Michael Pearce - A dead man of Barcelona

‘That’s fine,’ he said, ‘that’s fine. But, look, people are asking for sea bass tonight. We’ve got some coming up from the market but we’ll need more. Can you get us some?’

‘I’ll ask Juan, and Silvia will bring them up if he’s got any. I want to go out.’

‘The fishing will be good tonight, will it?’

‘Yes, God willing.’

‘Or maybe you’ve got something else in mind,’ said the proprietor, laughing.

‘There is that,’ said the oilskinned man.

‘Well, just be careful, that’s all.’

The proprietor took the bucket inside and the man in oilskins waited for his return.

‘Got time for a quick one?’ asked someone at one of the tables, holding up a glass.

‘Not just now, Vincente,’ said the man in oilskins respectfully

‘Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, good luck!’

The proprietor came out again with the empty bucket and the man in oilskins took it and went off.

There was a noisy group just beside them and Seymour and Chantale couldn’t quite make out what it was. In the end they decided that there had been a family christening and these were the family elders gathered to wet the baby’s head. Someone had produced a huge camera and set it up nearby and began to take a photograph of the group. It was taking some time. The photographer’s head disappeared under the cloth and he held up a hand. At the last moment a woman gave a cry, and the proceedings stopped while she took the bottles of olive oil and whatever off the table. She put them under the table so they would be out of the line of vision. Then the group recomposed itself. The photograph was taken and normal business resumed.

Then, suddenly, there was a dismayed cry. The woman, forgetting about the condiments, had kicked them over with her foot and now there was a great pool under the table and everyone was lifting their feet and inspecting their trousers and dresses.

The woman squeezed herself out and ran to one of the waiters to get a cloth. The waiter stood with arms akimbo and said with mock severity, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just stay on for a few hours and clean it up!’

The offender began apologizing profusely. Suddenly the waiter collapsed into laughter and put his arms around her. Everyone in the restaurant roared. A couple of waiters darted over with cloths and a bucket and began wiping the people down. The owner of the cafe appeared, chuckling, and suggested that the women go out into the kitchen and take their dresses off. ‘What, again?’ said someone, and everyone burst into laughter. ‘She can save that till later,’ someone said, and again the place erupted.

It seemed a very jolly place, not at all like the cafe Seymour had previously been to. But this was Spanish, he could tell by the voices. That had been Catalan. The only Catalan voice that he had heard here had been that of the fisherman.

At the back of the restaurant was a large metal fish tank. He got up and went over to it. At this time of the day there were only a few fish in it, but a huge pair of lobsters, armour-plated dinosaurs with whiskers like aerials, probing out in front of them.

‘There’ll be more this evening,’ said a passing waiter. ‘Last night’s catch hasn’t come in from the fish market yet. They’ll be bringing it up right now.’

‘Fresh from the sea, is it?’

‘Straight from the boats. You can go down and see them if you want.’

‘Boats?’

‘Just through there. You wouldn’t think it, with the docks so close, but there’s a little harbour there for the fishing boats. It’s a nice little place. You want to take a look.’

‘Perhaps we will.’

‘Down that street and keep going. Eventually you’ll get there.’

Eventually they did, having almost lost their way in what became a maze of tiny side streets, where all the businesses were to do with the docks and the sea. In the doorways thigh-length rubber boots were hanging, with coils of rope and great drifts of netting. There was a carpenter’s, where they were working on a boat, and a place where they were mending netting. And everywhere there was the smell of fish and tar and the sea.

The harbour was very small, just round a headland from the main docks for the cargo vessels, not an adjunct but a kind of afterthought, although it had probably been there longer than the docks. It was full of little fishing boats. They would be ones which fished locally and would be out at night. Just now it was deserted, apart from a solitary man pulling a long net up from a boat and running it through his fingers before folding it neatly on the quay. When they got closer they saw it was the man in yellow oilskins they had seen earlier.

They stopped for a moment and watched him.

The net must have been about fifty yards long and it was about a yard wide. As the man ran it through his fingers he pulled out seaweed and tar and little dead fishes and squid.

‘Getting it ready for this evening?’ said Seymour.

The man grunted.

‘You’ve got to have it just right,’ said Seymour.

‘Sometimes it gets torn,’ said the man. ‘It fouls on something. And then in no time you’ve got a hole as long as my arm and anything can get through.’

‘What do you do? Tie it between buoys?’

‘Sink it. I use buoys but this net needs to go deeper. I leave it for a couple of hours and then pull it in.’

‘How far out do you go?’

‘About two miles.’

‘Don’t you have to look out for the big boats coming in?’

The fisherman laughed.

‘They don’t come in until the morning,’ he said. ‘And do you know why?’

‘Safety?’

The man laughed again. ‘It’s the Customs people. They don’t like it. They like to have a good sleep during the night and save their work for the morning. So everyone has to wait.’

He spat contemptuously into the sea. ‘The big boats lie offshore. So when I’m out there I just keep a bit further in. But sometimes they’re so close I can hear them talking.’

‘Or talk to them?’

The man gave him a long look.

‘Or talk to them,’ he agreed.

He bundled the net, neatly coiled now, up in his arms, took it across the quay, and dropped it into a boat. Then he walked off up the hill into the houses.

Seymour watched him go.

‘Lockhart liked fish,’ he said.

' Inspector-?’

From inside the guardroom at the entrance to the Navy docks came a stifled gasp.

‘Seymour from Scotland Yard.’

‘Jesus!’ Again from inside.

The seaman checking Seymour’s papers suddenly looked rattled.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

He dashed into the guardroom.

Through the open window Seymour could hear concerned discussion. Then:

‘Well, you go out, sonny, and ask him who he wants to see.’

The seaman reappeared. ‘Sorry, sir, just a minor point. I have to check. Who was it you wanted to see?’

‘Admiral Comber.’

An unmistakable ‘Christ!’ came through the open window.

‘Yes, sir. I’ll get someone to take you over.’

He disappeared back into the guardroom. Seymour, left standing there alone, moved over to be nearer the window.

‘You’re for it, now, Ferry!’ said a jaunty young voice.

‘Christ, they’ve brought the narks in!’ said another, older, coarser voice.

‘I wonder why that could be?’ said the young voice innocently. ‘Something to do with the stores, do you think? You’re looking a bit green, Ferry. Are you feeling all right?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you. Sir.’

‘Ground moving in the stores, is it? Rough swell? Don’t worry, Ferry, he’ll just want to look at your records. And see how they match up to the stores on the shelves. That should be no problem, should it? Ferry, you really are looking rather green. Were you thinking of reporting sick, by any chance?’