The Galician Parallax Read Free Page A

Sergio Quiroga, a civil guard from the Corunna HQ, 180 miles away, was offloading conjectural information and analysis on a dead Brit down in Vigo. Sergio sat down and again picked up the desk calendar. He looked up at Stan and then bent forward towards him as if intending to whisper.
    ‘I apologise, Sr Consul.’ He paused for a moment. ‘When they translated some of the notes in their diary there was mention of meetings with “a contact” in Vigo including the day Simmons died.’
    ‘How come the police in Orense didn’t come to the same conclusion?’
    ‘Good question, but they didn’t. There’s a hell of a lot more to these related incidents, but…’ He got up, leaned on the desk and in an odd pleading manner said, ‘I may need your help, Sr Consul, because… I think… Mr Simmons may have been murdered, Sr Consul.’
    Stan instinctively began to scratch his nose followed on by rubbing his chin. Ms Flashman’s odd reactions were still vivid in his mind.
    ‘What exactly is it you want from me, Lieutenant?’
    Sergio suggested a more relaxed and convenient place to talk. Stan looked at his watch, thought for a moment and reached for his jacket.
    ‘Let’s go across the road.’

CHAPTER 2
Man’s Museum, Camelle, 4 March
    Thirty or so years ago an eccentric German beachcomber called Man turned up at the small seaside resort of Camelle and began to live and build a small museum on the rocks with all kinds of rubbish that the sea threw up from time to time; tin cans, driftwood, dried seaweed and other objects turned into avant-garde miniature monuments of all shapes and sizes that even the likes of Picasso and Dali would envy. Over the years, he became a sort of mascot protected and pampered by the townsfolk who used his works of art as an advert in their local tourist campaigns. When the infamous oil tanker
Prestige
broke up and sank off the Galician coast in November 2002, spilling oil sludge along the coast, alas his lifetime “children”, as he called his achievements, turned into an oily heap of black smelly compost. Within days a heartbroken artist sat down on the rocks and passed away.
    Sergio and Gloria decided to motorbike down to the town to visit the remains of the museum. She was clearing and washing up the breakfast leftovers when Sergio blurted out from the living room, ‘Did I ever tell you about our department checking this guy out for drugs about six years ago?’
    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.