Read Online Death on a Galician Shore by Domingo Villar - Free Book Online
Authors: Domingo Villar
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market building, a stone slipway ran down from the street to the water’s edge. Near the top, by the parked cars, a few wooden boats lay beyond the reach of high tide.
Past the slipway, the beach stretched away to the lower slopes of Monte Lourido, forming an immense arc broken only by a creek that flowed into the sea, dividing the beach in two.
Monteferro and the Estelas Islands provided the harbour in Panxón with natural shelter. The beach there was protected and calm, but as it left the village it became exposed, so open to the Atlantic that old seafarers claimed that, sailing west in a straight line, America was the first obstacle one reached. For this reason, the stretch of sand beyond the creek was no longer called the Playa de Panxón but the Playa America.
There, away from the lights of the village and the street lamps of the promenade, the outline of the coast was only distinguishable by the white trail of foam from waves breaking on the shore.
Caldas remembered one August when they’d come here often. If the tide was out, Alba would walk the entire length of the beach, at the water’s edge, insisting on placing a hand on the wall at either end, as if the walk were not complete unless she did so. He went with her, but stopped before reaching either end, defeated by the seaweed that covered the damp sand near the wall of the Playa America, and the seashells that scraped the soles of his bare feet by the slipway in Panxón.
Caldas was surprised to see how many other visitors shared Alba’s quaint insistence on touching both walls, as if they thought their prints would remain on the stone for ever.
‘Are you sure it’s a market day, boss?’ grumbled Estevez after a few minutes, bringing the inspector back from summer walks to a wet autumn morning.
Looking around the empty harbour, Caldas suddenly had his own doubts. What if the market was closed for the day out of respect for the drowned man? It had only just occurred to him, but now it seemed obvious that a small place like Panxón would cease trading when one of its fishermen died.
‘Of course I am,’ he replied, sinking into his seat. He tried to find a convincing excuse to give his assistant but ruled each one out as it came to him. He had just resigned himself to enduring Estevez’scomplaints all the way back to Vigo when, almost simultaneously, two lights doubled the jetty and entered the harbour.
The first boat switched off its engine as it approached a buoy where a small wooden rowing boat was moored. The fisherman on board leaned over the gunwale and plunged a boat hook into the water to retrieve a rope.
A lightbulb hanging like an oil lamp over the deck illuminated the man’s wizened features. A few wisps of white hair protruded from the dark cap he wore to ward off the cold and rain.
Caldas remembered a crime novel by a French writer that Alba had given him a couple of years before. He’d forgotten the plot but remembered one of the characters, Joss, a former sailor who earned his living as a town crier in a Paris square. He read out the messages given him by local residents and, after each one, recounted the tale of a shipwreck. He’d describe the boat and the conditions at sea, and people held their breath as they waited to hear the number of victims. Caldas liked to imagine the sigh of relief from Joss’s audience when he concluded: ‘No dead or missing.’
After mooring the boat to the buoy, the fisherman began emptying the contents of his traps into a basket to transfer his overnight catch to dry land. The same operation was taking place in the other returning boat.
Seagulls wheeled above them and, through the open car window, the inspector could hear their cries as they clamoured for fish, and smell the pungent odour of low tide.
‘His name’s Ernesto Hermida,’ said Estevez.
‘The old man?’ asked Caldas.
‘No, the seagull,’ muttered Estevez. ‘What a question.’
Caldas smiled and watched the fisherman work. As
Past the slipway, the beach stretched away to the lower slopes of Monte Lourido, forming an immense arc broken only by a creek that flowed into the sea, dividing the beach in two.
Monteferro and the Estelas Islands provided the harbour in Panxón with natural shelter. The beach there was protected and calm, but as it left the village it became exposed, so open to the Atlantic that old seafarers claimed that, sailing west in a straight line, America was the first obstacle one reached. For this reason, the stretch of sand beyond the creek was no longer called the Playa de Panxón but the Playa America.
There, away from the lights of the village and the street lamps of the promenade, the outline of the coast was only distinguishable by the white trail of foam from waves breaking on the shore.
Caldas remembered one August when they’d come here often. If the tide was out, Alba would walk the entire length of the beach, at the water’s edge, insisting on placing a hand on the wall at either end, as if the walk were not complete unless she did so. He went with her, but stopped before reaching either end, defeated by the seaweed that covered the damp sand near the wall of the Playa America, and the seashells that scraped the soles of his bare feet by the slipway in Panxón.
Caldas was surprised to see how many other visitors shared Alba’s quaint insistence on touching both walls, as if they thought their prints would remain on the stone for ever.
‘Are you sure it’s a market day, boss?’ grumbled Estevez after a few minutes, bringing the inspector back from summer walks to a wet autumn morning.
Looking around the empty harbour, Caldas suddenly had his own doubts. What if the market was closed for the day out of respect for the drowned man? It had only just occurred to him, but now it seemed obvious that a small place like Panxón would cease trading when one of its fishermen died.
‘Of course I am,’ he replied, sinking into his seat. He tried to find a convincing excuse to give his assistant but ruled each one out as it came to him. He had just resigned himself to enduring Estevez’scomplaints all the way back to Vigo when, almost simultaneously, two lights doubled the jetty and entered the harbour.
The first boat switched off its engine as it approached a buoy where a small wooden rowing boat was moored. The fisherman on board leaned over the gunwale and plunged a boat hook into the water to retrieve a rope.
A lightbulb hanging like an oil lamp over the deck illuminated the man’s wizened features. A few wisps of white hair protruded from the dark cap he wore to ward off the cold and rain.
Caldas remembered a crime novel by a French writer that Alba had given him a couple of years before. He’d forgotten the plot but remembered one of the characters, Joss, a former sailor who earned his living as a town crier in a Paris square. He read out the messages given him by local residents and, after each one, recounted the tale of a shipwreck. He’d describe the boat and the conditions at sea, and people held their breath as they waited to hear the number of victims. Caldas liked to imagine the sigh of relief from Joss’s audience when he concluded: ‘No dead or missing.’
After mooring the boat to the buoy, the fisherman began emptying the contents of his traps into a basket to transfer his overnight catch to dry land. The same operation was taking place in the other returning boat.
Seagulls wheeled above them and, through the open car window, the inspector could hear their cries as they clamoured for fish, and smell the pungent odour of low tide.
‘His name’s Ernesto Hermida,’ said Estevez.
‘The old man?’ asked Caldas.
‘No, the seagull,’ muttered Estevez. ‘What a question.’
Caldas smiled and watched the fisherman work. As
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