Death on a Galician Shore (32 page)

‘You didn’t investigate her disappearance?’

‘Of course we did,’ he said. ‘We looked for her until we found out she’d left.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘I don’t recall the details,’ he replied. ‘It was years ago.’

‘But you saw her again?’ asked Caldas.

‘I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘What about the boy?’

‘He left, too, a few days later. She must have come to get him or called to tell him to meet her somewhere.’

‘Did the boy withdraw the report?’ asked Estevez. Caldas knew the answer – there was no subsequent statement in the file.

‘He never returned,’ said Somoza. ‘Either to withdraw it or enquire about the investigation. He came to us that first time but that was all.’

‘Weren’t you surprised?’ pressed Estevez.

Somoza shook his head and screwed up his face even further. ‘Rebeca the First liked to go out in the evening. She was always a bit wild. She had that reputation. I expect the boy was ashamed to admit that it was another one of his mother’s escapades.’

‘So you never found out what happened?’

‘You know what police work is like,’ said Somoza defensively, raising his palms and then slapping them down on the table. ‘Before you’ve closed one case you get caught up in the next. It’s hard to find time for anything else.’

Caldas nodded.

‘Where did she work?’

‘I don’t remember,’ the old man replied. ‘Not in the village.’

‘Wasn’t she missed at work?’

‘No one apart from her son reported her missing.’

Caldas looked at the photo. The departure of mother and son provided no new clues about the hours leading up to Captain Sousa’s death.

‘Do any relatives of the Neiras live in the village?’

‘No,’ said the retired policeman, breathing hard through his mouth. ‘Her parents weren’t from Aguiño. Her father got a job here on a hake trawler when Rebeca was small. In those days there was plenty of work, lots of people came from elsewhere. By the time she disappeared, it was years since her parents had moved away.’

‘Do you know where they went?’

Somoza shrugged. ‘They must have gone to find work in another port, or maybe they went back to their village. They were getting on.’

‘Do you remember where they came from?’

‘I don’t think I ever knew.’

Somoza could tell them nothing more. Caldas returned the missing persons report and photo of the crew of the
Xurelo
to his jacket pocket. He stood up and quickly took his leave. He needed a cigarette.

While they had coffee at a nearby bar Caldas reread the report. The waiter confirmed that Irene Vazquez, the friend who had accompanied Rebeca Neira’s son to the police station, still lived in Aguiño. She worked in a pharmacy near the harbour.

They parked the car by the church and walked down to the harbour. Dozens of small boats were moored on the still water. By the fish market, they could make out a larger fishing boat tied to bollards on the jetty, surrounded by a cloud of seagulls. Caldas was sorry that the view was shrouded in thick mist.

They walked past the fishermen’s association. On the canteen door a poster was still up for the
Fiesta del Percebe
held in the village the previous summer.

‘By the way,’ said Estevez when he saw the poster, ‘thanks for the
percebes
. They were quite a revelation.’

‘Did you get through them all?’

‘I could have eaten twice as many,’ said Estevez.

‘You did remove the shells, didn’t you?’ joked the inspector.

‘Of course I did,’ said Estevez. ‘After the first one anyway.’

The sign on the glass door of the pharmacy read
Open
. Above, a light shone in a green halo of mist. Behind the counter stood a tall woman with a fringe of dark hair falling over brown eyes. The name Caldas sought was embroidered on the pocket of her white coat.

‘Irene Vazquez?’ he asked anyway.

She looked from one policeman to the other before answering in the affirmative.

‘I’m Inspector Caldas,’ he said, confident that his name would mean nothing to anyone here – Aguiño was definitely too far from Vigo to receive
Patrolling the Waves
. ‘This is Officer Estevez. We’re from Vigo Police.’

‘Is it about the burglary?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Caldas. ‘We’re looking for a woman called Rebeca Neira.’

Again she looked at both of them in turn before replying, ‘Rather late for that, isn’t it?’

‘We know she left the village,’ said Caldas. ‘We were wondering if you might know where we can find her.’

‘Rebeca didn’t go anywhere,’ she said drily.

‘We’ve just spoken to Deputy Inspector Somoza,’ said Caldas. ‘He claims that she left.’

‘Somoza is a pig and a liar. Always has been.’

Caldas took out his cigarettes.

‘If you want to smoke, we can go through to the back,’ said Irene Vazquez, coming out from behind the counter.

She went to the glass door, turned the sign so that the word ‘open’ faced inwards, and locked the door. ‘This way we won’t be interrupted,’ she said.

She led them through to a room at the back of the pharmacy lined with shelves of medicines. There was a table and two chairs and, on the table, a television so small it looked like a toy. On a separate shelf stood an electric coffee machine, and the smell of coffee mingled with that of the medicines’ plastic packaging.

‘This is where I spend my night shifts,’ she said. ‘Reading or watching TV.’ She set an ashtray on the table beside the television.

‘Would you like one?’ said Caldas, offering her a cigarette.

‘I’d rather have one of mine, thanks,’ she said.

Once the cigarettes were lit, she asked, ‘So what is it you want to know?’

‘As I said, we’re trying to track down Rebeca Neira.’

‘Or her son,’ added Estevez, leaning against the wall behind the inspector’s chair.

‘Yes, or her son,’ said Caldas. ‘We need one of them to identify someone for us.’

‘Diego doesn’t live in Aguiño any more.’

‘What about Rebeca?’

Irene Vazquez took a drag of her cigarette and watched the smoke she blew out rise to the ceiling.

‘Rebeca’s dead,’ she said.

‘Dead? We were told she’d left the village.’

‘Somoza will never admit it. If he had any conscience he’d be eaten up with guilt,’ she said, smiling bitterly. ‘But I know Rebeca’s dead.’

‘When did she die?’ asked the inspector.

‘The twentieth of December 1996,’ she said. ‘She was murdered that night.’

Caldas drew on his cigarette and she did the same.

‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I am that you and I are sitting here smoking.’

Irene Vazquez clearly remembered the Sunday morning of Diego Neira’s call.

‘He asked if I’d seen Rebeca. I said I hadn’t. Diego was no longer a child. He understood that his mother was young and liked to go out and have fun sometimes. It wasn’t the first time she’d stayed out all night. But he sounded pretty low. He said he wasn’t feeling well. I was sure Rebeca would get back any time, but I felt sorry for him. After I rang off, I got dressed and went over there. They lived in the upper part of the village. I live here on the first floor,’ she said, pointing upwards. ‘It was a short walk to theirs – five, maybe ten minutes. When I arrived Diego was lying under a blanket on the sofa watching TV. He was disappointed when he saw it wasn’t his mother. He wasn’t very talkative, but in his own way he was a nice boy. And affectionate. Very affectionate. He got up to give me a kiss and then went back to the sofa. He didn’t say anything, just stared at the TV. He was coughing. I felt his forehead and he had a slight temperature. I remember that the sitting room was very tidy. There was a sliding door to the kitchen. I looked in. It was just as neat, and I said so. I thought he’d cleaned up and I said his mother would be pleased when she got home. Rebeca was very organised. She liked everything to be in its place. You should have seen her exercise books at school,’ she said with a smile. ‘Her notes were perfect. She was very bright, you know. Top of the class. Ever since she was little. That’s
why we called her Rebeca the First. No one else came close. But she wasn’t just good at her schoolwork. She was the best at everything. All the boys were crazy about her, she had a lovely figure, and the brains to go as far as she wanted. It’s such a shame she got pregnant so young. It put an end to everything. We all tried to convince her not to keep it. One of the teachers spoke to her. But Rebeca was stubborn. She always did what she wanted. When she made up her mind, no one could stop her,’ said Irene. ‘She went ahead and had the baby. We all adored little Diego, but he changed her life.’ She paused a moment and opened the window to let out the smoke. ‘She managed all on her own. She never said who the father was. At first we’d ask. After a few drinks we’d go through the names of boys in the village, one after the other, but she’d just smile and wouldn’t say a word. She never said who the father was,’ Irene repeated. ‘I’m not sure even he knew.’

She looked at the policemen. ‘I’m sorry, I’m digressing,’ she said.

‘Please, don’t worry,’ said Caldas, encouraging her to continue.

‘Anyway, the house was neat and tidy, so I praised Diego. But he said he hadn’t touched a thing, it must have been his mother who’d tidied up. He’d seen her the last time on Friday evening when he left for his friend’s house and, when he got back early on Saturday morning, he’d found the place like that. She wasn’t there and he assumed she’d popped out for something, so he lay down on the sofa. He spent all day there, coughing and dozing. He got up some time in the afternoon to make himself a sandwich then went back to the sofa. On Sunday morning, when she still wasn’t back, he called me and I went over there again. We talked for a while and I asked if he’d had breakfast. He said no so I offered to make him something, but he wouldn’t let me. He said I was the guest, and went to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard where they kept the cups and was surprised to see that his own cup was missing. He searched the cupboard, and looked in the bin, but there was only the stuff he’d thrown away himself the day before. He was a bit finicky, like Rebeca, and he looked everywhere until eventually he settled for a different cup. I was going to make the coffee,’ said Irene, taking a drag of her cigarette. ‘Rebeca’s coffee-maker wasn’t like this one,’ she said, gesturing at the shelf. ‘It was one of those Italian ones that everyone’s got – the kind you screw together and put on the hob.’

The policemen said they knew the type, and she went on:

‘I’d hurt my hand so I got Diego to open the coffee pot for me.’ She mimed the action. ‘He did, and went quiet. He’d turned pale, as white as this table. I asked him what was wrong, and he came over, holding a part of the coffee pot in each hand. I didn’t understand. He dropped the coffee pot on the table and looked around. Then he sat down and started crying. He kept saying: “They’ve hurt her.” I held him for a few minutes and when he pulled himself together I got him to explain. He showed me the coffee pot again: the grounds were still in the filter. It hadn’t been cleaned out.’

She finished her cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray, before continuing.

‘Diego knew what his mother was like – obsessively clean and tidy. She’d never have wiped the pot and left old coffee grounds inside,’ said Irene. Caldas held his lighter to the new cigarette she had placed between her lips. ‘Diego started prowling around the kitchen, opening drawers, checking inside the oven and the fridge. He got more and more agitated. I asked what was wrong, and he said plates and glasses were missing, and the serving dishes from supper on Friday. The cloths weren’t on their hooks and the big knife Rebeca always kept by the sink had gone. Everything that had been on the cooker when he’d left for his friend’s house on Friday night had disappeared. He also said that, when he got back on Saturday morning, there was something strange about the way the sitting-room chairs were arranged. He hadn’t thought it significant at the time, but now he did. He started crying again and saying that something bad had happened to his mother. He said he’d seen her with two fishermen on Friday night. She’d gone out for cigarettes,’ she said, holding up her own, ‘and when she came back, she was with those two men. It was pouring with rain, and they stood under the porch talking. Diego could hear them from inside the house, he could make out the voices of the two men and his mother. One of the men hardly spoke but the other one was talking very loudly, insisting she let them in for another drink. Rebeca said she’d rather postpone the partying to another day when her son was out. They asked how old her son was. When she said fifteen, they burst out laughing. They couldn’t believe she had a son that age. She asked them to keep their voices down, and laughed, too. She promised she’d invite them in another day when Diego wasn’t at home.’

Caldas nodded as he listened to Irene’s account, familiar with some of it already from the missing persons report. He felt that the tide he’d been awaiting for days was now rolling in with Irene’s words.

‘You know how teenage boys are. As soon as he heard his mother imply he was in the way, he stormed out. He didn’t want to cramp her style. He insisted that it all sounded friendly. Otherwise he wouldn’t have left her alone with them. He’d never have gone out if she’d seemed uneasy,’ said Irene. ‘Diego ran off, only stopping to say he was going to stay at a friend’s.’

Irene paused again to smoke. Her eyes were dry, but she was grieving.

‘Did he recognise the men?’ asked the inspector.

‘He said he didn’t even look at them as he left. But he saw one later,’ she replied, and went on to tell them what they’d already read in the report. ‘Diego stopped to shelter from the downpour. Now I think he did it not just to get out of the rain, but to see what his mother was doing. He saw her go inside with one of the men. The other one headed back to the harbour. He passed very close, so Diego got a good look at him. He had fair hair and was wearing fishermen’s waterproofs. Diego had never seen him before. He wasn’t from the village.’

‘What about the other one?’ asked Estevez.