Free Death on a Galician Shore by Domingo Villar

release the crabs. They dropped on to the stone slipway and, now free, scuttled down to the water and disappeared.
    One of the crabs fell upside-down and Caldas saw that it was a female, its abdomen covered with roe. He noticed the same coral patch on all the crabs the fisherman was returning to the sea. They were females about to spawn, loaded with hundreds of tiny eggs the same colour as the fishermen’s waterproofs.
    ‘Not everyone does that,’ said Caldas. He’d found crabs on his plate just as full of roe on too many occasions.
    The man shrugged and shook the bag gently with his great big hands, emptying the last few stragglers. ‘It’s none of my business what others do,’ he said in a voice that sounded as if it came from the bottom of a cave.
    The last crab fell out of the bag and disappeared into the sea. It was dark, but Arias remained crouching for a moment, staring at the water as if he could see them crawling away on the sea floor.
    When Arias stood up, Caldas realised that Estevez had been right: the fisherman was even taller than his assistant and, though he didn’t have Estevez’s bulk, he too was solidly built. He had dark skin and eyes, and the stubble on his chin was flecked with grey.
    ‘José Arias?’
    The man nodded.
    ‘Do you have a moment?’
    ‘I was about to bring the boat up on to the slipway,’ he said, gesturing towards the small wooden craft in which he’d rowed back to land. It sat in the water beside Hermida’s, a few metres from the slipway. Both vessels were moored to the same metal ring embedded in the stone.
    ‘Is it OK if I hang around while you do that so we can talk? I’m Inspector Caldas, with the police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
    The fisherman shrugged. ‘Fine. If you don’t mind the rain,’ he said, and pointed to a platform on the slipway where other small boats like his lay. ‘I’ll go and get the trailer.’
    It was too late to back out so the inspector unzipped the neck of his cagoule, and drew out the hood.
    Arias returned, pulling a small, two-wheeled metal trailer. He left it by the water’s edge.
    ‘It’s about your colleague Castelo, as you can guess,’ said Caldas, and he saw Arias wrinkle his nose.
    ‘Of course,’ he said, untying the end of the rope. ‘What do you want to know?’
    ‘Did you know each other well?’
    ‘As you can see, there aren’t many of us fishing here. But we weren’t friends, if that’s what you’re asking.’
    Caldas wasn’t particularly close to any of his colleagues at the station either.
    ‘I still can’t believe he’s dead,’ added Arias. ‘Is it true that his hands were bound?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    The fisherman pulled on the rope, hauling in the boat until it was lined up with the trailer.
    ‘When did you last see Castelo?’
    ‘Saturday. In there.’
    ‘At the auction?’
    ‘That was in the morning,’ said Arias. ‘I saw him later on at the Refugio.’
    ‘Where?’ asked the inspector.
    The fisherman pointed a huge finger at the promenade. Next to the fish market, outside the last building before the yacht club, hung a sign: ‘El Refugio del Pescador’.
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘In the evening.’
    ‘What time?’
    ‘It must have been seven or eight. I can’t give you a precise time.’
    ‘Was he alone?’
    Arias nodded. ‘He was at the bar, talking to the waiter. Then he left.’
    ‘And you didn’t see him again?’
    ‘No, I didn’t.’
    ‘Did you speak to him?’
    Arias shook his head and crouched down by the boat, holding it by the bow. He removed the oars and dropped them on to the seaweed-covered stone.
    ‘How about at the auction, in the morning?’
    ‘No, not then either.’
    ‘Did he seem worried?’
    Arias looked up. ‘I didn’t speak to him,’ he insisted in his deep voice.
    ‘Even so, did he appear anxious?’
    ‘You didn’t know him, did you?’
    Caldas shook his head.
    ‘El Rubio never seemed anxious,’ said the fisherman, and in less time