Free Death on a Galician Shore by Domingo Villar Page B

morning?’
    ‘So I heard.’
    ‘But there’s no fish market on a Sunday, is there?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you and your colleagues go out fishing on Sundays?’
    ‘No,’ replied Arias without hesitation. ‘We rest.’
    ‘But someone saw Castelo in his boat before dawn.’
    Arias shrugged. ‘If they saw him, then it must be true.’
    ‘Don’t you find it odd?’
    ‘It’s unusual,’ Arias admitted.
    ‘Why do you think he went out this particular Sunday?’
    ‘You’d have to ask him.’
    Unfortunately that was no longer possible.
    ‘Do you know who saw him go out in his boat?’
    ‘No,’ replied the fisherman in his cavernous voice.
    ‘Not you, of course.’
    ‘No.’
    Caldas felt for the packet of cigarettes in the pocket of his cagoule and held it for a moment.
    ‘What were you doing on Sunday morning?’
    ‘Sleeping,’ Arias muttered, and Caldas realised he wasn’t going to get any more out of him.
    ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said, holding out his hand. It disappeared in the fisherman’s, huge and rough. ‘I haven’t got any more questions for now, but I may need to speak to you again.’
    ‘I’ll be here.’
    ‘If you remember anything else, you can contact me on this number.’
    Arias took the card Caldas handed him.
    ‘El Rubio didn’t commit suicide, did he, Inspector?’
    Caldas replied with a question: ‘Would that surprise you?’
    The fisherman made a face, which Caldas was at a loss to interpret.
    ‘Nothing surprises me.’
    ‘Do you have any idea who—’
    The fisherman answered before Caldas could finish the question: ‘I don’t know, Inspector. I don’t know.’
    The two old fishermen were still standing at the entrance to the market. Before he went inside, the inspector took one last look at the tall man in orange walking away, head bowed, down the empty street.
    Caldas pushed back his dripping hood. It had stopped raining.

The Auctioneer
    Caldas went back inside, shaking the rain from his cagoule. The auctioneer was hosing down the floor, directing the jet at seaweed stuck to the cement surface. Estevez was keeping his distance, making sure his gleaming shoes didn’t get splashed.
    ‘Where’s Hermida?’ Caldas asked his assistant.
    ‘He’s gone home for a bit,’ Estevez replied. ‘He said he’d be back in ten minutes.’
    ‘He lives just round the corner,’ said the auctioneer, turning off the hose.
    ‘Hello. I’m Inspector Caldas.’
    ‘From the radio?’ asked the auctioneer, smiling through his black goatee.
    Did
Patrolling the Waves
reach Panxón, or had his assistant blabbed?
    Estevez raised his hands, palms upward, mutely declaring his innocence.
    ‘Lots of people here tune in,’ said the auctioneer.
    Caldas forced a smile, trying to appear pleased.
    ‘Did you speak to Arias?’ asked Estevez.
    Caldas nodded.
    The auctioneer coiled up the hose and dropped it on the floor beside the tap.
    ‘Are there always so few people here on market days?’ enquired the inspector.
    ‘In winter, generally, yes. Not many fishermen or buyers. Onlythree men work from here on a daily basis. Well, two now.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘It’s some time since we lost a man at sea.’
    ‘Did you know Castelo well?’ asked Caldas.
    ‘I saw him here almost every day,’ said the auctioneer. ‘El Rubio was a good man. ‘
    ‘When was the last time you saw him?’
    ‘At the auction on Saturday.’
    ‘Did you notice anything odd about him that day?’
    ‘No. He was the same as usual, going about his business. He had a good day on Saturday – he caught a lot of shrimp and they fetched a good price. He certainly didn’t seem down enough to do something like that. I’m from Baiona, you know,’ he gestured in the direction of the town across the bay. ‘A few years ago, a fisherman there threw himself into the sea. The same as El Rubio, with his hands tied so that he wouldn’t be able to swim.’
    ‘It’s possible Castelo didn’t commit suicide,’ said