Free Death on a Galician Shore by Domingo Villar Page A

than it took him to say this, he lifted the boat out of the water, turned it over in the air and dropped it on to the trailer, upside-down. Water poured out of the boat and Caldas jumped aside so as not to get splashed.
    ‘Can I help?’
    Arias lifted the boat by its side and centred it on the trailer.
    ‘No, thanks.’
    Caldas recalled Justo Castelo’s skull on the autopsy trolley. The pathologist believed he’d been struck with a metal bar before being thrown into the water. Caldas pictured the man before him brandishing just such a bar. He wouldn’t have needed to exert his full strength to cause a wound like the one on the dead man’s head.
    ‘You say he never seemed anxious?’
    ‘He never got agitated, no.’
    ‘About anything?’
    ‘That’s how he was,’ replied Arias, and began pulling the trailer up the slipway.
    Caldas followed. ‘Are you sure I can’t help?’
    The fisherman glanced over his shoulder. ‘If you wouldn’t mind grabbing the oars …’
    Caldas walked back to where the fisherman had left them and, as he bent down, he slipped on the seaweed that covered the lower section of the slipway.
    ‘Watch it,’ said the fisherman, scraping the sole of one of his rubber boots on the stone. ‘Those shoes are no good here.’
    They weren’t much good for walking around a vineyard either, the inspector reflected, remembering the previous morning when he’d got them covered in mud by the river.
    Stepping carefully, he followed Arias up to the platform where the fishermen kept their boats out of reach of high tide. Caldas counted six rowing boats. He noticed they all had the word
auxiliary
beside the name of the boat they served. On José Arias’s boat it read:
Auxiliary Aileen
.
    ‘What does that mean?’ asked Caldas, pointing at the dark letters hand-painted on the stern.
    ‘Aileen? It’s a name.’
    ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
    ‘It’s Scottish,’ said the fisherman, dropping the trailer on the slipway. He took the oars from the inspector and rested them on the upturned boat.
    Caldas enquired about the dead man again: ‘Do you know if Castelo had had an argument with anyone recently?’
    ‘No, I don’t. As I said, El Rubio and I didn’t talk much,’ replied Arias in his deep voice.
    This was the second time he’d mentioned that, though they were colleagues, they weren’t friends.
    ‘You didn’t get on?’
    The fisherman said no, it wasn’t that, as he put a chain around the trailer, boat and oars.
    ‘Well, what, then?’
    Arias shrugged. ‘Life,’ he said, tightening the chain and securing it with a small padlock.
    Caldas looked around. All the other rowing boats were chainedup, too. He wondered who would want to steal these little old wooden boats.
    ‘You’re afraid they’ll get stolen?’
    ‘No, of course not, but sometimes the oars float off or get washed up on the beach.’ Arias indicated the padlock. ‘This thing can be kicked open, but at least the oars stay put.’
    ‘Which one is Castelo’s?’
    ‘That’s his trailer,’ he said, glancing over at one that lay empty. Then he indicated one of the rowing boats bobbing on the water tied to a buoy. ‘His rowing boat is moored there.’
    The inspector went over to the empty trailer. It was chained up and the tiny padlock was locked. He recalled the two keys found on Justo Castelo’s body when he was pulled from the water. Neither was small enough to fit the padlock.
    He thought he’d call Forensics to request a thorough examination of the trailer and the rowing boat out on the water, but he looked at his watch and decided to call later. Not even the conscientious Clara Barcia would be at work this early.
    ‘Whose is the other one?’ he asked, pointing to another empty trailer beside Castelo’s.
    ‘It’s the old man’s. Hermida’s his name. His rowing boat’s tied up down there.’
    Caldas turned to look at the boat moored to a rusty ring.
    ‘Did you know that Castelo put out to sea on Sunday