The Galician Parallax Read online

  THE

  GALICIAN

  PARALLAX

  THE THREAT HAS

  BECOME A REALITY…

  JAMES G SKINNER

  Copyright © 2015 James G. Skinner

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the express written consent of James G. Skinner.

  Matador®

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

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  ISBN 978 1785894 787

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  This novel is dedicated to the Spanish civil guards, the local and national police forces and the terrorist victims’ associations who courageously and methodically fight against the European drug trade as well as national and international terrorism.

  It is also dedicated to the defunct British Consular Network including the Foreign & Commonwealth Office and especially the honoraries that “went the extra mile” to help and assist fellow citizens in distress.

  There is a special personal dedication to an ex-Vice Consul, Mr Danny Wickham, OBE who gave more than he received.

  ‘The “Teixugo” is a mysterious animal; a type of ferret or ground hog that lives alone; out of sight and out of mind’

  - Galician drug lord

  ‘To kill a snake you must cut off its head and not its tail!’

  - Anonymous

  Contents

  Chapter 1 A Crude Awakening

  Chapter 2 Man’s Museum, Camelle, 4 March

  Chapter 3 Dangerous Trawling

  Chapter 4 Wrong Wreck

  Chapter 5 British Navy’s Spanish Haven

  Chapter 6 Dirty Containers

  Chapter 7 Escobar’s Legacy

  Chapter 8 Last of the Summer Drugs

  Chapter 9 Back to Square One

  Chapter 10 It’s A Boy

  Chapter 11 Frictional Workload

  Chapter 12 Camouflaged Tourist Visits

  Chapter 13 A New World Order

  Chapter 14 A Reminder of the Past

  Chapter 15 Keep it Consular

  Chapter 16 Success So Far

  Chapter 17 Not Again

  Chapter 18 An Old Sea Dog Returns

  Chapter 19 Returned From The Sea

  Chapter 20 Juan Canalejo Hospital Morgue, Corunna, August 2003

  Chapter 21 Fish and Brass Bands

  Chapter 22 Cut-throat Viewing

  Chapter 23 How to Handle Brits

  Chapter 24 The Attack

  Chapter 25 A Change in Destiny

  Chapter 26 Baffled Drug Barons

  Chapter 27 Undercover Diplomacy

  Chapter 28 An Irish Connection

  Chapter 29 A Breach of Security

  Chapter 30 Another Civil Guard, Another Reason

  Chapter 31 Fish Market Revisited

  Chapter 32 A Christmas Aftermath

  Chapter 33 Little White Terrorist Lie

  Chapter 34 Joining the Enemy

  Chapter 35 Galician “D” Day

  Chapter 36 Showdown

  Chapter 37 The Same Day

  The Author

  CHAPTER 1

  A Crude Awakening

  Hotel Bahia, Vigo, 1 March 2004

  Pedro was drying off in the shower and was about to scent and powder his body before dressing for breakfast when his wife came bursting into the bathroom. Half dressed and taking deep breaths on each word, she muttered, ‘There’s a woman… outside, screaming…’ Unhooking the hotel bathrobe, he wrapped it around his shoulders and without hesitation rushed out into the corridor. A chambermaid was standing in front of the room opposite, half leaning against her trolley, hollering at the top of her voice. Cleaning liquid spilled on the floor.

  ‘He’s dead!’ she kept shouting, over and over again in regular overtone spasms.

  Pedro pushed her to one side, swung the door wide open and looked inside. A man in his underwear was hanging from the ceiling lamp. It was an early Tuesday morning; the tourist season was a couple of months away.

  Stan Bullock, honorary British consul in Vigo, was attending the annual consular conference in Madrid when he received a call on his mobile from his secretary at the Mauro Shipping Agency where he worked.

  ‘Morning, sir. A police officer, Felipe Garcia, from the Taboada station just called. I told him you’re in Madrid. He says a Brit was found dead in a hotel room; looks like a suicide; says you’ve got the number.’

  ‘OK, thanks. I’ll take if from here.’

  Stan normally allowed his staff to take down any particulars, but when he was out of town he preferred to deal direct with any matters involving a Brit in distress. Checking his emergency numbers he was soon on to the station asking for Lieutenant Garcia. Two hours earlier, he’d been in the middle of a heated discussion about the future reorganisation of the worldwide British consular network. It included Spain, one of the largest in the world. All consular reps from around the country were present. Two staff from London were explaining the new procedures.

  ‘Don’t agree. You can’t just put all worldwide consular posts into a common basket and expect us to dance to the same tune.’

  Stan was outside the main conference room during the break sharing a coffee with Vice Consul Danny Wilton, a twenty-five-year veteran at the Madrid office, who was Stan’s point of contact.

  ‘Sign of the times, Stan. London wants profit and loss accounting on all our work. Focus on where the money is coming from and how it’s being spent. Welcome to diplomatic globalisation.’

  ‘OK. Great, but they also expect us to look after some holiday Brit who’s fallen out of a tree and broken his leg. What account would this come under?’ He was continuing with more rhetoric when he was advised of the tragedy at the Vigo hotel.

  Two police cars and an ambulance were soon at the scene. Four police officers joined a team of paramedics that made their way to the second floor of the hotel.

  ‘Clear the area. Stand back everybody,’ said Lieutenant Garcia as he moved the now gathered crowd away from the room. It had not taken long for other residents and most of the hotel staff to rush to the scene of the tragedy. The lieutenant looked at the mini-mob. He picked on a young suit-and-tie executive. ‘Are you from the hotel?’

  ‘Yes sir. I’m the duty counter clerk. I’ve already called the manager and he’s on his way.’

  ‘Good.’ The lieutenant then entered the room, looked at the hanging corpse for a few seconds and then pulled out his notepad in routine police fashion. Two of the other police were ushering the onlookers to return to their rooms or down to the lobby, and under no circumstances to leave the hotel. Before they began to move, the lieutenant went out into the corridor and hollered, ‘Has anyone touched anything?’

  There was a general shaking of bemused heads. ‘OK, carry on.’ He went back into the room, using his mobile to call the duty magistrate’s office.

  Lieutenant Garcia walked around the body, looking at but not touching it, whilst his assistant took a set of photographs from different angles in the room. Garcia had a habit of mumbling to himself when taking routine notes of events such as “deaths by misadventure”. ‘Only worn garment is his underwear.’ Looking at the head he went on, ‘Used a curtain cord cut off with a knife. Where’s the knife?’ He began searching the bedroom, all the time mumbling away as he scribbled on his pad. ‘Clothes neatly folded, bed unturned: unslept in. Let’s see; what have we here?’ A copy of The Economist was lying amongst the hotel bumph on the main table. Meanwhile, his assistant was searching through the room’s furniture.

  Officer Fernandez hollered from aside the open wardrobe, ‘Lieutenant, there’s a large suitcase, a briefcase and a laptop in here; permission to check them out.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  He took them out and placed them on the bed, opened the briefcase and looked inside. There were three credit cards, an airline ticket, several copies of a brochure on sea travels called Maiden Voyages, a mobile phone, several sets of copies of e-mails neatly clipped together under port headings, pens, paper clips, a stapling machine and finally the all important identification document; a British passport.

  ‘Here you are, sir.’

  He opened it and flipped through the pages. As usual he mumbled, ‘Donald Simmons. Born: Liverpool, England, 4th of January 1968.’ He turned to the back of the passport. ‘Sarah Rose Simmons. Address: 16, Kings St., Manchester, L
ancashire, M2 4NG.’ Lieutenant Garcia gave the passport back to his assistant and called his office.

  ‘Rosa? Call Mauro’s shipping people and tell them that there’s a dead Brit here in Hotel Bahia. They’ll know what to do.’

  Stan was on his way to Chamartín railway station to take the night sleeper. His meetings had ended at 5 p.m. and he’d spent the last four hours browsing around the centre before making his way north. Danny had taken care of informing the British Foreign Office with the personal details of the Brit found dead in the hotel. Lieutenant Garcia had not given any further details over the phone other than those regarding his death. Stan had never handled such a case and was not looking forward to the following day’s ordeal.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Danny had said. ‘The police will take care of everything. Just make sure the next of kin are looked after. That’s the hard part. They’re bound to be flying out as soon as they find out that the poor sod’s snuffed it.’

  Stan was also concerned with the Caledonia coming in on her regular cruise stop prior to returning to Southampton with over 3,000 passengers on board. He had to go straight to the docks from the railway station to meet her once he got back in the morning. Trust my bloody luck, he thought as he continued to amble around the station bookstores and cafes.

  ‘According to the register, this Englishman arrived yesterday. Did anybody call or meet up with him?’ Lieutenant Garcia was with the hotel manager in his office.

  ‘Not to our knowledge, sir. He hadn’t even been out of his room.’

  ‘Any calls?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The search in the bedroom had finished; most guests were allowed to go about their business whilst the police were awaiting the arrival of the duty magistrate. The lieutenant was about to continue with his enquiries when magistrate Consuelo Pacheco arrived.

  ‘Sra Pacheco, we’ve got a foreigner this time. Looks like a suicide case although we didn’t find any note or anything. No signs of foul play. The ambulance is waiting for your go-ahead. I’ve spoken to the consul, but he’s in Madrid. Back tomorrow.’

  She was satisfied. It didn’t take long for her to order the removal of the corpse to be sent to the local morgue for an autopsy. At that moment, the local press arrived ready to pick up the sordid details. The police eventually went back to the station to write up the report.

  When Stan arrived at the Vigo railway station the following morning, he walked up to the news-stand to purchase the local paper. The news of the death was in the left-hand corner of the front page. He skipped through the pages searching for the section with the full report. There were no photos, just a few lines suggesting a suicide and that the police were still checking it out. Thank God for that, he thought, at least the press is not making a meal out of it. He hailed a cab and headed straight for the port. It was quarter to eight in the morning and the Caledonia was due to dock in fifteen minutes. Once on board, Captain Reynolds gave Stan the usual documents plus the ship’s log for countersignature confirming satisfaction with all routine docking activities handled by the agent’s staff. He just flipped through the front-page checklist before signing both copies. Fuel and water: OK. Pilot: OK. Wharf and gangway procedures: OK. Immigration and customs: OK. Passenger movement: None. Stan would normally stay for a coffee with Captain Reynolds and discuss any “off the cuff” business that needed attention. Not this time.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the office, Captain; urgent business.’ He began to perspire heavily as he walked down the gangplank and across the docks towards his office. Stan had second thoughts.

  The Taboada police station was just around the corner from the Mauro Shipping Agency. Instead of reporting back, Stan headed for the station. The Caledonia can wait, he thought, she’ll be around all day. It was already nine and the entrance was crowded with immigrants and Spaniards queuing to renew or receive new ID cards. There was a third line of foreigners; all awaiting appointments with the authorities, hoping for legal residence permits. Stan knew his way around as he’d visited the police on several previous occasions to interview the odd delinquent Brit. He made his way through the melee and managed to make the elevator halfway down the corridor. Lieutenant Garcia’s office was on the third floor.

  ‘The lieutenant isn’t in yet, Sr Bullock. He won’t be long.’ Stan thought for a moment and then smiled at the young secretary.

  ‘He’s across the park isn’t he?’ She smiled back.

  Stan found Garcia at the counter of the Alameda coffee shop. The place was chocker full of the morning “cafelito” mob, all eating and munching their daily breakfast of coffee and churros. Most were deeply immersed in the bar’s freely available daily newspapers. Garcia was checking the sports page of the Atlantico, the local rag, as Stan sat down beside him.

  He looked up. ‘Sr Bullock. What a surprise; thought you were in Madrid.’ He put the paper down. ‘Sorry about the dead man. Sad case when people take their lives. The corpse is at the Nicolas Peña Hospital for the autopsy.’

  ‘I’m waiting for a call from Madrid as they’re in contact with the family.’ Stan was still a bit nervous but determined to find out more. ‘Lieutenant, how do you determine that it was… ? I mean…’

  Garcia smiled as he interrupted Stan in mid-sentence. ‘Instinct first, Sr Bullock; investigation next; suicide notes; hundreds of scientists with rubber gloves turning the room upside down only appear in the movies. Unless the forensic finds anything unusual with the body, it’s a clear case of suicide.’

  Lieutenant Garcia nevertheless assured Stan that all possible angles of the investigation would be concluded. ‘No stone will be left unturned. Remember Sr Consul, that we have all the deceased’s belongings. Once the funeral arrangements are dealt with, his relatives will have to sign off the register at the magistrate’s before disposal. More bureaucracy, I’m afraid.’

  More headaches for me, thought Stan, still not sure of the procedures. He was about to leave when a call came through on his mobile. It was Danny from Madrid advising him that London had forwarded NOK flight details. According to the e-mail, a Ms Joan Flashman would be on flight IB578 arriving in Vigo around 1 p.m. on Friday.

  Two days later, Stan was at the airport with his driver holding up the usual identification card with “Joan Flashman” printed in large letters, when a middle-aged woman dressed in scruffy jeans and blue polo-necked jumper appeared through the exit gate. Her only luggage was a small green rucksack hung over her shoulder.

  ‘Ms Flashman? I’m Stan Bullock, the consul; very sorry to…’ He was cut short.

  Far from bereaved, the woman looked worried and nervous yet went straight to the point. ‘Cut the sorrow. Your London people briefed us on procedures but left the details to you; so, what next?’

  A startled Stan thought what the hell? Before he could answer Joan cleared the mystery. ‘It’s OK. I’m the company secretary from Maiden Voyages. Donald Simmons and his sister have been estranged for years. He has no other family. Need to clear this up as soon as possible.’

  Stan was not quite sure how to take the icy reception, nevertheless, without uttering another word he escorted her out into the car park and once in the car ordered the driver to head for the magistrate’s office and thence on to the funeral parlour.

  ‘What are the family’s wishes regarding the remains of Sr Simmons, Srta Flashman?’ asked the funeral parlour manager as he handed her an initial set of papers to sign. ‘The consul will take care of the repatriation documents later.’

  Joan Flashman had brought the appropriate power of attorney authorising her to deal with the body including the retrieval of Donald’s belongings at the magistrate’s office. ‘They would prefer cremation and local burial as soon as possible; any problem?’

  In the usual diplomatic manner the manager enquired about payment, as there was no indication of insurance or other means of reimbursing the costs.

  ‘What’s the total bill, please?’

  The manager began to rummage through the documents and fiddle with a hand calculator when Joan added, ‘I’ll be paying in cash; is that OK?’ She turned and looked at Stan. ‘When the ashes are ready, please take them and scatter them across the bay. Is there anything else that needs my presence? I’ve got to catch the evening flight back to Madrid for some unfinished business.’