Death On A Galician Shore

by Domingo Villar

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

One misty autumn dawn in a quiet fishing port in northwest Spain, the body of a sailor washes up in the harbour. Detective Inspector Leo Caldas is called in from police headquarters in the nearby city of Vigo to sign off on what appears to be a suicide. But details soon come to light that turn this routine matter into a complex murder investigation. Finding out the truth is not easy when the villagers are so suspicious of outsiders. As Caldas delves into the maritime life of the village, he uncovers a disturbing decade-old case of a shipwreck and two mysterious disappearances. Death on a Galician Shore is a chilling story of violence, blackmail and revenge that has enthralled readers across Europe...

Release date: April 7, 2011

Publisher: Abacus

Print pages: 377

Sample

Inspector Leo Caldas got out of a taxi and, stepping over the large puddles on the pavement, entered the hospital. He made his way through the crowd of people waiting by the lifts and headed for the stairs. He went up to the second floor and walked along a corridor lined with closed doors. Stopping at the one numbered 211, he opened it a crack and looked in. A man in a green respiratory mask was asleep in the bed nearest to the window. The television was on, with the sound turned down. The other bed was empty and sheets were folded on top of the bedcover.

Caldas glanced at his watch, closed the door and went to the waiting room at the end of the corridor. There he found only an elderly woman, her black clothes contrasting with the white of the walls. She looked up expectantly as Caldas put his head round the door. Their eyes met briefly before she looked down again, disappointed.

Caldas heard footsteps behind him and turned around. His father was hurrying towards him down the corridor. Caldas raised a hand in greeting.

‘Have you seen him?’ asked his father in a whisper once they were standing outside the room.

‘Only from out here,’ answered Caldas. ‘I was late too. Have you spoken to the surgeon?’

His father nodded: ‘He said it’s not worth operating.’

Entering the room, the inspector’s father went to sit on the empty bed, wrinkling his nose in distress as he looked at his brother. Caldas remained standing.

A drip was dispensing the contents of several vials into the emaciated arm of Uncle Alberto. Beneath the sheet, Alberto’s chest rose slowly, and then fell abruptly, as if each exhalation were a deep sigh. The sound of oxygen bubbling through distilled water and air whistling as it escaped from the sides of the mask drowned out the murmur of the rain outside.

Caldas crossed to the window. He parted the net curtains and, through the double glazing, watched the lights of the cars stuck in traffic and the procession of umbrellas along the pavement.

He turned, alerted by the hissing of the mask, which his uncle had removed in order to speak.

‘Is it still raining?’ Alberto whispered before replacing the mask.

Caldas nodded, gave a small, close-lipped smile and jerked his head towards his father. His uncle was about to take off the mask again when his father stopped him.

‘Come on, leave that alone. How are you feeling?’

The patient waved a hand and placed it over his chest to convey that it hurt.

‘Well, you’re bound to be uncomfortable,’ said his brother.

After a moment’s silence, Alberto gestured towards the radio on the bedside table and looked at the inspector.

‘He says he listens to your programme,’ his father explained.

‘Right.’

Alberto nodded and gave a thumbs-up.

‘He says he likes it,’ his father translated once again.

‘Right,’ said Caldas, then he indicated the muted television, tuned to a news bulletin: ‘I think TV’s more entertaining.’

His uncle shook his head and gave another thumbs-up at the radio.

‘He says your programme’s better.’

‘Do you really think I can’t understand him?’ Caldas asked his father. ‘Anyway, it’s not my programme. I’m only on occasionally.’

Caldas’s father looked at his brother – whose eyes were smiling behind the mask – and the inspector watched, fascinated, as they began to converse without the need for words, using only glances and facial gestures, communicating in the private tongue of those who have shared a childhood.

*

A doctor entered, to the evident annoyance of the patient.

‘How are things going, Alberto?’ he asked. The only answer was a flutter of the hand.

The doctor lifted the sheet and felt several points on the patient’s abdomen. Beneath his green plastic mask, the patient grimaced each time the doctor touched him.

‘In a month you’ll be as good as new,’ the doctor said as he finished his examination and, after winking at Caldas’s father, he left the room.

The three men remained in uncomfortable silence until Uncle Alberto gestured for his brother to approach. The inspector’s father went over to the bed and Alberto removed his mask.

‘Can you do me one last favour?’ he said in a weary voice.

Father and son exchanged glances.

‘Of course.’

‘Have you still got your Book of Idiots?’

‘What?’

‘Have you still got it or not?’ insisted the patient, straining to raise his murmur of a voice above the hissing of the oxygen.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Well, add that doctor to it,’ he said, pointing feebly at the door through which the doctor had departed.

He breathed through the mask for a few moments before removing it again and whispering: ‘His name’s Doctor Apraces. Will you remember that?’

Caldas’s father nodded and gently squeezed Alberto’s arm. His brother’s face wrinkled around the mask as he smiled. His breathing resumed its jerky rhythm when he fell asleep and the gurgle of distilled water continued.

Outside the hospital, the inspector lit a cigarette and his father opened his umbrella.

‘There’s room for both of us under here,’ he said.

Caldas moved closer to him and they set off towards the car park, to the accompaniment of a chorus of honking horns from drivers exasperated by the traffic jam.

‘You’ve got a Book of Idiots?’

‘Didn’t you know?’ his father replied, not looking at him, and Caldas noticed that his eyes were moist.

He was surprised because, though he had spent many nights after his mother’s death listening to the sound of his father weeping, he had never actually seen him shed a single tear. He decided to hang back a few steps despite the rain, and let his father give vent to his grief.

In the car park, before getting into the car, his father asked: ‘Can I drop you anywhere, Leo?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home. It’s quiet there.’

‘Will you be visiting him tomorrow?’

‘In the afternoon,’ said his father. ‘After lunch.’

Caldas reflected that he could phone the superintendent first thing and take the morning off. And, with any luck, he’d get to the radio station late and that fool Losada would have to manage without him.

‘Well, I’ll come with you, and you can give me a lift back.’

His father stared at him. ‘Are you going to stay at my house tonight?’

‘If you ask me …’ said Caldas.

‘Don’t you have work tomorrow?’

Caldas shrugged, took a quick drag on his cigarette, threw it on the ground and climbed into the car.

In the months of anguish following the death of his wife, Leo Caldas’s father had sometimes visited the manor house where she had lived as a child, an old ruin consisting of little more than stone walls. Only the winery had withstood the years of neglect, half sunk into the ground so as to avoid sudden changes in temperature. Inside there remained some barrels, an ancient wooden press, a hand-operated bottle filler and a few other old implements. Walking around the estate, its terraced vineyard descending like an amphitheatre to the River Miño, the inspector’s father had found balm for his sorrow, a solace that the city denied him.

One October, seeing the grapes ripen and rot on the vines, and cheered by the thought of spending more time there, he decided to start making wine again in the old winery. After several months of reading and seeking advice, he starting working a small plot of land close to the house.

Every Saturday and Sunday, on the pretext of tending the vines, father and son rose early and drove out to the estate, a journey of almost fifty kilometres on winding roads that had to be made in stages, with the windows open, due to the young Leo’s carsickness.

That March at weekends they cleared the land and, in April and May, they tore out the old barren vines. In the summer, making the most of the holidays and longer hours of daylight, they put up posts and wires to support the remaining healthy vines and the new ones to be planted that winter, after the harvest.

For the first few years, as he extended the land under cultivation, Caldas’s father sold wine from the barrel or gave it to friends. Later, as the new vines began producing, he put his savings into modernising the winery so that he could bottle and sell the wine under label. He soon recouped his money, as the wine was acquiring a good reputation and, though the quantity increased with every harvest, he had no trouble selling it all.

As soon as he was old enough to stay at home on his own, Leo gave up the torture of the winding roads and stopped accompanying his father to the estate. When he went to university, his father left his job in Vigo and moved permanently to his wife’s old family home, which he had gradually restored.

The land, initially providing comfort in his time of affliction, was now a profitable business, and the nights of weeping were no more than a shadow in the memory.

Wine, the downfall of so many men, had been his salvation.

They hardly spoke during the drive. The modern roads were less tortuous, but Caldas still opened the window a crack and closed his eyes for the journey. He sank back in the seat and didn’t move, even when raindrops got in and spattered his face.

Beside him, his father drove one-handed, gripping the nails of the other between his teeth without breaking them, while in his mind he travelled from his childhood to the hospital room.

When they reached the estate, Caldas got out to open the gate and waited in the rain while his father drove through. Back in the car, on the way up to the house, he thought he saw a dark shape moving behind them. Through the rain-streaked rear window he made out an animal running after them.

‘Have you got a dog?’ he asked, surprised.

‘No.’

‘Isn’t it yours?’ he insisted, motioning behind them.

Caldas’s father looked in the rear-view mirror for a moment and then said firmly, ‘No, it’s not.’

All the way from the car to the front door, the dog bounded around Caldas’s father, barking. It leaped and shot off in all directions in the rain, spinning around within a few metres and galloping back, howling with delight, thrashing its tail and trying to lick the inspector’s father’s hands, face or whatever else he saw fit to proffer.

‘Look at the mess he’s made of my clothes,’ he complained as they entered the house. He shook his trousers and shirt, which the dog had smeared with dark mud, and went up to his bedroom. Caldas stayed downstairs.

‘Lucky the dog isn’t yours, then,’ he muttered.

Circling the large dining-room table he made his way to the sitting room. He sat down on the sofa, facing the fireplace, which still contained the ashes and dead embers of a recent fire. Next to the coffee table, beside a pile of old newspapers, stood a basket of logs.

His father returned, wearing a fresh change of clothes.

‘Shall I put some dry things out for you?’

‘Maybe tomorrow. I’d rather dry off in front of the fire. Can I light it?’ Caldas asked, pointing to the firewood.

‘If you think you know how …’ said his father disdainfully before slipping off to the kitchen.

Caldas sighed and knelt down by the fireplace. He took two large pine logs from the basket and placed them in the hearth. Crumpling up a few sheets of newspaper, he pushed them between the logs and laid pine cones and vine prunings on top. He rummaged in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, and lit up with the same flame he held to the newspaper. Once it was alight, he sat on the sofa, smoking in front of the fire.

His father returned with an unlabelled bottle of white wine. After opening it with the bottle opener on the wall, he left it on the coffee table and went to get two glasses from the cupboard.

‘This is the latest vintage,’ he said, filling the glasses with wine that was still cloudy. ‘See what you think.’

Caldas laid his cigarette on the ashtray and thrust his nose into his glass. His father did the same.

‘It stills need to clarify, but as far as the nose goes, it’s ready,’ he said.

‘Right.’

‘How do you like it, Leo?’

The inspector raised the glass to his lips and swilled the wine around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.

‘What do you think?’ asked his father, standing waiting for his son’s verdict.

Caldas nodded several times then emptied his glass in one gulp.

*

They opened another bottle, from the previous year this time, and heated some of the soup from the fridge, made with slab bacon, beef broth, turnip tops, broad beans and potatoes. Afterwards they ate a local cheese with some of Maria’s home-made quince jelly.

When they’d finished eating and had cleared the dishes, Caldas carried the wine to the coffee table and refilled the glasses. He sat on the sofa, facing the fire; he could have stared at it for hours. His father went to the bookshelves and stood searching for a couple of minutes, cursing under his breath until he found a small notebook behind the books. Its cardboard cover was so worn it was difficult to tell its original colour. Taking his glass, he went to sit at the dining table and leafed through the notebook for a while.

When Caldas got up for more wine, he asked: ‘Is that the Book of Idiots?’

His father nodded. ‘I wonder how Alberto remembered it. I haven’t looked at it for years,’ he said, turning pages full of names, of the fragments of life associated with each one. Then he took a pen and turned to the last entry in the notebook.

‘It was Dr Apraces, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said the inspector and, glancing at his father, once again saw eyes glistening with unfamiliar tears.

Caldas stretched out on the sofa and remained there for the rest of the evening, staring at the fire so that his father could weep with each glass of wine he drank.

The next morning, Caldas took a change of clothes from his father’s wardrobe, had a long shower and went out into the courtyard between the house and the winery. After weeks of rain, autumn had called a truce and, though the sun was hidden by clouds, the new day was bright and still.

Approaching a flowerbed, he pinched a sprig of lemon verbena in his fingers and inhaled the fragrance.

‘I hear you enjoyed the soup,’ said a voice behind him.

Maria, who came every morning to clean the house and prepare his father’s meals, was sweeping up the russet leaves shed overnight by the sweetgum tree.

‘Very much, Maria,’ said Caldas.

‘The trick is to skim it well,’ she said, still sweeping. Then, wanting to return the compliment, she added: ‘I really enjoy Patrolling the Waves. We never miss it.’

The inspector wondered how on earth they received the show out there. Surely Radio Vigo only covered the city itself?

He thanked her and changed the subject: ‘Have you seen my father?’

‘He was heading that way, with the dog,’ she said, pointing beyond the winery to the river. ‘Don’t you want breakfast? There’s hot coffee in the thermos.’

‘Maybe later,’ said Caldas, slipping out of the courtyard.

He made his way around the house. Leaning with his elbows on the stone parapet, he looked out over the seven hectares of terraced vineyards sloping down to the river.

A few hundred metres below, a tractor was parked on the path beside one of the plots to the right. Caldas could make out a few people among the vines and remembered his father saying over supper that they had begun pruning.

He lit a cigarette and remained leaning on the parapet, savouring the peace and quiet. He was about to call the station, to tell them not to expect him until the afternoon, when his mobile rang shrilly in his pocket. He answered, seeing his assistant’s name on the display.

‘Are you on your way here, boss?’ asked Rafael Estevez by way of greeting, before Caldas could speak.

‘Is something up?’

‘We got a call about half an hour ago from Panxón. A man’s body’s been found in the water.’

‘A fisherman?’

‘How should I know, Inspector?’

Caldas’s assistant, who came from the province of Aragon, was obviously in fine form from first thing in the morning.

‘Had we had a report of anyone missing?’ asked the inspector, aware that sometimes it took days for bodies to be washed ashore.

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Right.’

‘D’you mind telling me how long you’ll be?’ asked Estevez with customary impatience. ‘The coroner set off for Panxón ten minutes ago, and the pathologist called to ask if we could pick him up en route.’

Caldas glanced at his watch and reflected that all the hassle was starting much too early this Monday. He was glad to be well away from the city.

‘Well, you pick him up en route.’

‘What about you?’

‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get there till this afternoon, Rafa.’

‘You don’t think so, or you know so for a fact?’

‘Don’t start, Rafa. I was just about to call to let you know.’

Estevez hung up with a grunt. Caldas thought of phoning the superintendent to let him know he wouldn’t be in that morning and have him assign someone to go with Estevez, but changed his mind. It was only a drowned man after all.

He headed along the path between the vines that cut through the estate to the river like a sinewy scar. The vines in the upper part had yet to be pruned, though autumn had already divested them of their foliage, with only a few branches retaining a languid leaf or two.

He stopped when he was level with the tractor and stood watching in silence as the workers took five or six stems on each vine and tied them to the wires. They chose stems that already had several buds, from which shoots would sprout in the spring, and cut off the others. Later, before moving to the next section of vineyard, they would collect in the tractor any pruned branches that might serve as kindling and leave the rest to rot on the ground.

The osier bindings with which he’d helped his father tie in the first stems were now made of plastic, but nothing else seemed to have changed.

Ten metres or so further down, the brown dog that had greeted them the day before appeared on the path. A moment later, Caldas’s father emerged from the same row of vines holding a pair of pruning shears, his rubber boots glistening with dew.

Caldas went to meet him.

‘There are spare boots in the storeroom,’ said his father, looking at his son’s shoes.

Caldas shrugged. ‘I’ll stay on the path.’

‘It’s up to you. Have you seen the new planting?’ asked his father, motioning towards the river.

Caldas had seen it but said he hadn’t. They set off that way, with the dog ahead of them, nose to the ground, scurrying among the vines. Now and then the brown shape reappeared on the path, its head erect, making sure they were still following, before resuming its distracted scampering.

‘What’s its name?’ asked the inspector, pointing at the dog during one of its appearances.

‘I don’t know. It’s not mine,’ said his father without stopping.

They continued down the path, which turned right at an angle, parallel to the river, as it reached the lower part of the estate. On either side there were several rows of white posts with wires stretched between. At the foot of each post, a new vine was just visible.

Caldas’s father explained that they’d had to use a digger to level the ground and that they’d left a larger than usual gap between vines so that the tractor could manoeuvre more easily. The inspector listened in silence, nodding as if he were hearing it all for the first time.

While his father stopped to tie a loose stem to a post, Caldas headed through the rows of vines to look out at the river that flowed several metres below.

The stretch of river that ran past the estate had many whirlpools. If they wanted to swim they had to walk upriver for half an hour, to a bend with a beach where the water slowed. They’d set out after lunch and return along the bank, as it was growing dark. In childhood the days had seemed longer.

Seeing the water and hearing the murmur of the current, he remembered Estevez’s call about the man swept away by the sea. He thought of the night the pharmacist had drowned in the rapids. He had waited in the car while his father had helped the police as they scoured the riverbank, probing beneath the water with wooden poles. Later they’d driven back to Vigo for the night while the police continued their search downriver.

The pharmacist’s body hadn’t turned up for another three days. She was found by men fishing for lampreys eight kilometres from the spot where she’d fallen in.

Years later, the inspector learned that the pharmacist had jumped into the river and that she couldn’t swim. But for months, she had swum beside him in his childhood nightmares, begging him to save her from the swirling current that always swallowed her in the end. The young Leo would wake, terrified and drenched with sweat, as wet as if he really had been swimming.

Caldas looked at his watch: Estevez would have got to Panxón by now and he was sure he wouldn’t hear any more about the case until the afternoon, when he was back at the station.

His father joined him and they stood watching the river, the leaves and branches swept along by the current.

‘You should have put on boots.’

‘Right,’ said Caldas, staring at the water.

‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked his father after a pause.

Caldas shook his head.

‘Shall we go back for coffee?’ said his father.

As they made their way up to the house, he lamented: ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of planting in this area before.’

‘I thought you didn’t think sandy soil was good for vines.’

‘Well, you’ll see, it’ll make wonderful wine. Not this year, obviously, or next, but in five years time I think the best wine on the estate will come from these vines. And if I’m right, I’ll plant over there too,’ he said, pointing to the other side of the path.

‘Five years?’

‘Five or six. Once the vines have grown.’

‘Isn’t that too long?’

‘I don’t set the schedule. That’s how long they take to mature.’

‘I know,’ said the inspector. ‘I meant, aren’t you planning to retire before then?’

‘Retire? And do what?’

Caldas shrugged. ‘Anything …’

‘Isn’t all this anything?’ said his father, spreading his arms to encompass the vine-clad slopes on either side of the path. ‘At my age, the only way to have peace of mind and not dwell on things is to keep busy. The alternative is to resign yourself to living through other people and sit waiting for time to pass and do its work.’

Caldas felt he’d ruined his father’s morning. He was sorry he’d spoken. His father, however, added with a smile: ‘Besides, when you’re retired, you don’t get holidays.’

In the kitchen Caldas’s father poured two cups of coffee from the thermos. He added a little milk and sugar to one, and handed the other to his son.

‘Shall we go outside?’ he asked, indicating the door as he rummaged around on the countertop.

In the courtyard they met Maria, returning to the house, broom in hand.

‘Maria never misses Patrolling the Waves,’ said his father.

‘Yeah, she told me,’ replied Caldas, grimacing in an attempt at a smile.

They walked around the house and went to lean on the stone parapet overlooking the estate. His father was about to say something when the inspector’s mobile rang. Caldas gave a deep sigh on seeing Estevez’s name on the display.

‘Work?’ whispered his father.

‘My assistant,’ said Caldas, moving a little distance away and taking his cigarettes from his trouser pocket before answering the call.

‘How did it go?’ he asked, holding a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

‘I’m still here at the harbour.’

‘With the dead man?’

‘Looks like he had help.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘His hands were tied.’

People throwing themselves into the sea to commit suicide often tied their hands or feet to make sure they succeeded.

‘He could have done it himself,’ the inspector pointed out.

‘No, boss. For some reason the pathologist doesn’t think he killed himself or drowned fishing for trout.’

‘Not many trout in the sea,’ said Caldas drily.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah.’

Caldas took a drag on his cigarette. He had a feeling he was going to regret letting his assistant go to Panxón alone.

‘Do you know who he was?’

‘He was from the village. A fisherman. They’re going to transfer the body to Vigo for identification and autopsy. And someone from Forensics is going to come by, to look for clues.’

‘Nobody recognises him?’

‘Not with any certainty, no. You know what these people are like,’ said Estevez. He’d lived in Galicia for several months but he still wasn’t used to the locals’ ambiguous way of expressing themselves.

‘See if you can get them to give you something more definite,’ said the inspector, then regretted it instantly, knowing how forcefully his assistant could go about things. ‘But be gentle, Rafa,’ he added. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘Don’t you worry, boss. Leave it to me,’ said his assistant, in a tone that Caldas found far from reassuring.

*

The inspector rejoined his father and picked up the cup he’d left on the parapet.

‘Is your assistant getting used to things here?’

Caldas sipped his coffee. ‘No, I don’t think he ever will.’

His father traced letters in the air with his pen.

‘Shall I enter him in my book?’ he asked, as if there could be no more cruel punishment.

When Caldas didn’t reply, he added: ‘I can always erase his name later. He wouldn’t be the first I’ve removed.’

‘It’s up to you,’ the inspector said, and his father noticed his preoccupied air.

‘Something up, Leo?’

‘A client,’ Caldas said, clicking his tongue.

‘Murdered?’

‘Could be,’ said Caldas.

‘Would you like us to drive back to Vigo now?’ asked his father.

‘No, don’t worry,’ replied Caldas, well aware that his father didn’t like spending any more time than he had to in the city.

‘I could try to get in to see your uncle this morning.’

‘There’s no need. Really.’

‘It would almost suit me better, Leo,’ insisted his father. ‘I’ve got things to do here this afternoon.’

‘All right then,’ said Caldas gratefully, knowing his father was lying.

They contemplated the rows of white posts supporting the vines, while the inspector finished his cigarette.

‘It’s looking pretty, isn’t it?’ said his father proudly.

‘Yes, it is,’ whispered Caldas. ‘Even though autumn doesn’t suit vines.’

His father gathered up the cups and headed back to the house. Caldas heard him muse: ‘Does autumn suit anyone?’

Just before they reached the police station, and as the traffic lights turned red, Caldas suddenly made a vague excuse and got out of the car. He watched it disappear into the Vigo traffic, feeling guilty. This was a difficult time for his father.

As they left the estate they had exchanged a few words about his uncle, lamenting the illness that was consuming him from within, forcing him to breathe through a machine. They had spent the rest of the journey in silence, Caldas with eyes closed, his father with his eyes on the road and mind on the hospital.

Only once they were in the city, driving down the sloping streets to the police station, did the inspector’s father ask about Alba. To cut the conversation short, Caldas had said he had no news, that he hadn’t heard from her for several months. But his father persisted with his questions despite these evasive answers. Why did he always insist on raising the most awkward subjects at the last minute? If the aim was to prolong their time together, he should have learned his lesson by now. The unwelcome questions only precipitated Caldas’s departure, leaving them both with a bitter aftertaste.

In the police station Caldas made his way down the aisle between the two rows of desks to the far end of the room. He opened the frosted glass door to his office, hung his raincoat on the coat rack and sank into his black desk chair.

Gazing at the piles of papers on his desk, he continued thinking about his father until Superintendent Soto came in and brought him back to reality.

‘How did you get on in Panxón?’

‘I didn’t have time to go, Superintendent. Estevez is dealing with it.’

‘You sent Estevez on his own for the removal of a body?’ asked Superintendent Soto.

When Caldas’s silence confirmed this, the superintendent shook his head disgustedly and left the room, muttering.

Caldas picked up the phone. He dialled Olga’s extension and told her to send Estevez straight into his office as soon as he got back to the station.

He remained at his desk, ignoring his stomach, which was informing him noisily that it was well past lunchtime. He took the opportunity to go through some of the papers that had accumulated on his desk, pencilling notes in the margins before placing them on a different pile. Every time he put down a document, he checked his watch and glanced at the door. He wondered how his assistant was getting on with the recovery of the drowned man’s corpse. He also thought about his father and his own abrupt exit.

At a quarter to three, as he was leafing through the statements of witnesses to the hold-up of a jeweller’s in the Calle del Principe, the city’s main shopping street, Rafael Estevez’s bulky form appeared at the glass door.

‘That was some morning I’ve had, boss,’ he snorted