The Killing Tide Read online

  “There are two groups of great porpoises in the Parc Iroise. About fifty around the Île de Ouessant, and another twenty around the Île de Sein. The Parc Iroise also has various different types of dolphins, little porpoises, blue dolphins, and roundhead dolphins. The dolphins are very important to the scientists in the parc: we still know very little about their highly evolved social relationships, their remarkable intelligence. In addition, the condition of the dolphins is an important indicator of the ecological conditions in the parc, the quality of the water…”

  “Did the two women know each other?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “When was the dolphin researcher killed?”

  “We don’t know that yet either.”

  “That’s completely crazy.”

  Dupin had only just begun to deal with one murder. “This means we need to go out to the island together. Me too.”

  “I’m afraid so, boss.”

  There was no way for Dupin to avoid it.

  “The sea is still going to be a bit rough,” Riwal said. Dupin knew that all too well, but was aware that there were more important things at the moment. Even so. For the past few days, up until midday yesterday, there had been a storm. But today was summer. High summer. The water in the bay was beautifully calm, but—he was no longer a newbie in Armorica, “the land by the sea”—it would still be seriously choppy farther out.

  “Unfortunately we can’t use the helicopter. The prefect is using it, on the four-day simulation exercise for a—”

  “That’s enough, Riwal.”

  Dupin knew he would only get worked up. It was always the same. Whenever they needed the helicopter, the prefect was using it. This time the prefect had announced weeks ago that there was going to be a practical simulation of something that for Dupin personally was a particularly dubious issue.

  “We can go out from here in a police boat, or…” Riwal checked the time, “or take the regular ferry from Audierne, we could make that, we’re twenty minutes from the stop.”

  Dupin gave him an inquisitive look.

  “The ferry would be much more comfortable. It sits deeper in the water and is more stable. But we need to leave right now.”

  Dupin liked the word “regular” when he needed to go out on the water.

  “Are there any of our colleagues there already? Is there a gendarmerie on the island?”

  “No. But the deputy mayor takes care of everything. He’s also the island doctor and president of the national lifeboat organization.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “There’s a police boat already on its way. From Audierne.”

  “It’s a shorter distance from Audierne than from Douarnenez?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll take the ferry. The regular one. We can set off right now. In your car. Call the ferry company and tell them to wait for us. Kadeg can take over here. Tell him our priorities. He’ll call for reinforcements.”

  With that Dupin set off, Riwal following him.

  The whole thing was absurd. Two slit throats within a few hours—that was no coincidence. Both victims were women and both came from the Île de Sein, had to do with the sea. Obviously it was one and the same case. Dupin was in no doubt.

  * * *

  The swells were three meters high at the dock, up to five meters a bit farther out—long, forceful, rolling waves with astonishing troughs—and now that they were past the last piece of land, the Pointe du Raz, the waves reached as high as seven or eight meters. And they had nine kilometers more of open sea until they reached the island.

  The classic blue-and-white Enez Sun III—the island’s name in Breton—was neither as long or as big or as solid as Dupin had imagined it from Riwal’s description. The promised “much more comfortable” and “more stable” were unnoticeable. The regular ferry flew upward toward the sky in challenging leaps and turns only to fall deep into the waves the next moment.

  It was complete chaos. Up and down like the scariest roller coaster. But not just the one up-and-down movement, but lots of other movements too, all completely different, and what made it worst of all, they were all simultaneous: backward and forward, a sudden drop, a slithering and sliding. Neither body, soul, nor senses could find a rhythm. And on top of this horrible sensation the whole body was subject to the unbearable vibration of the entire boat, produced by the motor, situated right beneath the commissaire. And the deafening noise.

  Dupin tried to fix his gaze on the horizon. Everyone said that helped. It was just unfortunate that Riwal and he hadn’t found seats on the upper deck—the ship had waited twelve minutes for them, and they had to stand on the open deck at the rear, two meters above the theoretical water level, from where the horizon wasn’t visible because it was regularly obscured by mountains of water. The ship was absolutely booked up with day-trippers and island dwellers who had been on the mainland overnight.

  They would have to remain standing for the whole journey, and not even in the middle of the deck where it might have been just a little bit better, in that the sideways slipping and sliding wasn’t quite so bad. But a fat couple with a tiny dog and masses of luggage had made themselves comfortable there.

  Dupin wondered if the police boat might have been the lesser evil. But it was too late now.

  He was reminded of a story that Nolwenn had told him about how the Romans had referred to Brittany as the end of the world and all life. Finis terrae, they had called it, meaning the Atlantic. The Atlantic had literally been the end for them, the end beyond the end, the ultimate landfall, the mer extérieure, that had nothing to do with the harmless civilized Mediterranean, the mer intérieure. “It’s completely different,” Caesar had noted in his last decisive sea battle against the Gauls, “traveling across an enclosed sea to going out into an immeasurable ocean, a sea without end that is an end in itself.”

  Dupin had the feeling that his whole body was a swaying movement. He needed to distract himself. Riwal was standing on the other side of the deck with a provocatively jovial expression on his face, looking out delightedly at the gigantic waves.

  It might be best if they talked over a few things.

  Carefully, feeling his way for a handhold, Dupin worked his way over to the other side of the deck, some five meters in all.

  “Ah, boss”—Riwal’s tone of voice had changed—“a wonderful trip. You know what the fishermen say: ‘whoever sees Sein, sees his end,’ or ‘God help me survive the crossing from Raz, the boat is small and the sea is big.’ We’re making one of the wildest, most dangerous crossings there is. Strong currents, swirling seas and swells, the sea on the ‘Bay of the Dead.’ Majestic soaring crags for kilometers all along the route.”

  It wasn’t exactly the distraction Dupin was hoping for. Riwal went on unperturbed. “From 1859 to now there have been one hundred and seventy shipwrecks officially recorded here. In reality it was more like three times as many! You need precise high-tech navigation technology here, and even that doesn’t always help. Take a look: jagged rocks everywhere. It’s as if some lazy giant had sat on the Cap du Van and tossed rocks into the sea for fun, like kids do with pebbles.”

  It was a pretty image, but it only made things worse.

  “Even the devil had a problem reaching the island, boss. The story of his failed attempt explains why the sea is so wild here. Just the introduction makes it clear that it was inevitable.

  “The devil demanded the souls of the islanders. So he had to deal with Saint Guénolé, who had promised the islanders he would build a bridge to the mainland. To reach the island the devil first disguised himself as a man. But the boat caught fire because of his hellfire hooves. Then the devil thought up a fiendish ruse: he would persuade Guénolé to build a bridge for him. That put Guénolé on the spot: if he didn’t build the bridge he would be breaking his sacred oath, which was a serious sin, and the devil would take his soul. And those of all the islanders too, because Guénolé wouldn’t be able to carry out h
is missionary work amongst them. In desperation Guénolé asked God for help, and God used his mighty breath to blow on the sea and create a bridge of ice. The devil thought he had won and quickly ran onto the bridge. But it melted beneath his feet and he fell into the tossing waves. Failed again.”

  As far as Riwal was concerned the punch line had fallen surprisingly flat.

  “The heated water between the mainland and the island—here, in other words,” the inspector waved an arm over the railing, “turned into a giant maelstrom that prevented the devil from getting any farther and saved the island from him. Even today the fishermen cross themselves in thanks when they pass the Pointe du Raz. The spot where the devil fell into the sea is called the ‘hell of Plogoff’ and is marked on all maritime maps.”

  A crazy story, Dupin had to admit. But even that wasn’t distraction enough.

  “Call the prefecture in Quimper, Riwal. Ask if there have been any other murder cases in Brittany recently where the victim has had their throat cut.”

  “Have you got an idea, boss?” Riwal was suddenly disturbed. “Are you thinking…” he hesitated, “… we might have a serial killer?”

  “I’m just checking, only checking.”

  The expression on Riwal’s face indicated he regarded Dupin’s answer as disconcerting.

  “On our right here we have the two mythical lighthouses Tévenneg and Ar Groac’h.” Now it was Riwal who seemed to be looking for distraction. “You might glimpse one of them amidst a dip in the waves. Just two bare, rough rocks in the middle of the sea. They built towers on them. Great architectural achievements. Unfortunately, Tevenneg is cursed. The last lighthouse keeper fled in panic in 1910. Today it’s run by remote from the Île de Sein. Do you know what lighthouse keepers call solitary towers in the sea? Hell. Those on the islands they call Purgatory. And those on the mainland, Paradise.”

  They were on their way to further an investigation into a capital crime, a brutal murder, the second within a few hours; “Hell” seemed the right word for their excursion to Dupin.

  “Above all, we have to find out what link there was between the two women, Riwal. That’s what we need to work out.”

  “I imagine we’ll find out something on that when we get to the island.”

  Dupin was concentrating on something Riwal had said at Douarnenez harbor. Going back over things in his head, reworking them, was one of the commissaire’s oblique but effective skills.

  “You mentioned that the state of the dolphins’ health was an indicator of the quality of the water, and other factors about the sea.”

  “Indeed.”

  Obviously Riwal was waiting for a conclusion that would let him understand why the question had been asked. Instead Dupin simply changed the topic.

  “Do the ferries only go from Audierne?”

  “One ferry. The Enez Sun III. Which is what we’re on now. In July and August there are others, one of them from Douarnenez even. For the rest of the year there’s just this one. Forty-three meters long, eight meters across, fifteen knots top speed, double 1750 horsepower. She belongs to Penn Ar Bed—the Celtic name, in other words the real name, for Finistère—a private company that deals with the three islands, Sein, Molène, and Ouessant, on behalf of the state. The Enez Sun III goes once a day.”

  “Only once?”

  “It leaves Audierne in the morning and leaves the island in the afternoon. That’s it.”

  “There must be other ways to get from the island to the mainland and back?”

  “If there’s a medical emergency the helicopter comes from the clinic in Douarnenez. Apart from that, no. At least no public means of transport.”

  That meant the island was very isolated from the rest of the world. A factor of some significance in their investigation.

  “Depending on when the murder occurred,” Dupin mused aloud, “the murderer could still be on the island. Either way is possible: someone who came from the island and had to go to the mainland to commit the crime, or someone from the mainland who had to go to the island.”

  Spoken out loud, it sounded stupid. Riwal took things a bit further.

  “The people who live on the island call themselves ‘islanders,’ and those on the mainland ‘French,’ which to them more or less means ‘tourist.’ Just to avoid any confusion in our investigations. Sometimes they even refer to themselves as ‘Americans.’”

  Dupin gave him a confused look.

  “Beyond Brittany, there’s only America,” Riwal replied.

  Dupin knew this wasn’t just trivia or quirkiness; things like that were important in Brittany if you didn’t want to sound like a fool.

  “In general they’re stubborn. Like the island itself. It doesn’t belong to this world, boss. It’s wonderful. France is far away, a lot farther than just the actual nine kilometers. You’ll see. A tiny dot of rocky land in the wide oceans, shaped like some long-tailed mythical creature in the face of the elemental forces of the Atlantic. Two and a half kilometers long and in some places just twenty-five meters wide, mostly flat, barely two meters above water level. During real storms gigantic waves sweep over the island, putting it totally underwater. All in all just less than a single square kilometer in area. Rough, barren, wild, lonely. I love Sein and its people.”

  Riwal sounded as if he was talking about another species. Another planet. “An island of magical forces, with an extreme aura. You’ll feel that too. Sometimes it can make you scared.” Riwal was speaking with serious respect. “In prehistoric times cults were based here, even today you find menhirs and dolmens, standing stones. One important burial mound was destroyed by greedy gold robbers. Later, according to Celtic belief, the island was the closest place to the realm of the dead and the immortals. A place of fairies, nymphs, and druids, lots of the latter buried here. You absolutely have to be prepared for a trip to Sein, boss, inwardly prepared,” Riwal said, a deep seriousness on his face.

  Dupin hadn’t the strength to tell Riwal to calm down. In any case, most of it had gone straight over his head. For one thing the boat had taken another leap, and then plunged way down again. Dupin had clung so tightly to a steel brace behind him that his wrists were aching. For another thing, he was trying as hard as he could to concentrate on the vital questions in the case.

  “How big is the crew on the police boat that’s coming from Audierne?”

  “Four men, plus the crime scene team.”

  “How many people live on the island?”

  “All year round, two hundred and sixteen, in summer some six hundred. Most tourists only stay until the ferry leaves in late afternoon. Just a few spend the night.”

  “Four police plus the two of us isn’t enough for all the people we need to talk to.” Dupin rubbed his temples. “Does the ferry have a passenger list? Do people use their names when they buy tickets?”

  “Yes, they have to, for security reasons. But if it’s the same killer in both cases, he can’t have used the ferry. If he had been on the mainland between eight P.M. and midnight yesterday, this is the first ferry he could have taken since, and the dolphin researcher was murdered either last night or early this morning.”

  Dupin’s brain wasn’t exactly working at full speed yet, he realized. He needed more caffeine.

  “But obviously there are lots of private boats as well as boats owned by companies and institutions that run to and from the island, some of them regularly. There are also specialist boats, such as the waste disposal and oil delivery boats. The ones Céline Kerkrom protested about. Then there are the tourist boats that come out dolphin-spotting, even though there aren’t that many. Or the boats used by scientists and researchers, and the Parc Iroise guards. The deceased would have had her own boat too, as one of the parc’s scientific team.”

  That meant that, despite how out of the way it was, there were lots of possible ways to get to and from the island without problems.

  “No matter, Riwal, we have to check the arrival and departure of every single boat between
yesterday morning and this morning.”

  “That won’t be easy. I’ve only listed some of the boats, and like I said, anyone here can be out in their own private boat at any time.”

  “We…” Dupin didn’t finish the sentence. The Enez Sun III had merrily ridden a particularly big wave. Piquer dans la plume, the Breton seagoing folk called it: “riding the feather.” The white horse of the breaking wave.

  Dupin breathed deeply in and out.

  He had forgotten what he wanted to say.

  Riwal took advantage of the moment.

  “The story about the Île de Sein that has most resonance is by a Roman writer who visited the island about the year 20 AD. He writes about a Celtic goddess’s oracle served by nine virgin priestesses who carried out ritual ceremonies. They were called the Gallicènes, and are the earliest witches ever reported. They could make the sea and the winds rise with magic spells and could transform themselves into any animal they wanted, heal the sick and the dying. Or tell the future. Truth seekers from all over the world came to them, just like us.” Riwal wasn’t joking, that much was clear. “One of them was Morgan le Fay.” The inspector said the name as if she was a friend. “The one you know from the King Arthur saga. It was on Sein that the nine priestesses were supposed to have healed Arthur from a wound suffered in battle: Avalon!”

  Dupin didn’t react. He was deep in thought.

  “Riwal, call the Parc Iroise and find out about the incident with the dolphins.”

  “Are you thinking of something in particular?”

  “No. Ask them about irregularities in the quality of the water. Pollution, if there is or has been any.”

  “Straightaway, boss. Nolwenn is dealing with Charles Morin. I’ve spoken to her. She’ll do her research thoroughly and she’s organized a meeting with him. She’s also spoken to the prefect, and told me to tell you she’s put him in the picture.”

  “Very good. Do you happen to know what Nolwenn is doing in Lannion?”

  “An aunt.”

  “She has an aunt in Lannion?”