The Killing Tide Read online

  “Very sensible,” Riwal said, and nodded heavily. “It will be our only chance before this evening. And in any case you have to try the oysters, boss. Just for your stomach’s sake.” His eyes turned misty. “Docteur Garreg will be very proud of you.”

  It was a clever move. On their last case, Dupin had had a lot to do with oysters, which up until then he had shunned. Certain circumstances, accompanied by medical advice, had led him to start eating them. And despite his initial skepticism, they had turned out to be an efficacious therapy for his sensitive stomach. And a new delicacy in his life. Ever since, for medical reasons, he had eaten three every evening. From then on, his stomach had been much better and he had shaken off the wretched “Gastritis C,” which meant he could once again drink as much coffee as he liked. He could be himself again.

  “Oysters from the island! A young couple has recently opened up an oyster farm, L’huitre de Sein. An absolute treasure. The phytoplankton around the island gives off extraordinary aromas: powerful, raw, wild aromas, absolutely wonderful, and above all not dominated by iodine.”

  Dupin had discovered that it was true. Eat an oyster and one was eating the sea itself, the seawater from which they had come.

  He waved at the waitress. Yes, they would have something to eat. And support the young couple. Riwal beamed, Goulch no less so.

  “Do you know who else dropped in here last night? And drank a bottle of red wine on his own?” Riwal seemed to want to illustrate that you could continue to work while eating. “This Frédéric Carrière. The bolincheur, the one who fishes for Morin.”

  Dupin pricked up his ears. “Here in Le Tatoon?”

  “Here in Le Tatoon. Late on, about midnight.”

  Yet another coincidence. And his mother’s house was here. He obviously knew people round about. This was a very close-knit community.

  “Was there anyone with him?”

  “No.”

  “Hmmm.”

  The waitress was standing in front of them. “You’ve changed your mind?” She couldn’t restrain her satisfaction.

  “The menu du jour, please. And a few oysters first. Eighteen.”

  Riwal and Goulch nodded in agreement.

  “Menu of the day three times. Oysters beforehand,” the waitress confirmed. “Maybe a bottle of muscadet to go with it, monsieur?”

  The temptation was unconscionably great, here in the sun, along with the endlessly delicious white meat of the lieu jaune.

  “No thank you,” Dupin grumbled. “Just water.”

  He pulled himself together and turned back to Goulch and Riwal. “Do we have an alibi for this Carrière? What was he up to on the island?”

  “We haven’t spoken to him yet.”

  “Do so. Where is his boat moored? I mean which is his harbor?”

  “Douarnenez. He lives there too. We’ll deal with him.”

  “Good.”

  “That’s all we can tell from the list for now, boss.”

  The stupid thing was, it could take a lot of hard work over a long time to find out who arrived at or left the island, and all the while it might be a waste of time. They had to get a grip of some sort on the story, at least something to start from.

  * * *

  The oysters, the mussels in allspice, and the lieu jaune were all on the table in the twinkling of an eye. None of the effusive praise for the restaurant had been exaggerated; everything was sensational. The place was perfect.

  In the meantime the colors had acquired a surreal intensity: the opal blue of the sky, the deep blue of the sea, the bright green of the seaweed and the algae at the edge of the harbor bay in front of them, the blinding white of the sandbank opposite, the orange and red of the gently bobbing wooden boats, each and every color magnified to the max, no faded, diluted tones, no shades.

  They had exchanged a few more thoughts before the meal, Riwal, Goulch, and the commissaire, but none of them had in any way changed the world or the case as each of them had increasingly frequently turned their eyes to the door of the restaurant. Dupin’s stomach was really grumbling.

  But the first oyster was followed by a deep, ecstatic sigh.

  It had gotten warmer while they had been sitting there, in that the last bit of wind had ceased. The sun was now incredibly strong. Sweat was running down Dupin’s brow. He’d never been able to bear hats and as a result never wore one.

  His eyes flitted lazily over the pretty quay and the bay, a number of things simultaneously going through his mind.

  “Really good decision, this! I reckon you’ve never eaten as splendid a fish as this in your life. Am I right?”

  Antoine Manet had appeared on the terrace, along with Madame Coquil. They must have come along the path by the seaside, not along the quay.

  “Have you found out any more yet? Was it one of us?” The museum chief couldn’t restrain herself, and yet again she sounded more as if she were curious, rather than worried.

  Dupin found himself involuntarily grinning. He put in his mouth the last morsel of the baguette with which he had cleaned his plate of the remains of the heavenly creamy potato puree.

  “As of now it might still be anybody…” He hesitated, then added, “Almost anybody. Almost anybody from the island, or anybody from anywhere else.”

  Antoine Manet pulled up two chairs from the next table, and he and Madame Coquil sat down.

  “We have a little news.” Manet’s expression was serious. “People are saying the dolphin researcher met up with Luc Jumeau, the young fisherman. They were seen walking together two weeks ago, out by the dolmens, about nine o’clock in the evening. And it wasn’t the first time.”

  Obviously the islanders had been talking amongst themselves about the two murders. And this and that had cropped up. The phrase “people are saying” was clearly a distillation of everything the island doctor had picked up from all his meetings and visits during the morning.

  “You mean they were in a relationship?”

  “Possibly.”

  “That landscape gardener certainly thinks so,” Madame Coquil said definitely.

  “The landscape gardener?”

  Manet explained: “The local regional authority has recently assigned a landscape gardener to each of the islands. Ours has been here two years, an amazing guy. Since he’s been here the arméries maritimes—a particular type of sea carnation—have been growing again. You must have seen them: little pink flowers. And he has a wonderful wife.”

  “When will this Jumeau guy get back in from the sea?”

  “About five o’clock.”

  “That’s too late. Call him now. We need to talk to him.”

  They should have done it ages ago. It was all the more important now. Of course it could be a tragic love story. The region was apparently known for them. Worldwide. Riwal gave the commissaire a look to see just exactly how urgent it was. Within a second he was on his feet with his phone in his hand.

  “Natalie’s husband,” Madame Coquil said, “the pair of them own the restaurant on the Quai Nord, directly opposite the main pier—he saw Laetitia Darot hanging out a strange fishing net in the little garden next to her house.”

  “What was strange about it?”

  “It had little bits of apparatus around the edges,” she said. “More than a few of them.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He didn’t rightly know himself.” She gave Dupin a challenging look.

  “What could that be about?” Dupin had turned the question to Goulch, but he just shrugged.

  “We’ll need to discuss it with an expert. I’ll ask the parc chief when I see him shortly. Did the crime scene team mention a net like that?”

  “No, they found no equipment at all in Laetitia Darot’s house. It seems she kept everything in her shed. I have no idea why she might have needed a net. There certainly wasn’t one in her boat.”

  Riwal came back to the table. “I couldn’t get through to Jumeau, but asked one of his colleagues to get
hold of him on the radio.”

  “Good, so what else is there?” Dupin looked expectantly at the two islanders.

  Madame Coquil’s face looked fierce. “There was a sighting of Dahut, just three days ago. That’s always a bad sign. Our eldest girl, Annie, spotted her. Where she’s always seen. Not far from the ruined burial mound.”

  Manet realized an explanation was in order. “She’s talking about the daughter of King Gradlon. She became a sea siren.” He thought nothing more of the sighting than if Madame Coquil had been talking about the sighting of a dolphin or orca.

  “She’s spotted every couple of years. And every time something bad happens afterward.” Madame Coquil gave Dupin an inscrutable glance. “There are witnesses for many of these things, just in case you think we’re rambling here. In 1892 a priest who’d come to say mass spotted her. He saw a spectacularly beautiful woman with long hair and a fish’s tail in the midst of the waves. Dahut swims around here endlessly, wanting to bring everything back: the glittering balls and parties, the expensive clothes, the excess.”

  Much as he tried, Dupin hadn’t a clue how to respond to this.

  “And as if that weren’t enough,” Madame Coquil drew her eyebrows together in yet more consternation, “the Bag Noz has been sighted too! The Boat of the Night. Down at the western end of the island. Not far from the chapel.”

  Once again Manet came to their assistance. “The maritime equivalent of the Garrig an Ankou, the Chariot of Death.”

  Dupin knew the stories of the Grim Reaper who came to collect the corpses of the dead in his coach.

  “The Boat of the Night turns up,” Madame Coquil continued, “when dark things are happening. Your eyes can’t ever see it clearly, it’s always blurred, and when you get closer, it gets farther away. Every now and then you can hear heartbreaking wailing from the boat. The first drowning victim of the year is always doomed to become the boat’s ghostly helmsman.”

  A lengthy silence followed that statement. Riwal was fidgeting uncomfortably back and forward on his seat.

  “Is there anything else—of news?”

  “Just a little.” Manet glanced meaningfully at Dupin. “But perhaps the most important. The ladies and gentlemen of the press. I’ve put them into one of the bars on the Quai Nord, as far as possible from what’s going on. I’ve told them you’re bound to drop in.”

  “Then I’m headed straight back to the mainland.”

  Dupin’s phone rang. An unidentified number.

  “Yes?” He had pushed his chair back and dropped his voice.

  “Charles Morin here. Am I speaking with Commissaire Georges Dupin?”

  A remarkably polite tone of voice. Dupin himself didn’t know why, but he wasn’t very surprised by the call.

  “That’s me.”

  “Your assistant called me. It seems you want to speak with me?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Four P.M. would be good. I’m, let’s say…” A slight pause followed. “… extremely curious to know how your investigation is going.”

  Despite the excessively accommodating choice of words, there was no suggestion of sarcasm or obsequiousness in Morin’s voice. Dupin had expected a very different tone from Morin. He had imagined him to be a totally different character, more like Roiyou, except hiked up a grade.

  “Because Laetitia Darot was your daughter,” Dupin retorted out of the blue.

  Morin’s response contained no trace of aggression. On the contrary, it sounded in control of itself, self-confident, worldly, without the slightest intent of provoking the commissaire.

  “We don’t need to go into all that, Monsieur le Commissaire. I feel responsible. I live and work here and have done for decades. The sea, the parc, the people—this is my home.”

  “Your empire, you mean.” Dupin too had adopted a convivial tone.

  “Up to a point you could say, yes. You will understand that I am interested”—he spoke more slowly—“when two young women become victims of a crime that doesn’t appear to have been committed by an outsider. That worries me. In a big way.”

  “I’ll see you at four o’clock, Monsieur Morin.”

  “Your assistant said you would come to see me here, in Douarnenez.”

  “Gladly.”

  Nolwenn had forgotten to mention that. But that was no bad thing.

  “I look forward to our first meeting,” Dupin said, but Morin had already hung up. He got to his feet. Charles Morin made any particular interpretation difficult. Quite a skill.

  “Time for us to go.”

  “Good luck,” Manet said to encourage them, simultaneously signaling he understood why they had to go so suddenly.

  “We’re here when you need us, Monsieur le Commissaire. And you will,” Madame Coquil said with a smile. She wasn’t so much making an offer as making a point.

  “Indeed, Madame Coquil. We need you. No doubt about that.”

  “And don’t forget the inscription on the monument by the cholera cemetery: ‘The soldier who never surrenders is always in the right.’”

  Goulch and Riwal had also gotten to their feet.

  Dupin disappeared inside Le Tatoon to pay the check.

  A short while later he came back out onto the terrace and said good-bye to Monsieur Manet and Madame Coquil. Riwal and Goulch were already waiting for him on the quay.

  “Riwal, you take charge here on the island. Kadeg will continue to do the same in Douarnenez. Keep in touch regularly, and if you come across anything new.” Riwal gave a routine nod. “And give Nolwenn a ring. I want to know what’s up with Morin’s paternity. She should do whatever she can to find out about it.”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  Riwal set off, turning left into the labyrinth of alleyways, acting as if he knew the place like the palm of his hand.

  “One more thing, Riwal, just briefly.” Dupin took a few paces after the inspector.

  “The butcher from Le Conquet”—Dupin was unintentionally speaking softly—“the one who saw seven graves, of which five rather than four were in one row”—he tried to speak in a louder voice—“whatever happened to him?”

  Riwal looked at him worriedly for a moment, so that Dupin was already regretting having asked the question.

  “He fell out of the boat he’d gone fishing in. In a calm sea and good weather. Dead. His heart. Despite there being no previous history or warning signs. Just like that.”

  Dupin’s eyes widened, even though he had tried to restrain any reaction. He shook himself. It was ridiculous. Now he was paying attention to ghost stories. Fantastic fables come from crazy superstition.

  “You…” Riwal hemmed and hawed. “… you need to watch out, boss. I mean, watch out particularly carefully, twice or three times as much as normal, if you’re going to Île Tristan.”

  Dupin stared at him.

  “You’ve just heard: Dahut, the daughter of King Gradlon, is now a ghostly siren in the bay of Douarnenez. If you think you see something odd in the waves, some strange form in the spray, under no circumstances take another look. Her gaze drags you into the sea after her.”

  But before Dupin could say anything, Riwal had vanished amidst the houses.

  * * *

  “The boat was right at the end of the Quai Nord.”

  Goulch was striding out decisively as they headed toward the harbor area between the two quays, where the huts belonging to Céline Kerkrom and Laetitia Darot stood.

  “Are you aware—” Dupin’s cell phone rang again. A Rennes number.

  “Yes?”

  “Xavier Controc. Affaires Maritimes. Head of fisheries department. Commissaire Dupin?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’d like to tell you about something in complete confidence. I think it might be of importance, even if it’s not related to this case.”

  Dupin had automatically stopped in his tracks.

  “But first I need you to swear not to utter a single word to anyone about this. Can you do that?�
��

  “Go ahead.”

  “This afternoon we are going to carry out a major ‘joint services action’ in the Parc Iroise, controls at sea. We will be taking part alongside a unit from the Gendarmerie Maritime, and Ifremer, the Institut Français de Recherche pour l’Exploitation de la Mer. We’re investigating apparent breaches of the catch regulations for red lobsters. Are you familiar with the matter?”

  Dupin was already familiar with almost every possible subject connected to the fishing industry; not that one, however.

  “It’s a local type of lobster, found primarily in the Chaussée de Sein, which was nearly driven to extinction through overfishing in 2006. On that occasion they introduced a total ban on fishing for the species, which led to something of a recovery. But the ban is still in effect, and there are some who think they no longer need to heed it.”

  “Is your operation aimed at anybody in particular?”

  “In theory, no, but there are one or two who we believe are ignoring the ban. Over the past few weeks, some boats refused to let inspectors carrying out spot checks come on board.”

  “Charles Morin’s boats?”

  He hesitated. “There are several boats involved, but yes.”

  They seemed to be taking it seriously. Even the chief of police in Douarnenez, with whom Nolwenn had spoken, apparently didn’t know about this, or at least hadn’t mentioned it.

  Dupin had remained standing on the spot. “So who knows about this operation?”

  “Only a few staff of each organization involved. From yesterday, of course, the control boats and their crew.”

  “And what happens if infringement of the ban is proved to be happening? I mean, what are the stakes here?”

  “A few of them were caught at it last year. This time around, for a repeat infraction, there could be fines of up to fifteen thousand euros, or in an extreme case a jail sentence. Up to six months. That’s when it gets serious.”

  “And the boats undertaking the operation are authorized to take control against the will of the captains?”

  “Absolutely. We have permission from the courts.”