The Galician Parallax (25 page)

There was not much more to be done except wait for justice to take its course. Stan thanked the magistrate’s senior secretary and made his way to the nearest bar. His initial duties had been completed including the handing of an advice pack on Spain’s legal system to the supposed aggressors in the police station jail with a list of English speaking lawyers. It was now up to the Spanish legal system to proceed with the case.

It was near two-thirty in the afternoon. The weather had calmed down. Short bursts of sun shone through the low-lying clouds as Stan settled in the corner of the Ofiuza tapas bar, famous for its octopus dishes. It was crammed with customers. He wasn’t concerned about the bustle, just his confused state of mind as to what steps to take next. He regained his composure and phoned Madrid.

‘Don’t forget the aftermath,’ said Danny. ‘Be braced for a flood of relatives from both sides of the fence. Good work though, well done.’

Before they hung up Danny added, ‘By the way, you’ll be going on a consular course in London. The Foreign Office hasn’t given dates. Just thought you should prepare for it, you know schedules and all that.’

A couple of days later, Stan received a direct call from the Spanish desk at the Foreign Office with names and flight numbers of the next of kin. A new consular contact experience had been established.

‘Lieutenant, you’ve got a visitor waiting in the lobby,’ said one of the administrative clerks, ‘says he’s a friend of yours.’

Sergio hardly ever had anyone looking for him unless it was part of an investigation and those were generally people involved in open cases dealt with by his department. His in-tray was temporarily empty. He shut down his PC, got up from his desk, put on his jacket and walked through the swing doors out into the corridor. A man in his early forties, skimpily dressed in jeans, faded red sweater and grey sneakers was seated on one of the HQ’s worn-out wooden benches. Clean shaven, neatly cut hair, he got up and smiled as he saw Sergio walking towards him. Seconds later, he was face to face with the civil guard. For a few seconds neither spoke. Sergio felt uneasy, his mind searching for images. The visitor began to smile. Sergio was still puzzled.

‘It’s me, Paco, Paco Ramirez… the fish market… Villagarcia.’

Slowly, the lieutenant began to focus. He went back into his office. Through the glass-panelled wall, Paco saw Sergio speaking briefly to one of the young female guards seated at the nearest desk to the entrance. He soon came back again and without hesitation, took Paco by the arm.

‘Not here.’

Once out of the building, neither saying a word, Sergio hailed a cab. Minutes later they were walking along the seafront.

‘How did you find me?’

Paco soon unravelled his version. When the young thugs were all having a go at Chicho that night and saw that Sergio had reacted by first slamming his fist into one of the kids’ stomachs and then taking hold of a loose baseball bat and knocking another senseless he thought it was time to make a run for it. However, he stopped short across the street when the yobs began to disperse. He had seen how Sergio had a mobile in his hand, made a phone call and immediately started running away from the scene.

‘I followed you back to a hotel. You slipped in through the service entrance.’

Sergio was still apprehensive.

‘Sometime later, I spoke to my police contact and asked him to check you out.’

‘Go on.’

‘I had told him that you were young, called Sergio, where you were staying… I presumed… gave him some dates and presto. He came up with your name, rank and serial number.’

Sergio thought for a moment, searching for words. ‘But that was two years ago.’

‘I know.’

That infamous night, after the show was over and he’d followed Sergio to his hotel, the whole scenario suddenly exploded in his mind. A sudden nervous shock had hit him. Paco had fought his way to the nearest shelter under the entrance to an apartment block. He’d fallen into a deep, on the spot, sudden depression. For hours he’d perambulated around the town. Huddled on a park bench, it was not until well into the morning, still on the streets of Villagarcia, that he’d come back to sanity and made his way to the nearest San Roque medical centre. He passed out on their doorstep.

They’d reached the Spanish Navy offices at the end of the promenade. It was nearing midday and the local folk were out in full enjoying the morning sun that had blessed the city for the first time in weeks.

‘You saved my life, Sergio… really.’

Sergio had hardly spoken.

‘You see, when the medics sorted me out and were about to release me, this doctor suggested I go on a de-intoxication programme; said he could arrange it.’

The doctor had contacted a drug addiction centre known as “Hombre” in Santiago and for the following two years, Paco was not only nurtured back to a normal life, but being a lawyer, joined their organisation as a legal advisor.

‘Your mysterious meetings with that cop… and I suspected you as a pusher when you were actually on the take.’

Paco smiled. ‘There are all sorts in the underworld of drugs
amigo
, including dirty cops. Even you know that.’ He took Sergio by his arm and led him back towards the dense park area. They continued strolling along amongst the greenery as two long-lost friends of old, meeting up for the first time in years. ‘OK, I’ve told you my bit, now how about you? What was a guard doing posing as a bagman?’

Sergio was in two minds about spilling any beans. The whole project had been dropped so as not to embarrass the civil guards. The young yobs that burst on them that night nearly blew his cover. Very few within the organisation knew the truth. Yet here was a skeleton that jumped out of the closet temporarily dumbfounding him. He took the plunge.

‘I was working undercover; we were after the Castriño clan. The plan was to work from the bottom up.’ He added quickly. ‘It was my idea.’

Paco picked up the thread. ‘Well I’ll be… all those evenings chatting away with the other guys and you were having us all on.’

A small girl with a dog interrupted the two men as the animal ran up to Paco causing the leash to wrap round his leg. After a brief struggle the girl and her pet were on their way, and Paco resumed the conversation.

‘Are you still involved?’

Sergio walked over to a plastic bag that was bumping its way towards a flower bed. He picked it up and tied a knot in it whilst he searched for a dustbin. All the memories of those nights under the porches of the fish market returned to haunt him; chit-chat about lost jobs, broken marriage, and then the sight of Paddy in flames and Chicho screaming for help as he was kicked senseless by the mob.

‘No. I’m back on routine work.’

They were nearing the other end of the park.

‘Look. If your lot gets you back on the trail, you know where to find me. I’ve got contacts. I know how the peddling system works.’ Before Sergio could respond, Paco insisted. ‘Relax; I’d like to get at the bastards just as much you guys do. Besides, I owe you one.’

A Yakovlev 42-D aircraft carrying seventy-five people including sixty-two Spanish military personnel that were returning from a four-month stint in Kabul, Afghanistan, crashed twenty miles away from the airport on the coast of the Black Sea in north-east Turkey. It had been chartered by the Spanish forces and was their worst heavy-casualty tragedy inflicted during peacetime. Immediate investigation took place that began to hint at the lack of adequate air-transport security measures thanks to the use of low-rate aircraft based on a flimsy military transport budget. It opened a hornet’s nest in Spain. Once again, the right-wing government of Spain was under attack by both the opposition and the Spanish media. The anti-Iraq war factions as well as the pacifist section of society were up in arms. There was only one isolated group in Madrid that rejoiced.

Badi and his followers offered extra prayers of thanks to the Almighty.

‘Fewer infidels brothers, fewer infidels.’

Lieutenant Commander James Bentley-Smith, RN retired, had always wanted to visit the area of the only attack and sinking of a German submarine U-532 that he had experienced during World War II. As a young officer on
HMS Rapid
he’d been on watch as supervisor in the operations room when they first made contact with the submarine. For years, he had kept a copy of the exact entries in the ship’s log:
15
^th
of June, 1944. 08:45. Echo sounded
, followed by:
09:30. Instant echo
, then,
09:35. 3 rounds of depth charges released – starboard – port – aft
and finally:
10:05. Confirmed contact; oil and debris sighted; Lat 42º15’25’’N - Long 9.5º32’50’’W
.’

Despite his age, he had persuaded Maiden Voyages to take him on a round trip from Falmouth to Vigo and back, skipping the leg down to Lisbon. He was in good health and also prepared to pay a premium amount for the voyage.

‘I don’t like it, Joan,’ said Jerry. ‘He wants to travel alone, no other passengers. Besides, he’s too bloody old for a Biscay crossing.’

Joan ignored the remarks and started laughing. ‘He’s specifically asked for you to sail him down to Galicia and to circle round for a couple of hours right here,’ she pointed out on a map a spot about thirty miles off the Cies Islands, ‘as if you were re-enacting the hunt for his submarine.’ Still giggling she turned the atlas around for him to check. ‘I think it’s great, Jerry, I don’t see any problem.’

They would have to advise Sr Perez of a change in routine. For the first time, the
Serene Maiden
would be tacking in from the north side of the islands sailing direct from the UK. When Donald found out he blew a fuse.

‘No way. Our first run of the season coming up and you sign on an old fogey nearing eighty who wants to play battleships.’ Joan kept quiet.

Jerry chipped in, ‘Look, he’s paying good money; the trip couldn’t be more simple; cut out the rest and save on Lisbon. I think it’s foolproof.’

Donald was still not convinced. He wanted to know why this old seaman suddenly wished to visit the hunting ground of his youth after all these years.

‘His wife died six months ago. They’d been married for fifty years. That’s why,’ said Joan.

Donald didn’t see the connection but finally gave in. Departure was set for the first week in June. That would give them time to reach Vigo for a couple of days’ rest, load the first year’s “batch” of fenders and prepare for the assault ritual requested by their only paying passenger.

‘Good morning, Captain,’ said Bentley-Smith as he walked up to the yacht moored alongside the Falmouth main wharf. Jerry was on deck checking out the final details of the main sail. Donald was still in town at the bank, picking up the usual ready cash needed for the voyage. The lieutenant commander had travelled from Bristol the day before and had already met up with
Serene Maiden
’s crew.

‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ said Jerry helping the old man and his one suitcase onto the deck and down into the cabin. A few minutes later, Donald was releasing the moorings whilst Jerry was adjusting the engine revs preparing to set off on their first run of the season. The lieutenant commander had settled down with a gin and tonic at the aft end of the craft.

‘Chins,’ he said as the other two manoeuvred the yacht towards the open sea.

By the time Julie Adamson was discharged from hospital, her parents had arrived from Durham and met with Stan and Danny, who had flown to Corunna from Madrid. The consular team accompanied Julie and her father to the police station to make her statement. Her mother stayed away in their hotel. Two days later, the family returned to Britain. They refused to press charges and wished to forget the whole affair. The assailants, however, two other British youths that were on holiday were taken before the magistrate and charged with assault and rape with a possible sentence of between twelve to eighteen years imprisonment. Circumstantial evidence proved their crime. Stan attended to their respective families as best he could. His sympathy was no consolation for the grief inflicted upon them.

‘Nasty business rape,’ said Danny, once it was all over as far as consular work was concerned. ‘Too many people get hurt. You’re lucky that it seldom happens in your neck of the woods. The Med is constantly giving us heartburn of this type or another. They’ll tell you all about it and more when you go to London.’

As Stan was driving Danny to the airport for his flight back to Madrid he said, ‘You know we’ve got this massive fishing exhibition coming up in three months’ time. Juan Jose tells me that the consulate is always weary when the ambassador takes up our time.’ They were entering the airport car park.

‘Do your own thing, Stan. Don’t worry about us. Just keep your mobile open, that’s all.’

Stan had arrived early for a meeting with the president of Pescanova, the large fish industry company organising the exhibition to discuss any details that could involve the British Embassy. He had just received confirmation that HM’s Ambassador with other diplomatic members would attend the event due to take place in September. Whilst in the waiting room, he was browsing through one of the company’s magazines. Once again, Stan was reminded of his youth as he read through the financial statistics of one of the world’s leaders in the fishing industry. The walls were covered with photographs of old and modern trawlers of all sizes. He got up to check them out. He focused on a couple, side by side and berthed at the Bouzas docks. He took a closer look.

‘Pirates.’

‘How is Juan Jose, Mr Bullock? I haven’t seen him around at the club lately,’ said Don Alfonso, the fishing company’s president, as he greeted Stan.
I suppose he’s talking about the Royal Yacht club, or maybe the country club
, thought Stan.

‘Fine, just fine.’

Without further discussion, Don Alfonso handed Stan a document.