Estevez pulled up outside City Hall. Caldas thanked him for the lift and got out.
‘Do you want me to wait?’
‘No need, Rafa. I’ll walk back.’
As his assistant drove off, Caldas tore a page from his black notebook and went in to hand it to the duty officer.
Instead of heading straight back to the Puerta del Sol, Caldas walked from City Hall to the Falperra fountain and then down the Calle Romil. He looked up at the sky. A strong wind had blown all afternoon, pushing the clouds inland. Nothing remained of the cold of previous nights.
As he reached the Paseo de Alfonso XII, a huge, almost full moon appeared above the estuary and, across the still water, the Morrazo peninsula and Cies Islands were silhouetted.
As he walked, Caldas thought of Justo Castelo, of his sister Alicia, of Rebeca and Diego Neira. He’d solved the mystery of the fisherman’s death, though they still hadn’t caught Neira. Caldas was never interested in the culprits. To him, the main thing was knowing the motives, the reasons. Yet, on discovering the truth, he hadn’t felt the relief of other occasions. This time it all seemed clouded with bitterness.
At the Puerta del Sol the scales of the merman’s tail gleamed in the moonlight. Caldas continued along the Calle del Principe, almost immediately turning right into the Travesia de la Aurora.
It was almost eight when he pushed open the wooden door of the Eligio.
‘Good evening, Leo,’ chorused the academics as he entered.
Caldas went up to the bar and Carlos greeted him with a glass of white wine. Soon the academics were talking about seagulls nesting on roofs throughout the city. A little later, someone at the back started whistling ‘Promenade’.
Caldas turned round. Could it be that his mere presence now triggered a Pavlovian response in people so that, upon seeing him, some began discussing the show and others hummed the Gershwin tune?
Carlos brought him a second glass of wine and a plate of steamed cockles.
‘How’s your father doing?’ he asked.
Caldas suddenly remembered that his uncle was being discharged any day. He took his mobile from his pocket and, chewing his first cockle, went out into the street in search of better reception.
‘Leo, well, well!’ said his father on answering the phone.
‘When’s Uncle Alberto being let out?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon at five. Can you be there? To help me get him into the car mainly.’
‘Of course,’ said Caldas. ‘How is he?’
‘Dying to be here.’
‘Do you think you’ll be OK with him?’
‘Well, at least here he’ll get proper food and fresh air.’
‘True.’
‘And wine.’
‘Is he allowed to drink?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think he feels like it.’
‘Little by little,’ said Caldas.
‘That’s right – little by little.’
The inspector promised to be at the hospital at five and went back to his plate of cockles.
Tyre Tracks
In the morning the inspector shaved in the shower, had breakfast in a bar reading the paper and walked to the police station. It was a beautiful day. Clear, without a single cloud. Another cruise liner was entering the port. The tourists would be able to leave their raincoats behind.
‘Has Quintans called from Ferrol?’ he asked Olga as he arrived.
‘This morning?’
‘Or yesterday.’
‘Not this morning. I left you a couple of messages yesterday.’
Among the piles of papers, he found two little yellow Post-it notes stuck to his desk, but neither bore the name he was looking for. Sinking into his black chair, he picked up the phone and called the station in Ferrol.
‘Hi, it’s Leo,’ he said when he got through to Quintans.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called back,’ said Quintans. ‘But that man you’re after is as slippery as an eel.’
‘You can’t find him?’ asked Caldas, already knowing the answer.
‘No way. He lived in Neda until six years ago, but you already knew that.’
‘What about friends, girlfriends, jobs?’
‘Nothing. Diego Neira’s like a ghost. He’s got no remaining family and the few people who knew him can’t give a precise description. They remember him as an ordinary guy. You know – medium height, medium build, brownish hair …. And definitely a bit of a loner.’
‘Any photos?’
‘None,’ said Quintans. ‘And he never went to school in the village. At least the secondary school has no record of his ever enrolling there.’
‘Damn.’
‘Give me a few more hours. I’ll try to have something for you this afternoon or tomorrow.’
Afterwards he called Barcia to ask if they’d identified the 4x4 on the security camera recording.
‘It’s a fairly old model Land Rover. It could be white, beige, sky-blue, yellow – any light colour.’
‘We may as well check if there’s a car in Panxón like it, just in case.’
Barcia had already thought of this. ‘There are two,’ she said. ‘And another six in nearby areas. I was going to ask the local police to see if any of them has a broken aerial and scratched paintwork.’
‘We were thinking of passing by there late morning,’ said Caldas. ‘If you send the list of addresses we can check out the cars ourselves.’
‘OK, Inspector. Shall I send it straight to you?’
‘Better send it to Olga.’
He was about to hang up when he remembered something that had occurred to him in a wakeful moment during the night.
‘Something else, Clara. Around the lighthouse at Punta Lameda there were tyre tracks. Ferro photographed them. I think it would be a good idea to check if any belong to a 4x4 like the one we’re looking for.’
‘Will do, Inspector.’
‘One last thing. Neira was living in Neda, near Ferrol, until a few years ago. It would be good to know how many Land Rovers like that there are there.’
Caldas put the phone down and surveyed his desk. Piles of papers stood like a barricade before him. He glanced at his watch. Estevez wouldn’t arrive until eleven. Taking a deep breath as if about to dive into a swimming pool, he reached for a document.
By the time his assistant appeared in his doorway an hour later, many of the documents were crammed into Caldas’s wastepaper basket. Others had simply moved, becoming the foundations upon which new piles would soon rise.
‘Are we going?’ asked Estevez.
‘Yes,’ said the inspector with a sigh of relief.
The flags of the boats in the fishing port were fluttering in the breeze. Beyond, in Bouzas, the frames of ships under construction gleamed in the autumn sunshine.
They took the ring road and then the road laid on an old tramline that led to Panxón. Monteferro was no longer a dark shape in the mist, but a green forest rising above the blue sea.
As they drove, Caldas showed Estevez the list of owners of 4x4s similar to the one they’d seen on the security camera recording.
‘Let’s see if there’s a light-coloured one.’
‘Do you think he’ll be in Panxón?’
‘No,’ said Caldas. ‘But we may as well check.’
‘I bet Neira’s gone after Arias to Scotland.’
‘We don’t know for sure that Arias is there.’
‘Makes no difference. Diego Neira will be on that fisherman’s trail like a bloodhound. There’s nothing like running away to make someone chase you.’
There were two Land Rovers of the model they were looking for in Panxón. They drove to the first address but didn’t even need to get out of the car to rule that one out: it was parked outside, and it was dark green, dirty and rather dilapidated.
The second 4x4 on the list belonged to a retired fisherman, who’d bought it second-hand several years earlier. He kept it safely in his garage. He showed it to them. It was white but completely unscratched and the aerial was intact.
‘Now what?’ asked Estevez as they were leaving.
‘There are six more in the area. Why don’t you drop me off at the harbour and go and take a look at them?’ suggested Caldas, handing him the list. ‘I don’t like cars.’
Medication
Panxón looked quite different in the sun. There were more fishing rods at the end of the jetty than at other times, and more people on the beach, walking from one sea wall to the other along the water’s edge. Many tables on the terraces displayed Reserved signs.
Caldas passed several young men on the promenade, some on foot, others on bicycles, alone or in pairs. He could tell nothing from their faces, but he wasn’t really expecting to see anything there. He’d looked into the eyes of killers many times and knew that they looked just like anyone else. Murder was human. Anyone could kill.
He took off his sweater, rolled up his shirtsleeves and made his way to the narrow street where José Arias lived. Judging by the amount of junk mail in the letterbox, he hadn’t returned, but Caldas rang the bell anyway.
‘He’s gone away, Inspector,’ said a woman’s voice from above.
‘How do you know?’ Caldas asked the woman with the curlers leaning out of her window. ‘He left on Saturday evening. He was carrying a suitcase.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ replied the neighbour with sudden dignity. ‘I don’t pry into other people’s business.’
Caldas walked back to the harbour. The market had been closed for hours but the air still smelled strongly of fish. He passed the Refugio del Pescador. Inside, at one of the marble tables a game of dominoes was in progress.
Crossing the road towards the slipway, he saw the Aileen loaded with traps, moored to its buoy. He looked at the jetty and wondered how long Justo Castelo’s traps would remain there, stacked against the white wall.
‘Would you like to come fishing, Inspector?’ said a voice behind him.
He turned round. The old salt who claimed to have seen the Xurelo in the mist was peering at him from beneath his captain’s cap.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I asked if you’d like to come fishing,’ the man said with a smile.
Caldas tutted and made his way to the jetty. Outside the yacht club, two freshly painted wooden boats were drying in the sun. Passing El Rubio’s traps, he approached the anglers. In a metal bucket, a fish he didn’t recognise was flapping about.
At the end of the jetty, he looked out, letting the breeze blow sea spray into his face. On the side facing the open sea there were great concrete blocks that had been blunted by the wind and waves.
A small boat was entering the harbour and Caldas recognised Manuel Trabazo’s sky-blue gamela.
When he reached his buoy, the doctor leaned over the side to retrieve the mooring line with a hook. He tied up the fishing boat, jumped into his small rowing boat and began rowing towards the stone slipway.
Caldas stood waiting for him down by the water’s edge.
On the beach, the boy in the wheelchair was throwing a ball for his dog.
‘Look what you missed, Calditas,’ said Trabazo, holding up a plastic bag. He was grinning beneath his white fringe.
Caldas opened the bag. Inside were half a dozen sea bass. The gills of one or two were still fluttering feebly.
‘They’re from my rock,’ said Trabazo with a wink. ‘All six in under an hour.’
The inspector helped him haul his boat on to the trailer and then pull the trailer up to the level section of the slipway.
‘Doctor!’ the old sea dog called out from the door of the Refugio del Pescador.
Trabazo looked up and the man said mockingly, ‘Your friend doesn’t want to come fishing.’
‘Don’t be mean, Pepe,’ Trabazo shouted back.
‘Why did you tell him?’ asked Caldas in a whisper.
‘They saw me set sail with you and come back on my own,’ said Trabazo, laying the oars inside the boat and winding a chain around them. ‘What could I say – that I’d thrown you overboard?’ He pulled the chain tight and secured it with a small padlock. ‘I hear they’re letting your uncle out.’
‘Yes, he’s being discharged this afternoon.’
‘Will he be better off at your father’s than in hospital?’
Caldas shrugged. ‘At least he’ll have company.’
‘That’s something.’
‘Yes.’
Trabazo
looked round and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘What’s the time?’
Caldas looked at his watch. ‘One o’clock.’
‘Already?’ said Trabazo with a whistle. ‘Time for my medicine. Why don’t you come along?’
The inspector followed his old friend to the bar of the Refugio del Pescador. Trabazo ordered a glass of white wine. So did Caldas.
The Message
Half an hour later, Estevez collected the inspector and they drove back to Vigo. Estevez had found all the Land Rovers. None was the one caught on the security camera in Monteferro.
At a quarter past two they drew up outside the police station. Caldas went in to see if there was a message from Quintans.
‘Nothing,’ said Olga, and the inspector left again.
‘Coming for lunch?’ he said to his assistant.
‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘Right.’
By the time he got to the Bar Puerto he was too late for percebes. The display cabinet was empty, and Cristina confirmed that the few that had come in that morning had already been shared out among the customers.
He sat at the back at a table with two dockworkers he’d seen there before. He ordered scallops and fried sardines and, in honour of his assistant, a salad.
Cristina brought an earthenware jug of chilled white wine, and Caldas poured himself a glass while he waited for his meal and thought again of Diego Neira. He now knew the essentials – who he was and what his motives were, even the make of his car. It was only a matter of time before they tracked him down, but the sooner the better if they wanted to stop him killing again. Caldas was hoping that the superintendent would then agree to persuade a judge to reopen the case of Rebeca Neira’s murder. However much harm the son had caused, he had a right to know what had happened to his mother, to bury her remains and lay his own grief to rest.
It was frustrating that Quintans was taking so long to come up with a photograph. Diego Neira wasn’t from Panxón but he was familiar with the area, the rock pool and the habits of the fishermen. Caldas was sure he’d spent time near the harbour, probably in July or August, blending in with the other tourists, staying in a rented house, at a campsite or hotel.
Death on a Galician Shore Page 31