Death on a Galician Shore Read Online Free PDF

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 Losadaalready 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