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Authors: Domingo Villar
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for the auction to begin.
A man with long grey sideburns and two women were leaning over the table, carefully inspecting the catch. Caldas assumed they were choosing which trays they would bid on.
Another two men, about the same age as Hermida, stood at the entrance, looking out at the rain and the sea, with little apparent interest in the auction.
In the course of his work Caldas had been to the fish market in Vigo a few times. He’d always been struck by the noise of the auctions, the hustle and bustle of boats, lorries, people and crates. He’d enjoyed listening to the shouts and laughter of these men of the sea, aware that the city slept beyond, indifferent to the wakefulness of these nocturnal beings. That morning, however, at the market in Panxón, the only sound disturbing the silence was the rumble of waves breaking on the shore, and Caldas assumed that it must be Justo Castelo’s very recent death that was silencing the place.
The auctioneer approached the table, ran a hand over his black goatee, and indicated the trays on which the shrimp from Arias’s traps wriggled.
‘Excellent shrimp,’ he announced. ‘I’ll start at forty-five euros. Forty-five, forty-four and a half, forty-four, forty-three and a half, forty-three …’
Panxón was a small port, with few fishermen or buyers. No one had deemed it necessary to modernise the auctions with electronics, as they had done in most ports in Galicia. Here, the auctioneer still called out the prices.
‘It’s going down,’ whispered Estevez.
‘Of course,’ replied Caldas.
‘Some system. You just have to wait …’
The two women and the man with the sideburns seemed to confirm Estevez’s theory, remaining silent as the auctioneer called out ever-lower prices.
‘Thirty-two and a half, thirty-two …’
One of the women raised a hand. ‘Yes,’ she said.
The auction stopped and the woman inspected the trays of shrimp again, choosing which to buy at the price.
‘I’ll take them all,’ she said. Beside her, the man with the sideburns flashed her an annoyed look.
‘See?’ whispered the inspector. ‘If you wait too long, you can end up with nothing.’
The auctioneer pointed towards the crabs and began his chant again. Then he auctioned the fish. When it was over, the man with the grey sideburns and the women went to a small office at the side of the hall, where the auctioneer took payment and issued receipts.
At the door to the office, Caldas heard them exchange brief words of regret over Castelo’s death. He wanted to speak to the auctioneer before he closed the market until the following day, and ask if he’d noticed anything odd about Castelo’s behaviour. He’d have time to question the two fishermen later.
He looked round to check that they hadn’t left. Hermida was over in the corner, removing his waterproofs, but there was no sign of Arias.
‘Where’s the tall one?’ he asked Estevez.
‘He was here a moment ago, carrying his plastic bag. He must have gone outside.’
Caldas was afraid he’d gone home to bed after the night’s fishing.
‘Make sure the other fisherman and the auctioneer don’t leave until I get back,’ he said to his assistant. ‘I want to speak to them.’
He walked quickly towards the entrance, where the two old boys were still silently staring out to sea.
Emerging from the market building, Caldas looked around for Arias. Dawn was breaking and, with the tower of the Templo Votivo del Mar looming above it, the village was waking up. He saw a couple of people in the distance, walking along the promenade, but the fisherman hadn’t had time to get that far.
He turned back towards the old men. Before he’d even asked, one of them jerked his head towards the slipway, and Caldas saw Arias crouching at the water’s edge.
A Tall Man
Caldas hunched deeper into his cagoule as a fine rain fell on his head. A few paces away, the fisherman, in a waterproof hat, turned the plastic bag inside out to
A man with long grey sideburns and two women were leaning over the table, carefully inspecting the catch. Caldas assumed they were choosing which trays they would bid on.
Another two men, about the same age as Hermida, stood at the entrance, looking out at the rain and the sea, with little apparent interest in the auction.
In the course of his work Caldas had been to the fish market in Vigo a few times. He’d always been struck by the noise of the auctions, the hustle and bustle of boats, lorries, people and crates. He’d enjoyed listening to the shouts and laughter of these men of the sea, aware that the city slept beyond, indifferent to the wakefulness of these nocturnal beings. That morning, however, at the market in Panxón, the only sound disturbing the silence was the rumble of waves breaking on the shore, and Caldas assumed that it must be Justo Castelo’s very recent death that was silencing the place.
The auctioneer approached the table, ran a hand over his black goatee, and indicated the trays on which the shrimp from Arias’s traps wriggled.
‘Excellent shrimp,’ he announced. ‘I’ll start at forty-five euros. Forty-five, forty-four and a half, forty-four, forty-three and a half, forty-three …’
Panxón was a small port, with few fishermen or buyers. No one had deemed it necessary to modernise the auctions with electronics, as they had done in most ports in Galicia. Here, the auctioneer still called out the prices.
‘It’s going down,’ whispered Estevez.
‘Of course,’ replied Caldas.
‘Some system. You just have to wait …’
The two women and the man with the sideburns seemed to confirm Estevez’s theory, remaining silent as the auctioneer called out ever-lower prices.
‘Thirty-two and a half, thirty-two …’
One of the women raised a hand. ‘Yes,’ she said.
The auction stopped and the woman inspected the trays of shrimp again, choosing which to buy at the price.
‘I’ll take them all,’ she said. Beside her, the man with the sideburns flashed her an annoyed look.
‘See?’ whispered the inspector. ‘If you wait too long, you can end up with nothing.’
The auctioneer pointed towards the crabs and began his chant again. Then he auctioned the fish. When it was over, the man with the grey sideburns and the women went to a small office at the side of the hall, where the auctioneer took payment and issued receipts.
At the door to the office, Caldas heard them exchange brief words of regret over Castelo’s death. He wanted to speak to the auctioneer before he closed the market until the following day, and ask if he’d noticed anything odd about Castelo’s behaviour. He’d have time to question the two fishermen later.
He looked round to check that they hadn’t left. Hermida was over in the corner, removing his waterproofs, but there was no sign of Arias.
‘Where’s the tall one?’ he asked Estevez.
‘He was here a moment ago, carrying his plastic bag. He must have gone outside.’
Caldas was afraid he’d gone home to bed after the night’s fishing.
‘Make sure the other fisherman and the auctioneer don’t leave until I get back,’ he said to his assistant. ‘I want to speak to them.’
He walked quickly towards the entrance, where the two old boys were still silently staring out to sea.
Emerging from the market building, Caldas looked around for Arias. Dawn was breaking and, with the tower of the Templo Votivo del Mar looming above it, the village was waking up. He saw a couple of people in the distance, walking along the promenade, but the fisherman hadn’t had time to get that far.
He turned back towards the old men. Before he’d even asked, one of them jerked his head towards the slipway, and Caldas saw Arias crouching at the water’s edge.
A Tall Man
Caldas hunched deeper into his cagoule as a fine rain fell on his head. A few paces away, the fisherman, in a waterproof hat, turned the plastic bag inside out to
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