The Killing Tide Read online

  “Got it, boss, but watch out. Roiyou is directly descended from the Vikings, one of our policemen knows the family—”

  “Nolwenn will find out if he’s had problems with the police before.” Dupin sighed and put down his phone.

  Already during his conversation with the oil boat captain he had heard unusual dull sounds that had sounded far away but were quickly getting closer.

  The helicopter.

  Dupin searched the sky in the direction of the mainland, clearly visible in the distance: France. And found it: a spot on the horizon, like an insect.

  The noise got louder and louder.

  The helicopter was heading directly toward the island. They were coming to collect the body.

  The young woman had woken up on the island on this beautiful morning with nothing before her but a day with her dolphins—now she was lying dead in a bag, ready to be flown to her autopsy in the forensic laboratory in Brest. It was strange; sometimes one little thing in the wake of a murder made it more real than the news of the murder itself. That was how it was for Dupin now. All morning long the whole thing had had a strange element of the abstract to it. Even the sight of the body—strangely, that was almost the most abstract moment of all.

  Dupin followed the helicopter with his eyes. It had now reached the island and was thundering low above the harbor, the noise deafening. The pilot was going to land on the stubble grass directly next to the cemetery.

  For a while Dupin stood there lost in his thoughts. Then his cell phone rang. Kadeg.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that you, Commissaire?”

  Who else could it be? This habit of Kadeg’s was maddening.

  “The fisherman has taken a look at Céline Kerkrom’s boat.”

  “And?”

  “It’s called Morweg—Mermaid. Nine meters thirty long. She fished with lines and gillnets. Loach, red mullet, turbot, brill, whiting, hake. Her lines are no more than seventy meters long. He saw nothing unusual about it. He said the boat was old, but still in remarkably good condition. One of the good old wooden boats. She had recently had a new lifting arm installed. For the nets. That lifting arm can really handle stuff, the fisherman said.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I spoke on the phone with Kerkrom’s ex-husband. He has four children, lives on Guadeloupe, and seems a happy guy. He’s had no contact with her for over ten years.”

  Céline Kerkrom’s past appeared to give them nothing to work on.

  “Have you interviewed Madame Gochat, Commissaire?”

  “I want to have her in front of me when I speak to her.”

  “Don’t you think we need to pursue a clue of such importance right away?”

  Kadeg was particularly insufferable when he talked like this.

  “See you later, Kadeg.”

  Dupin hung up and leaned back.

  He really ought to talk to the harbormistress soon. Riwal could take over on the island and conduct the interviews that had to be carried out, including the one with the fisherman Kerkrom apparently had a connection to.

  Dupin still had his phone in his hand. He dialed the number of his inspector.

  “Riwal! We need to chat.” Dupin had spotted a restaurant at the far end of the quay, where they could meet up soonest. “Let’s meet up in…” He tried to read the name at a distance. “Le Tatoon.” Somebody had already mentioned it. “At the end of Quai Sud. And tell Goulch we’ll be needing his boat shortly. I want to go to Île Tristan, to speak to the parc’s scientific boss.” He thought for a second, then added, “Tell you what, bring Goulch along too.”

  The young policeman had his complete trust.

  “Goulch has inspected the dolphin researcher’s boat. And was extremely impressed. It has very expensive, very high-spec sonar equipment.” Riwal seemed no less impressed. “As well as a whole row of other high-tech equipment. A tracker system for fish and marine mammals with a program that allowed her to keep them under continuous surveillance. That means—”

  “Anything suspicious?”

  “No. But—”

  “We’ll talk in Le Tatoon, Riwal.”

  “One more thing. The pathologist verified Antoine Manet’s suggested time of death for Darot.”

  “I thought she might.”

  Dupin left the terrace of Chez Bruno and walked past another bar that also looked wonderful. There were several of them along the quay, each of them a coffee shop, bistro, restaurant, and bar all in one. Everything seemed tranquil and relaxed.

  All of that also contributed to the impression the island gave of being “another world”; the tempo, the rhythm, all slowed down. Everything seemed to happen—for outsiders at least—in a contemplative calm. It was as if it were a state of mind. Things moved differently. Dupin could get on remarkably well with it. Normally calm made him nervous. There were rumors that at one stage when it had been suggested from the prefecture that he should be sent on a relaxation seminar he had almost drawn his weapon. Rumors that weren’t totally false.

  * * *

  Le Tatoon was splendid.

  An old white stone house with a Breton pointed roof and window shutters painted a bright green. A pretty terrace, large ceramic pots with olive trees in front of it, tables and chairs made of untreated wood that had developed their typical patina. A few more tables than Chez Bruno, but still the same inconspicuous narrow slates on either side of the entrance with the menu on them—which was primarily what the island fishermen had pulled out of the sea a few hours earlier.

  Dupin had chosen the table outside in the first row of the terrace. He had taken his jacket off and draped it over a chair. By now, just before midday, the temperature had risen to at least twenty-eight degrees Celsius. There was a gentle wind. As expected, the cool morning had turned into a perfect midsummer’s day.

  Before sitting down he had popped inside to order a café.

  Riwal and the gangly young policeman were walking along the quay.

  “Goulch!”

  Dupin was happy to see him.

  They only saw one another once or twice a year. Either at a police party or the Festival des Filets Bleus, a Fest Noz, a traditional Breton music affair.

  “Commissaire!”

  A particularly hefty handshake, but a friendly one.

  “Nasty business.”

  “Really dreadful.”

  “I would love to have the kind of equipment on my police boat the dolphin researcher has on hers,” Goulch said with a smile. “Riwal has already told you. It doesn’t look as if anybody else has been on the boat. The killer would have been taking quite a risk: the boat is at the end of the quay, just before the storage huts. It’s busy there from early in the morning.”

  Riwal and Goulch sat down.

  “Do you know the history of this restaurant?” Riwal asked. Of course Le Tatoon had to have a history, just like everything in Brittany had a history. And of course Riwal knew it.

  “The chef ran a two-star restaurant in Monaco, but one day he was visiting his friend in Brest and they came on a trip to the Île de Sein. The chef fell in love with the Quai Sud, saw this house was for sale, sold everything in Monaco within a month, and opened Le Tatoon. Now he conjures up delicious menus here. He works together with the…” Riwal faltered a second, “the two fishermen on the island, and until yesterday with Céline Kerkrom too.”

  “S’il vous plaît, messieurs.” The waitress, a smiling blonde with a complicated hairdo, brought the coffee and set it down on the table in front of Dupin. “I suspect my colleagues will want one too.” He glanced at Riwal and Goulch, who both nodded.

  He downed his—wonderful—café in two swallows.

  “Netra ne blij din-me,’ vel urbanne kafe!”

  Dupin had been planning for weeks to try this sentence out on Riwal. He had hoped to stun him, and it seemed he had succeeded: the inspector was staring at him open-mouthed. Paul Girard, boss of the Amiral, had given Dupin a book about Brittany and coffee, in which Dupin ha
d found a few magic lyrics from an old song. He had made a note of this one: “Nothing makes me as happy as a slug of coffee.”

  Goulch grinned. Riwal needed a moment to master his confusion—quotations and wandering digressions were supposed to be his business. As if changing the subject without mentioning it, the inspector set his notebook down on the table and opened it, still without saying a word, to reveal an impeccably neat double page. He began to read out his report mechanically.

  “That is all we could find. All the boats that docked either yesterday or this morning. As I said, it’s also possible to dock at the jetty at the other end of the village. And with a tender, of course, you can pull up to the land anywhere on the island.”

  It wasn’t much help.

  “Oh yes, our colleagues did a full examination of Roiyou’s boat. Nothing to be found, even though they took a fine-tooth comb to it.”

  “Pity,” Dupin grumbled.

  “We’ve also talked to the technicians at the lighthouse and the supply sheds: they didn’t see any suspicious boats, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  The waitress came with the cafés for Riwal and Goulch and a little slate with the specialties of the day: fricassé de praires au piment d’espelette, filet de lieu jaune et purée de pommes de terre maison—that was the dish the museum keeper had raved about, the sensational fish with potato purée—and for dessert soupe de fraises à la menthe.

  Dupin hadn’t been thinking about eating when he had suggested Le Tatoon, even though he had already been on his feet for seven hours.

  “I’ll have another café.”

  Dupin leaned down over the list of boats, which was longer than he had imagined.

  Riwal spoke up: “The majority are private individuals. Nine of them islanders. We’re already checking them out. We’ve had widely differing reports as to who arrived in the harbor overnight and left again first thing in the morning. Between three and eight boats. For the sailors, the summer season has already begun. That makes it all the harder—nobody knows where they came from and where they are going.”

  “We have to try.”

  “We spoke to the captain of the food delivery boat,” Riwal said. “He has a crew of three.”

  Dupin had forgotten all about it.

  “During the day yesterday they loaded up all the orders for the islands, particularly for the Metro. They worked until late, until around eleven thirty, with the help of a few packers, from whom the two of us have witness statements. The boat then left Camaret this morning—the harbormaster there verified that—and couldn’t have been on the island before eight.”

  That ruled out the food delivery boat too.

  “They were bringing half a Charolais bull for Le Tatoon here.”

  Dupin wasn’t to be distracted. He was still taken up with one name on the list.

  “Vaillant? Madame Coquil mentioned him. Captain Vaillant? Isn’t he the pirate?”

  Goulch grinned. “He’s even more famous than I thought. An anarchist swashbuckler. A bon viveur. He was here in Le Tatoon last night, with his crew.”

  Dupin couldn’t help it; everything about Vaillant smacked of adventure stories and classic sailors’ yarns. He imagined him to look like a relative of Captain Haddock from the Tintin books.

  “When did they come in?

  “Late. After eleven o’clock.”

  “Where from?”

  “Douarnenez.”

  “How long does it take to get here in their boat?”

  “Seventy minutes, maybe eighty.”

  That would have made it tight for the murder of Céline Kerkrom. But there would have been just time enough.

  “With his whole crew?”

  “One of them wasn’t there. We’ve already set someone on his tail.”

  The friendly waitress brought Dupin’s second café.

  “Good. Where does this Vaillant live?”

  Dupin downed his second coffee in a couple of swallows.

  “On the Île de Ouessant, that’s where they all live. They have three houses in Le Stiff, a hamlet on the east end of the lighthouse, close to the lighthouse and the main pier.”

  The piracy business seemed to be going well.

  As soon as the waitress was out of hearing range, Riwal commented, “For twenty euros you can have a complete three-course meal here. And it’s said to be excellent.”

  As it happened, the restaurant was just the kind Dupin loved: down-to-earth, cozy, and not in the slightest way chic.

  “And what about the smuggling? Is there anything to that, do you think?” Dupin had ignored Riwal’s comment and turned to Goulch.

  “I’ve had a bit to do with Vaillant myself. He pops up everywhere along the coast. A couple of years ago we searched his boat along with the customs guards when he came into French waters. We couldn’t find any cigarettes, but we did find alcohol. Various expensive eaux-de-vie in canisters. In quantities that went above the legal limit, but not excessively. But we also found a load of canisters we suspect he had poured out before we boarded. I think he’s a smuggler all right, but in small quantities.”

  “Who does the patrols in the parc here? Whose authority does it fall under?”

  “Boats from the Affaires Maritimes, the sea authorities, as well as customs and excise, the Gendarmerie Maritime, and the boats from the parc itself.”

  “Has Vaillant ever been prosecuted?”

  “Only small fines.”

  “But he fishes too? I mean, gets involved in actual fishing?”

  “Yes. But not every day. He uses long lines. For the more expensive fish. Sea bass. Lieus jaunes, as many people now do in the parc.”

  “Did they still go back to Ouessant after eating here last night?”

  “They moored here overnight. One of the landlords on the Quai Nord saw them leave, about seven in the morning.”

  That would have been just about right for the timing. Goulch understood straightaway.

  “They claim not to have left the ship after that this morning. And we have no witnesses to the contrary. Not that that means anything.”

  That was the way it was.

  “A lucky chance,” Dupin said, primarily talking to himself. “They hardly come to the Île de Sein for dinner that often.”

  “The harbor landlords say they come to the island about once a month. So it’s not that seldom,” Goulch added drily.

  “Okay, onward.” Dupin would have to meet the man. His list was growing ever longer. He bent down over Riwal’s notes. The inspector resumed.

  “Two boats came from the parc yesterday, one in the morning, one in the evening, about seven o’clock. Both routine.”

  “What were they doing precisely?”

  “They patrol regularly, primarily to keep tabs on the fishing and environmental rules. They take samples to see if anything suspicious comes up. They check a few boats, their nets, their catch.”

  “We’ve already spoken to the captains of both boats,” Goulch added. “They didn’t come across anything unusual yesterday, and they’d asked their colleagues too, with the same response. The same goes for the boats belonging to the other authorities. Nobody reported anything anywhere that could have to do with the murders.”

  “Have you chosen?” The blond waitress was standing in front of them again.

  “Lunch today, sadly not.” Dupin wanted to be off. He was feeling impatient.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” she said, and turned away smiling, Riwal looking glumly after her.

  “Had anyone from the patrol boats had anything to do with Laetitia Darot?”

  “No. The parc scientific department operates completely independently and isn’t involved in the patrols. Their boss is Pierre Leblanc.”

  The man whom Manet, the island doctor, considered extraordinarily competent and who was on the list of people Dupin hoped to talk to soon. Maybe he had been too quick to say no to the friendly waitress. If he left here right now he would undoubtedly get nothing to eat over the next
few hours.

  “How about Darot’s relations with her colleagues?”

  “There are six scientists in all. Leblanc will be able to tell you more.”

  Dupin leaned back.

  His fellow officers had done good work. The factual investigations were going ahead well, even if to date they had brought nothing concrete to light. But then who knew, maybe somewhere in the sieve, covered in sand and mud, was a lump of gold they would only discover later.

  “Goulch, have you heard anything from the Gendarmerie Maritime about water pollution in the parc that has happened recently?”

  “No.”

  “Riwal, have you had the opportunity to talk to the island’s two fishermen?”

  Their names too were on the list.

  “I’ve spoken to both of them, albeit not for long. They’re out at sea. Neither noticed anything unusual either last night or this morning.”

  “And where were they themselves last night and this morning?”

  “Marteau, that’s what the older fisherman is called, was out at a little birthday party here on the island—until midnight. There are witnesses. And this morning he was up at six for a meeting on the wharf in Douarnenez. That’s confirmed too.”

  That eliminated him.

  “Jumeau says he was back in the harbor at five thirty yesterday. He brought six large bass to Le Tatoon, drank a beer, and sat around for a while. There are witnesses to that. By nine he was home and went straight to bed, because he goes out earlier than normal at the moment: four thirty today. He lives on his own. He’s a bachelor.”

  “So last night he could have done anything,” Dupin murmured, “and the same goes for this morning. The boy who found the dolphin researcher saw him to the north of the island, in visible range. He could have come ashore for half an hour at any time.”

  “Correct,” the inspector confirmed.

  “The pirate and the fisherman.” Dupin folded his hands behind his head. “Both were here in the restaurant yesterday.”

  He was really talking to himself. There was no volume in his voice.

  “Maybe,” Dupin began hesitantly, “maybe we should have something to eat after all,” quickly adding, “just a little.”

  Relief spread across Riwal’s face. It was as if he had hoped things might go this way. Goulch too nodded keen approval.