Death on a Galician Shore Read Online Free PDF Page A

he?’
    ‘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.
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