Death on a Galician Shore

by Villar, Domingo

  The scallops arrived and Caldas didn’t so much devour as inhale them. Meanwhile, he told himself that if he hadn’t received any useful information from Quintans by the following day he’d go to Neda himself to find something.

  Cristina brought the sardines and the salad, humming ‘Promenade’.

  ‘What’s that you’re humming?’ asked Caldas.

  ‘No idea,’ she said, removing the plate of empty scallop shells and gesturing towards the other side of the restaurant. ‘They were singing it over there.’

  He finished his meal with coffee. Then he paid, and walked back to the station smoking a cigarette. He looked into his office: no Post-it notes on the desk. He closed the door and went to see Soto to fill him in on the latest developments. He told him about the video and explained that it wasn’t Castelo that Hermida’s wife had seen setting out in the boat.

  ‘I still don’t understand why he bound Castelo’s wrists,’ said the superintendent once Caldas had finished.

  ‘Because it was perfect. On one hand, it meant he could make it look like suicide and finish Castelo off quietly, without arousing suspicion. Nobody would look into the suicide of a depressive. On the other hand, I’m sure being tied up made El Rubio tell him what happened in Aguiño that night in the hope that he’d let him go.’

  ‘Nice guy that Neira.’

  Caldas clicked his tongue. ‘It’s not all his fault.’

  Soto assented. ‘Do you think he’ll go after the others?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. If he planned all this to kill the accomplice, he’s hardly going to leave the killer alive.’

  ‘Do you reckon he’s gone after Arias in Scotland?’

  ‘If Castelo talked, I think it’s very likely.’

  ‘And if he didn’t?’

  ‘In that case Valverde’s got a problem,’ said Caldas. ‘Neira may want to get rid of both of them.’

  ‘To make sure he hits his target?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Open Doors

  Estevez dropped him off outside the hospital. Caldas crossed the lobby and took the stairs to the second floor. He walked down the corridor of closed doors and opened the one numbered 211.

  Uncle Alberto smiled behind the green mask. He was sitting on the bed, now stripped, in trousers and a sweater that were too loose for him. The table where the radio and newspapers had been was empty and a leather holdall sat, packed, on the floor.

  ‘Hello, Leo,’ said his father, looking out of the window at the city.

  ‘Shall we head downstairs?’

  ‘We’ve got to wait for the ambulance.’

  ‘I thought you were going in the car.’

  ‘So did I, but the doctor thought it better to have an ambulance. For the oxygen,’ he added.

  A male nurse entered pushing a wheelchair with an oxygen cylinder on the back. He disconnected the breathing mask from the wall and attached it to the cylinder. Then he helped Alberto into the chair.

  They proceeded down the corridor in single file, Uncle Alberto with his green mask leading in the wheelchair and, behind him, the nurse, the inspector’s father and, finally, Caldas carrying the leather holdall.

  As the ambulance door closed, the inspector asked his father, ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll take the car.’

  Caldas saw his father’s car a short distance away and nodded. He felt bad about not going with them, but he had too much to do.

  ‘Will you both be all right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I was planning to come and see you this weekend.’

  ‘OK,’ said his father, heading towards the car. ‘If you get a free moment.’

  Caldas stood at the kerb waving as they drove off. Once they’d disappeared from sight, he walked back to the police station and shut himself in his office. He made a few calls and went through the papers that he’d moved from one pile to another that morning. At seven his mobile rang.

  He didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Inspector Caldas?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Ana Valdés.’

  The name meant nothing to him but the voice was familiar.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I’m Marcos Valverde’s wife, from Panxón. Don’t you remember me?’

  He may not have known her name but he hadn’t forgotten her smile.

  ‘Yes, of course. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said, ‘but as you gave me your number …’

  Caldas cut short her apology. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Our front gate has been damaged.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The garden gate. Several panels have been torn off.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon. I found it like that when I got home.’

  ‘Was the house broken into?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘Marcos was in the house. He didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘But you’re both OK? Your husband’s OK?’

  ‘Yes, we’re fine, but pretty worried.’

  With good reason, thought the inspector. ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘I’m in the car on my way to Vigo. I’m not spending the night in that house.’

  ‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’ he said, and immediately regretted it.

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a flat in the centre. I often stay there on Saturday nights after a concert. But I’m concerned about my husband.’

  ‘Is he still at the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He’s trying to get hold of a carpenter. He’s going to meet me in town once the gate’s fixed.’

  ‘Have you reported it to the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Marcos was adamant that we shouldn’t.’

  ‘I assume he doesn’t know you’re calling me?’

  ‘No. Please don’t tell him.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Caldas. ‘But we’ll have to go over there.’

  He heard a sigh of relief. ‘I’d be very grateful, Inspector.’

  ‘No need to thank me. I’m just doing my job.’

  He expected her to end the call but she asked, ‘Do you think this has something to do with what they’re saying in the village?’

  ‘I don’t know, but please don’t worry about that now.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Valverde’s wife. ‘I’m scared.’

  When he hung up, Caldas went to the superintendent’s office, collecting Estevez en route.

  ‘Someone’s tried to get into Valverde’s house.’

  The superintendent looked up from the document he was reading.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon. His wife got home to find the front gate smashed up. She’s just phoned to tell me.’

  Soto asked the same question as Caldas himself earlier: ‘Is the husband all right?’

  ‘Yes. He was in the house but didn’t hear anything.’

  The superintendent rubbed his forehead. ‘Do you think it was Diego Neira?’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ replied Caldas. ‘But Valverde is.’

  ‘Did he say so?’

  ‘No, but he didn’t want to call the police, and they’re not staying at the house tonight. He’s trying to find someone to fix the gate as soon as possible and then he’s leaving.’

  ‘Do you know where they intend to go?’

  ‘They’re coming to Vigo. Apparently they’ve got a flat here. She’s already on her way.’

  ‘Are you going out to Panxón?’

  ‘Yes, if only to have a look.’

  Soto rubbed his forehead again. ‘If Neira was there this afternoon, his car can’t be far away.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘It’s a 4x4, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, a Land Rover. Light-col
oured and rather old. Clara Barcia has the details,’ said Caldas.

  ‘OK then,’ said Soto, picking up the phone. ‘You two head over there. I’ll make sure the car’s found.’

  The Wooden Gate

  The inspector urged Estevez to drive faster and, a little more than fifteen minutes later, they caught sight of the Templo Votivo del Mar by the light of a moon still as full as the night before. They’d travelled in silence, Estevez concentrating on the road and Caldas leaning back, eyes closed and window open a crack.

  He opened his eyes as Estevez stopped the car at the bottom of the steep hill, headlights pointing at the gate of the Valverdes’ house. There was a large hole in the bottom corner by the pillar on which the gate was hinged. Leaving the lights on, they got out of the car to inspect the damage.

  The gate was made up of four horizontal panels each about half a metre wide held together with iron fittings. The two lower panels had been partly pulled aside, leaving a gap big enough for even Estevez to crawl through.

  ‘They prised them off from the pillar side,’ said Estevez.

  Caldas agreed and peered through the gap. Valverde’s black sports car was parked in the courtyard.

  He couldn’t see the huge sitting-room window from there but he could tell from the brightness of the garden that there were lights on inside the house.

  He straightened up and rang the bell.

  ‘Who is it?’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Inspector Caldas.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Inspector Caldas. The police,’ he added.

  ‘I’ll be right out, Inspector,’ said the voice. Caldas assumed that the automatic gate mechanism must have been damaged as well.

  While Valverde made his way out, Estevez went to turn off the car headlights. When he got back he raised his arms and rested his hands on the top of the gate. ‘If he wanted to get in, he could just have jumped over. It’s not very high,’ he said, saying what Caldas had been thinking since seeing the damage.

  ‘He probably didn’t want to get in,’ said the inspector.

  ‘You think it was just a warning, like the graffiti?’

  ‘Could be.’

  They heard Valverde’s footsteps on the gravel. Then the gate opened inwards with a creak.

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘This,’ said Caldas gesturing at the gate.

  ‘It’s just a bit of damage to a couple of the panels. I’ve already called a carpenter to come out and patch it up,’ said Valverde, dismissively. ‘I’m having an alarm installed tomorrow. It’s not as safe round here as it used to be.’

  ‘Do you really think whoever did this wanted to get in to rob you?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Caldas. ‘Why would someone bother to break down the gate when it would be less effort to climb over?’

  Valverde stared at the damaged panels.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, but his tone suggested otherwise.

  ‘Will you be staying here tonight?’

  ‘No,’ said Valverde. ‘My wife is scared. We’re going to spend a night, maybe two in town, until we get the alarm fitted.’

  ‘You don’t believe it was a burglary either, do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I meant that you know this wasn’t done by a burglar.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you think I—’

  ‘Nobody would leave their house if they thought someone was going to try to break in,’ interrupted Caldas.

  Valverde snorted. ‘We’re leaving because of my wife—’

  Caldas cut in again: ‘Who are you afraid of?’

  ‘Please don’t push me, Inspector. We’ve been over this already.’

  ‘I’m just trying to protect you. I don’t understand why you won’t let us help.’

  Valverde was silent and Caldas knew he wouldn’t get any answers this time either.

  ‘Fine,’ said Caldas. ‘If you decide you want to speak to us, you know where to find us. Think about it, before it’s too late.’

  They went back to the car and heard the gate creak shut and the sound of Valverde’s footsteps receding on the gravel path.

  ‘If you wanted to scare him, you succeeded,’ said Estevez.

  ‘Yes.’

  With the gate closed and no room to turn the car around, Estevez started reversing up the hill but stopped a few seconds later.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Caldas.

  ‘There’s a motorbike coming.’

  Turning, Caldas saw a headlight a couple of metres away from the car.

  ‘It can only be going to Valverde’s house,’ murmured Estevez.

  ‘Well, let it pass,’ said Caldas.

  Estevez edged the car up close to the wall on one side of the street and the motorbike slipped past on the other.

  The rider was wearing a dark helmet. He stopped at the gate, turned off the engine and dismounted. He raised the seat and pulled out a metal box, placing his helmet in the empty compartment. Then he turned towards them.

  The policemen recognised the red beard of the carpenter they’d seen working on boats at the yacht club. He, however, dazzled by their headlights, did not recognise them.

  ‘Is this where they need a carpenter?’ he asked, shielding his eyes with his maimed hand.

  ‘Yes,’ said Caldas, leaning out of the window. ‘You have to ring the bell.’

  Estevez pressed down on the accelerator and the car reversed up the hill, the engine revving so loudly that Caldas only just heard his mobile phone ring. It was Olga.

  ‘Are you still at the station?’

  ‘I’m going to be here for a good while longer,’ she sighed, and went on to explain why she’d called: ‘The superintendent wants to know if you want the search for the Land Rover extended to Portugal.’

  ‘In theory, no,’ said Caldas. ‘Let’s wait until we hear from Quintans.’

  ‘He just called, actually.’

  ‘Quintans?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Olga. Caldas wondered why she hadn’t told him at the start.

  ‘Did you give him my mobile number?’

  ‘No. He said he’d call back in the morning.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you anything?’

  ‘Yes, he said he’d found the son. Neira.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just said he’d found him. Apparently he had an accident a few years ago.’

  ‘The son?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I suppose so.’

  ‘Have you got his mobile number?’

  ‘Whose?’

  Caldas sighed. It was this sort of thing that made him sympathise with Estevez. ‘Quintans’.’

  ‘No, but I can get it from Ferrol,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you right back.’

  Caldas hung up and clicked his tongue. ‘Damn, it can’t be,’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Estevez.

  ‘I think the gap was for someone to get into the house,’ said the inspector. ‘We need to go to the harbour.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Yes, but let’s get back on the road first,’ urged Caldas.

  In his mind’s eye he could see the ball, the black dog and the boy in the wheelchair.

  Once Estevez had manoeuvred the car out of the narrow street, Caldas repeated what Olga had just told him.

  ‘Apparently Diego Neira had an accident a few years ago.’

  His phone rang. It was Olga again.

  ‘Did you get the number?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Have you got something to write it down on?’

  Caldas jotted Quintans’ phone number on his cigarette packet.

  ‘An accident?’ asked Estevez once the inspector had hung up.

  Caldas responded with a question. ‘Have you noticed a boy in a wheelchair on the beach these past few days?’

  Estevez stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘
So that’s why he had to make a hole in the gate: he can’t jump over,’ he said.

  Caldas nodded and dialled the number Olga has just given him. It was engaged.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Estevez, and accelerated hard.

  The Wheelchair

  Caldas still hadn’t got through to Quintans when Estevez drew up at the harbour. They got out of the car and headed towards the Refugio del Pescador. Games of dominoes were in progress at all the tables by the window. The waiter who had described what Castelo was wearing on his last evening there was at the back, behind the bar.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector.’

  Caldas asked him if he knew the young man in the wheelchair.

  ‘I know who you mean, Inspector. He’s not from the village. He’s only been around for a few weeks.’

  Caldas went over to one of the tables. The old sea dog was playing with three other fishermen. He gave the inspector a sidelong glance, as if he feared retaliation for his teasing that morning. The captain’s cap lay on a corner of the table.

  Caldas waited as the clacking of dominoes on marble speeded up and then subsided before asking, ‘Do you know where I might find a boy who goes down to the beach in a wheelchair?’

  ‘With a dog?’ they all asked, as if the inspector’s description had not been precise enough. Caldas wondered how many other boys in wheelchairs there were on the beach at that time of year.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘He’s not from around here,’ they chorused.

  ‘But do you know where I can find him?’

  They looked at one another.

  ‘He was around just now,’ said one, waving towards the window.

  Another one turned and interrupted the game at the next table. ‘Do you know where the disabled lad lives, the one on the beach in a wheelchair?’

  The four men at the other table also required greater precision. ‘The one with the dog?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  One of the men scratched his chin with a domino. ‘I think he’s renting one of Pepe O Bravo’s houses,’ he said, slamming a double-four down on the table.

  ‘And where’s that?’ asked Caldas.

  They all replied together, ‘Do you know the cemetery?’