papers. On the other side of the room were a dining table and four modest chairs and, against the far wall, a sideboard on which stood a line of glass figurines and a couple of photographs.
Caldas crossed to look at the photos. The first showed a football team posing for the camera before a match. Five of the players were crouching and the other six were standing behind them. It was an old photo and Caldas thought he recognised a teenage Justo Castelo in the long-haired goalkeeper. The other, more recent picture showed the dead man with his sister and his mother. White-haired and dressed in black, the mother sat beside her son and daughter, smiling timidly at the camera.
As he held the framed photograph, the inspector felt a familiar shiver. Dead bodies did not affect him, whether fresh corpses or decomposed remains. Unlike Estevez, whose gruff exterior crumbledbefore a cadaver, when Caldas encountered a murder victim he had no trouble focusing on the clues that could shed light on the case. To him, a corpse was simply the means of solving a crime, like a picture in black and white. But every personal detail about a victim was a brushstroke of colour that, gradually, revealed the human being hidden in the murder investigation.
He hadn’t been troubled in the autopsy room the previous afternoon, when Dr Barrio had uncovered the body. But the smile on Castelo’s mother’s tired face made him swallow hard. Caldas felt sorry for the living, not the dead.
In addition to the front door, two other doors opened off the room. One led to a small kitchen, which was as clean and tidy as the rest of the house, the second to a tiny lobby.
In the bedroom, a crucifix hung above the headboard of a wide, neatly made bed. A wicker chair stood on one side while, on the other, by the window, was a bedside table with a lamp and radio. Caldas pulled open a drawer and found a veritable medicine chest inside. There was a pot of bicarbonate of soda, several packets of antacid tablets, sleeping pills, nasal inhalers, a thermometer and a number of other medicines he didn’t recognise.
The window looked on to a small tiled patio with a shed painted the same green as the front of the house.
There was a glass door in the lobby and he went out through it on to the patio. A pergola covered the area closest to the house, sheltering it from the rain. A couple of boat hooks and other implements were leaning against one of the walls, which was also painted green. On the ground lay a few damaged traps and some large black baskets of the kind fishermen used to land their catch in the harbour, stacked one inside the other. In the top basket El Rubio kept fishing lines and a couple of floats like the one old Hermida used as a key fob.
Beside the baskets were coiled ropes and a transparent plastic toolbox. Caldas opened it. In its compartments, hooks and sinkers were arranged by size. There were also a number of reels and lures. Some hooks were threaded with plastic worms or other artificial bait. It seemed ridiculous to imagine that any fish with normal sight would be fooled by such crude imitations.
Caldas crossed the patio to the shed and looked up. The fisherman’s house had been boxed in by blocks of apartments and was overlooked by windows whose blinds would remain drawn until the following summer.
The little wooden door to the shed had no handle and was locked. He looked through the window, shielding his eyes from the light so as to be able to see in.
‘Inspector,’ said a voice behind him, making him jump.
Caldas turned to find the policeman who had been standing guard outside.
‘The sister of the deceased is at the door. She says she’s come to get some of his clothes. Shall I let her in?’
The inspector went outside with the policeman. Alicia Castelo was waiting, her blue eyes swollen by crying and her hair gathered in a ponytail.
‘Inspector Caldas,’ she recognised him immediately. ‘I didn’t realise you were here. I need some
Caldas crossed to look at the photos. The first showed a football team posing for the camera before a match. Five of the players were crouching and the other six were standing behind them. It was an old photo and Caldas thought he recognised a teenage Justo Castelo in the long-haired goalkeeper. The other, more recent picture showed the dead man with his sister and his mother. White-haired and dressed in black, the mother sat beside her son and daughter, smiling timidly at the camera.
As he held the framed photograph, the inspector felt a familiar shiver. Dead bodies did not affect him, whether fresh corpses or decomposed remains. Unlike Estevez, whose gruff exterior crumbledbefore a cadaver, when Caldas encountered a murder victim he had no trouble focusing on the clues that could shed light on the case. To him, a corpse was simply the means of solving a crime, like a picture in black and white. But every personal detail about a victim was a brushstroke of colour that, gradually, revealed the human being hidden in the murder investigation.
He hadn’t been troubled in the autopsy room the previous afternoon, when Dr Barrio had uncovered the body. But the smile on Castelo’s mother’s tired face made him swallow hard. Caldas felt sorry for the living, not the dead.
In addition to the front door, two other doors opened off the room. One led to a small kitchen, which was as clean and tidy as the rest of the house, the second to a tiny lobby.
In the bedroom, a crucifix hung above the headboard of a wide, neatly made bed. A wicker chair stood on one side while, on the other, by the window, was a bedside table with a lamp and radio. Caldas pulled open a drawer and found a veritable medicine chest inside. There was a pot of bicarbonate of soda, several packets of antacid tablets, sleeping pills, nasal inhalers, a thermometer and a number of other medicines he didn’t recognise.
The window looked on to a small tiled patio with a shed painted the same green as the front of the house.
There was a glass door in the lobby and he went out through it on to the patio. A pergola covered the area closest to the house, sheltering it from the rain. A couple of boat hooks and other implements were leaning against one of the walls, which was also painted green. On the ground lay a few damaged traps and some large black baskets of the kind fishermen used to land their catch in the harbour, stacked one inside the other. In the top basket El Rubio kept fishing lines and a couple of floats like the one old Hermida used as a key fob.
Beside the baskets were coiled ropes and a transparent plastic toolbox. Caldas opened it. In its compartments, hooks and sinkers were arranged by size. There were also a number of reels and lures. Some hooks were threaded with plastic worms or other artificial bait. It seemed ridiculous to imagine that any fish with normal sight would be fooled by such crude imitations.
Caldas crossed the patio to the shed and looked up. The fisherman’s house had been boxed in by blocks of apartments and was overlooked by windows whose blinds would remain drawn until the following summer.
The little wooden door to the shed had no handle and was locked. He looked through the window, shielding his eyes from the light so as to be able to see in.
‘Inspector,’ said a voice behind him, making him jump.
Caldas turned to find the policeman who had been standing guard outside.
‘The sister of the deceased is at the door. She says she’s come to get some of his clothes. Shall I let her in?’
The inspector went outside with the policeman. Alicia Castelo was waiting, her blue eyes swollen by crying and her hair gathered in a ponytail.
‘Inspector Caldas,’ she recognised him immediately. ‘I didn’t realise you were here. I need some
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