The Galician Parallax (3 page)

She turned off the tap. ‘Can’t hear you, what were you saying?’

He got up and walked into the kitchen.

‘I’d never heard of him until the boss came in one day, back in ‘98 and said that somebody presented a complaint that he used to work on his art with a joint constantly stuck to his lips.’

Gloria started to laugh. ‘You’re having me on. And you guys decided to follow it up?’

Sergio put his arms around her waist. ‘It was a good excuse for me to run down there for the day.’ He continued reminiscing. ‘Few people in this world find peace and quiet, and old Man was one of them.’

‘But why do you want to visit the place again?’

Sergio released her and took on a serious air. ‘When the
Prestige
sank and poisoned our shores we were all upset; right? Well, his death sort of summed up Galicia’s grief and anger. We all cried “never again”.’

Sergio realised that Gloria was still apprehensive.

‘I haven’t been back since and thought it would be a good outing for a change.’

He didn’t tell her that when he checked on Man, the artist did have a puff on a joint now and then, but Sergio was too taken aback at the beauty built on the rocky shores to worry about a minor infringement of the law.

By midday they had spent more than an hour going over the remains of what was left of the museum. Slowly the absence of artistic protection and the constant battering of winter storms were having their toll on Man’s work.

‘Usual problem,’ said Gloria as they were having lunch at the seaside cafe. ‘Lack of local budget.’

By 3 p.m, they were strolling along the promenade; the odd parent or two with small children were the only others accompanying the couple. A toddler fell off his small pushbike and began to cry, a few feet away from them. Gloria rushed over to pick the kid up as the mother sprang into action from the opposite direction. Within seconds the howler had calmed down and Gloria and Sergio resumed their walk.

‘Got a call from a colleague in Orense yesterday morning; one of my old classmates. We exchange “notes” on cases now and then; a sort of curiosity game. He’s on highway patrol.’ Sergio told her about the Algerian arrests including details of the confiscated material.

‘One of the items the guards found was a scruffy diary with dates. Several monthly contacts had been made in Vigo. Another vital discrepancy about this arrest was that… we’ve caught a few North Africans with stolen Visa or other credit cards before, but never with a stash of drugs as well. It’s either one or the other.’

Gloria immediately picked up on the issue. ‘So what? I’m sure that HQ in Orense did their own snooping…’

‘True, but I went one step further.’ Before Gloria could retaliate again he beat her to it. ‘I know my guys in Orense would be drumming them for more info but I suspect they’d be searching in the wrong direction. Galician drug peddlers are two a penny but if these guys were smart they’d be shooting info in all directions at once confusing the issue.’ Sergio finally smiled. ‘Shit, Gloria. We’ve seen enough reports to fill a truck load full of false statements. What do you think that means?’

For a moment Gloria said nothing; then, ‘It means that they were not ordinary peddlers.’

The couple began to move towards the car park end of the walk to pick up Sergio’s motorbike. Gloria was busy buckling her belt when Sergio once again blurted on about the Algerians ‘… And another thing, they’d been in Vigo the day before. So I looked up all the police activity in the city and guess what… a Brit called Simmons committed suicide on the same day in the Hotel Bahia.’

Gloria, still churning over information in her mind and as if telepathy had kicked in, replied, ‘So, what now?’

‘I pumped as much of the info my colleague gave me into my programs, just to see what came out.’

They reached the end of the promenade. Sergio walked up to the arm rail protecting the beach, turned around and leaned with his back against it. Gloria stood by his side.

‘OK, let’s have it.’

‘Drug runs into Cornwall, the south of England.’

After hours of questioning at the civil guards’ HQ, the two drug-running Algerians were brought before the penal court in the northern Galician city to be judged and sentenced on charges of carrying false identity papers, numerous stolen credit cards and illegal possession of drugs. As far as the car was concerned, they said a fellow Algerian had given it to them as he had returned to Algeria. As per their statements their identities were revealed as Ghazi Mansouri and Marzuq Khelil, born in Oran, illegally in Spain for an unspecified period of time and addresses given as “undetermined”. Despite continued interrogation as to the origin of the cocaine packets found in their possession, the authorities were unable to follow any leads as both criminals were inconsistent in their statements.

‘It’s no use,’ one of the judges had whispered to her colleague, ‘they’re all the same when it comes to drugs.’

Ghazi and Marzuq were sent to A Lama prison awaiting trial convicted with a possible twelve-year jail sentence each.

No sooner had Joan Flashman arrived back in Cornwall she was down to Penzance for an emergency meeting with the rest of the Maiden Voyages group. Her boss, Mr Billson, was also attending. He’d come down specially to sort out the mess.

‘Did any of you know what Don was up to down in Vigo?’ He looked at Jerry Fulton. ‘God, Jerry, you two were mates together. Surely you must’ve known something was wrong with him or that he was up to something?’

Jerry had always suspected that Don was close to throwing in the towel but the fact that he had committed suicide was so sordid that he was lost for words. The shock was too great.

Mr Billson addressed the others. ‘What about you lot, then? Hanging from a lamp in a hotel room, I mean…’ His mobile began to ring. ‘Excuse me.’ He walked out into the corridor leaving the rest momentarily speechless and dumbfounded.

Mavis Stanton was the first to break the silence.

‘We didn’t really know him, did we?’ she said looking at her husband Ron.

Glen Richards was more uptight. ‘I knew we should never have got into this mess.’

‘Oh shut up,’ said Jerry.

They then started a crisscross of accusations and a “what the hell do we do next” argument when Mr Billson came back into the room.

‘That was our contact in Galicia. Apparently Don had been travelling backwards and forwards over the past six months doing some sort of “errand” work for them and you all know what that meant. The point is we’ve agreed to suspend the drug runs for this year.’ He looked at Mavis. ‘Is there any mineral water in the office?’ She got up right away and went into the kitchenette.

‘What about our bookings? We’ve got a full schedule,’ said Jerry.

‘Business as usual; Don’s demise doesn’t mean that we should be affected. There are idiots committing suicide all over the world.’ He wanted to make sure. ‘Joan, are you absolutely certain that there isn’t any one of his family that could cause trouble. That sister of his, you say she wasn’t even upset?’

Mavis had returned with several glasses and six bottles of water and was handing them out.

‘It’s odd,’ said Joan, ‘when I called her, she more or less hinted that she wasn’t surprised, but no, I don’t think she’ll bother us.’

When Mr Billson got back to his office in Manchester, an e-mail was waiting for him. It read,
Reference our call today; confirm merchandise lost due to bad weather. Suggest we resume talks later in the year as usual
.

‘Shit!’

Sergio walked around the main hall of the club surveying the scenery of the Vigo Bay, whilst Stan was ordering a couple of coffees. No members were about as it was too early in the morning.

‘Lovely bay you’ve got down here,’ said Sergio as he joined Stan at one of the tables. ‘I’ve hardly ever been to Vigo. Maybe I should visit it more often, what do you think?’

‘Sugar?’

Sergio nodded. ‘One shot, thanks.’

After taking a sip Stan looked around the room and kicked off. ‘This should be OK for your interrogation; right?’

Sergio chuckled. The past couple of contacts he’d had with the consul had left a favourable impression and somehow he knew he could trust Stan with what he was trying to unravel. Not only was Sergio’s personal investigation highly confidential it was also extremely dangerous both from a criminal point of view as well as a political one. Stan had similar feelings towards this young officer. His previous dealings with the police authorities involving consular activity had always been curt and impersonal but when he dealt with the case of the drowned retired RN officer, Lieutenant Sergio Quiroga who was the investigating officer was smarter than normal, suspecting more than just death by misadventure.

‘Sr Consul… about this suicide,’ Sergio was searching for words, ‘I remember you said you were from Falmouth, right?’

‘Correct.’

Sergio then pulled out a piece of paper. ‘As I said, this is the list of partners from the yachting company in your town. Apart from the deceased who was one of them, do you recognise any of the others?’

Stan looked down the list. He paused for a moment. ‘Yes. Glen Richards. He’s quite well known in the Cornish yachting world.’ He gave the paper back to Sergio and told him that all the others were unknown.

‘Probably not Cornish, right?’

Stan nodded.

‘My hunch is that Simmons was dealing with drugs into your country and this Maiden Voyages outfit was a means of transport.’

‘So you think that something went wrong and his suicide was a cover-up job of sorts?’

At that moment, the waiter came over to ask if the couple needed anything. They ordered another two coffees and once the waiter went back to the bar, they continued with their conversation.

‘But why doesn’t your outfit go direct to Interpol or Scotland Yard and check the racket out?’

Sergio didn’t answer. Ignoring the question, he reflected for a moment. ‘Let me backtrack to
Serene Maiden
, the actual yacht; the naval officer that fell overboard last year.’

‘Lieutenant Commander Bentley-Smith.’

‘That’s right.’ Sergio smiled. ‘You know the sea better than I do, Sr Consul. Why was the body found miles away from the supposed position of the yacht when the “Man overboard” message was sent off?’

Stan had to agree with Sergio as the same thought had crossed his mind when he dealt with the case.

‘Something happened to that old man on that yacht before he fell into the water.’

Both men pondered for a second. It was Stan who pushed the issue one step further. ‘Coastal jurisdiction; Bentley-Smith must’ve died or fallen overboard within Spain’s 200-mile limit. That’s why the body was found…’

‘… and instead of turning round back to Galicia, the yacht continued to within limits of its port base.’

In unison they said, ‘With their load of drugs intact.’

It was Stan who completed the analysis by saying that once the yacht was back in Falmouth, the last thing the British Maritime Agency would be looking for was anything suspicious about the yacht itself. If it was carrying any concealed drugs they would be overlooked as the natural death of a sailor was more important. On the contrary, had it returned to Vigo and as the yacht was not registered at any yacht club, the Spanish authorities would probably have impounded the vessel and its illicit cargo soon discovered.

‘Sr Consul, coming back to Mr Simmons, I think he was murdered by third parties but not connected with the UK runs.’

Stan was taken aback. ‘You’ve got me confused again, Lieutenant.’

Sergio smiled. ‘Sorry… let’s see if I can sort my words out.’

For the first time, Sergio broke the code of police work, took a gamble and began to unravel as much information as possible, and his own suspicions regarding the case. A great deal had to do with the United Kingdom and Stan happened to be the right person to fill in a few gaps. ‘I blew my top at my bosses because they wouldn’t listen. They’ve even relegated me back to routine work, a type of disciplinary action without necessarily reprimanding me.’

It was now nearing midday.

‘Excuse me, but I need to check in at the office.’ Stan opened up his mobile. There were two missed calls and a message. His wife, Yolanda, wanted to know where he was.

‘Women,’ he muttered. ‘OK, where were we?’

No disasters had taken place either at the agency or the port. He agreed to lunch with her at the
Mosquito
restaurant to calm her down. During the interval, Sergio had been able to gather his thoughts. He came straight out with it.

‘This is my hunch. I suspect Simmons was doing some moonlighting of his own and what’s worse I think he was peddling with a group of Arabs.’

‘But that’s no reason for murder?’

Sergio nodded but then hit Stan with the following. ‘High level drug trafficking by most of the Arab groups has only one purpose in mind, to finance all the al-Qaeda terrorist camps around the world. Something went wrong or… they no longer needed any drugs and Simmons had to be silenced. Why?’

‘Lieutenant, this is way above my head…’

‘Sr Consul, if my hunch is right, this is too bloody serious to be ignored. It could even involve your country. Trouble is I can’t prove it and my outfit doesn’t want to know.’

Stan was about to refute Sergio’s argument when the lieutenant used up his last shot. ‘Ever since the attack on the World Trade Centre in New York, the Yanks have been insisting that Europe could be the next target.’

‘That argument is not new, Lieutenant.’

As if pleading, Sergio said, ‘I think Simmons stumbled onto something without realising it. If we…’

‘What do you mean “we”?’

‘I want to check a few things out but I need your help.’

Stan stood up. ‘Sorry Lieutenant, but no go.’

Sergio lowered his head; then looked up and out towards one of the windows of the club. The large Cangas ferry was docking just below. He didn’t push any further. Sergio pulled out his notepad, wrote down two numbers and handed the page to Stan.