The Killing Tide Read online

  It was Nolwenn. She sounded clearly unhappy and—unusually for his assistant—tense, stressed.

  “It’s goddamn useless, Monsieur le Commissaire. I can’t find out anything interesting about Céline Kerkrom. Only stuff we already know. I spoke to the friend of my aunt’s”—in Brittany it wasn’t just families that built fully fledged clans across the generations, they included close friends too—“but she knew next to nothing. Céline Kerkrom was very intelligent and remarkably stubborn, she said, even more hard-necked than your average Breton. A ‘good girl.’ She was totally in shock but couldn’t help.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  It really wasn’t much.

  “There is no other family.”

  Dupin could hear voices in the background. Nolwenn was on her way somewhere.

  “And what about this Morin guy?”

  “As a matter of fact there are two accusations against him. Both relating to fishing regulations in the parc. And there’s been a whole series of them over recent years. That said, not one from Céline Kerkrom. It would seem that was just a rumor. But so far there have been no charges. Morin has a pretty wily lawyer. I’ve spoken with people in several positions. Including the chief of police in Douarnenez. He says he’s given up; nobody is likely to prove anything against Morin. They would need photographs or video, not just circumstantial evidence or witnesses who’d seen something from a hundred meters away. That is usually the problem with things at sea.”

  “What sort of accusations, and when were they made?”

  “One of them was about throwing back fish from one of his trawlers.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “It’s all to do with the so-called ‘upgrading,’ which is strictly illegal. The fishermen make a grand show of throwing back fish they’ve already caught and are already dead, to make space for better fish or cheat on the quotas. For fish that they can sell at a better price than those they caught earlier. We’re talking about huge quantities here. It’s disgraceful.”

  This was news to Dupin.

  “It’s another one of those things,” Nolwenn said. “How do you prove it? Even if you board a boat—and there’s no legal justification for doing so—and could prove that purely by chance every catch was the best it could be, which is hardly possible, even then you’d only have indirect evidence, not actual proof. And that would never work. The public prosecutor has said upgrading can only legally be proven if they are caught in the act. We urgently need a law that specifies boats must install cameras!

  “Just recently,” Nolwenn hissed between her teeth, “a deep-sea trawler on a three-week fishing trip in the North Sea was found to have thrown overboard one thousand and five hundred tons of dead herring. A ship that over the last fifteen years had received twenty million euros in subsidies. A heroic commissaire uncovered the case. A magnificent woman!”

  “Who made accusations against Morin?”

  “A young fisherman from Le Conquet. A brave man. I’ve just been speaking to him.” Nolwenn was just brilliant. “He didn’t know Céline Kerkrom personally though. There’s no evidence of any ties between them.”

  “And the other accusation?”

  “One of Morin’s fishermen has regularly been caught with too large a catch of ormeaux. He was given a small disciplinary fine. The ormeaux were sold on to Japan at a horrific price.”

  Ormeaux were a form of abalone, Dupin’s favorite shellfish, with mother-of-pearl shells and firm, white flesh to be quickly seared like an entrecôte steak, with salted butter, fleur de sel salt, and piment d’espelette pepper. Delicious.

  The commissaire tried to concentrate again.

  The opportunities for indulging in illegal practices in relation to the fishing industry seemed to be impressively wide.

  “Has Morin said anything about all this?”

  “Not as far as I know. No.”

  “The water around the Camaret harbor area was polluted with chemicals recently. Because of the stuff they use to prevent rot around the stern of the boats. Have you heard if they were Morin’s boats?”

  “Not all of them, but primarily. There’s a big installation at the end of the Quai du Styvel. In Le Conquet and Douarnenez too. The foul business with the water pollution has been going on for years, but I haven’t heard anything about it getting worse.”

  “Have you heard anything about cigarette smuggling? What does the customs office say?”

  “They were on the heels of a smuggling ring three years ago, tobacco smuggling, by sea. In fishing boats. Two of the investigators came across two of Morin’s boats involved, apparently spotted a few times on the English side of the Channel, just where they suspected there was a smugglers’ meeting point. They managed to nab the boats, but they openly found proof of smuggling through the Channel Tunnel in big trucks.” As ever, Nolwenn’s investigations had been fastidious. “Therefore they closed the investigation into Morin. Also because there were no other indications against him. As far as the customs people go, Morin has a spotless character.”

  “Well and good, but we have one more rumor to go on, Nolwenn. The murdered dolphin researcher is said to be Morin’s illegitimate daughter.”

  “Well, she certainly would have deserved a better father,” Nolwenn said, completely unperturbed. Then she took a deep sigh. “I certainly haven’t heard anything about that, Monsieur le Commissaire. But I’ll look into it. Morin is married and has no children, legitimately at least.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “His private wealth is estimated at around ten million. That makes him greedy; we Bretons say hemañ zo azezet war e c’hodelloù: he sits on his pockets.” Nolwenn treated personal characteristics like facts. “He has a spectacular property empire, most of which he inhabits himself. His main home is near Morgat, and the other houses—by which I mean those I could find out about—are in Tréboul, Saint-Mathieu, Cap Sizun, and Molène.”

  The most attractive places, spread all along the west.

  “His four deep-sea trawlers are registered in Douarnenez.” Nolwenn had switched her voice to a staccato reporting style, as if she was in a rush again. “His other boats are seven bolincheurs of the twenty licenses for the parc, and three chalutiers spread between Le Conquet, Douarnenez, and Audierne.”

  Dupin had noted it all down.

  “You’re meeting him today at four.” She hesitated slightly, which was unlike her, then added, “If that suits you. Otherwise I can rearrange it.”

  “I’ll see how long I need here. First of all I need to see the head of the parc, then I need to talk to the harbormistress again.”

  Nolwenn was silent. That was unusual too.

  “The harbormistress,” Dupin said, “wanted to know where Céline Kerkrom had been fishing over the past few weeks.”

  “Have you any idea why?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “I’ll send you, Riwal, and Kadeg all the telephone numbers you need right now. Those of all the people involved.”

  Dupin was only half listening.

  “One more thing, Nolwenn.” He was glad to have remembered the fact, he had almost forgotten. “There’s a court case currently under way against a bolincheur charged with illegally catching two tons of pink gilthead bream. I want to know who it was and whether or not he belongs to Morin’s fleet.”

  “Fine. I’ll come back to you—until then, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

  Dupin jumped in. “Nolwenn?”

  “Monsieur le Commissaire?”

  “Is everything okay?” The rumble of voices in the background had got louder. “Where are you actually?”

  “We need a few more signatures, we’re working on it now.”

  “Signatures?”

  “You know the economics minister in Paris has signed off on the demolition of the sandbank in the bay. A scandal! My aunt Jacqueline is the local head of the Peuple des Dunes, one of the local opposition groups. We need to get mobilized ag
ain and I’m helping them out.”

  Dupin let it go.

  Nolwenn had explained everything as if it were all a matter of course. She had made it clear that further questions would not be welcome.

  Lannion had been a big issue throughout Brittany for weeks now. The anger was simmering, and with good reason: since the beginning of the year there had been big demonstrations and other acts, but none of it had done any good. Dupin had read a long interview in Ouest-France with a professor of biology. A company had got an agreement with the French central government to extract vast quantities of valuable sand, and shell-containing sand used as a construction material, from the bay of Lannion. Or to put it another way, which was the truth, to destroy an underwater landscape which was both geologically and biologically unique: a gigantic underwater sand dune, four cubic kilometers in size, Trezen ar Gorjegou. Both the smallest and the biggest fish, sea mammals and birds, all of them depended on the plankton produced en masse in the area; all the sea life relied on it. The entire biological equilibrium of the marine region would be seriously damaged, with severe consequences also for the smallest coastal fisherfolk, who were already struggling to keep going. The most cynical part of it was it had been decided to halt the process between May and August, so as not to disturb the tourists. In his last case Dupin had had to deal with the sand-stealing phenomenon in which a criminal firm had been stealing sand illegally; to have it done here—by a company sanctioned by the state—would be more monstrous still.

  Nolwenn was in full flow: “We’re inviting the whole world to the biggest-ever climate and environment conference, presenting ourselves as the barbarians.”

  Dupin heard frenetic hand-clapping in the background, loud cries of support.

  “Just like the ban on deep-sea fishing that France blocked in the European Union!” More loud applause in the background. “And why do people let this happen? Because people don’t see the damage underwater. People only realize the catastrophic consequences later when it’s long been too late.”

  Enthusiastic cheers broke out. It seemed Nolwenn was part of a large crowd.

  If Dupin understood correctly, Nolwenn would be working on this case from behind the barricades. But that wouldn’t hinder her amazing work, and the commissaire would be busy with other aspects of the situation.

  “You’re absolutely right, Nolwenn.”

  He had to say something, and in any case, it was true.

  “You need to get involved too, Monsieur le Commissaire, if you think like that. But back to the case, we have no time to lose. I’ll call back, like I said.”

  A second later she had put down the phone.

  Dupin had to get his head together. It was all getting very complex.

  Riwal had used the time during Dupin’s phone call to make his own.

  “I’ll be there straightaway, see you soon,” he now said. Then he turned to the commissaire. “We have an initial sketch of which boats left the island last night and which arrived this morning. Obviously only the boats that were seen. I’m going through it with colleagues.”

  “Get in touch with all of them, Riwal. Check them out.” Dupin was still thinking about Nolwenn and the barricades. He pulled himself together. “Check out all of their alibis, all of them, without exception.”

  “I’m on it, boss. Thomas Roiyou is waiting for you. The man from the oil boat. He’s sitting up front at Chez Bruno. With his two crewmen. He’s been waiting quite a while.”

  And with that Riwal disappeared.

  * * *

  The bar owner had chosen a warm, summery yellow for the façade and a bright lemon yellow for the gable of his narrow house. A neat little white wall with a green wooden door and a bright pink strip high up on the wall, a green awning out over the terrace. Chez Bruno was painted in big letters on the awning. The terrace in front of the entrance to the bar was made of faded wooden planks. There were a few round bistro tables and comfortable wicker chairs. Hard to find anywhere better to sit, with a view of the harbor, the pier, the sandbank, the sea behind them, and the wonderfully blue sky above.

  Dupin glanced at his notebook to refresh his memory and mounted the terrace steps.

  “Thomas Roiyou?” They were sitting at the corner table.

  All three of them were in worn, dirty blue overalls. The whole terrace smelled of oil. In front of each of the men were two petits cafés, an empty Fischer beer glass, and a heap of crumpled Gitane cigarette ends in a red Ricard ashtray. On the next table lay three pairs of oil-smeared gloves.

  “She wants to put me out of business on account of a couple of liters of oil.” The tall, chisel-jawed man in the middle of the threesome, with reddish-blond hair and high cheekbones, opened the conversation on an aggressive note. “It’s madness. She should busy herself with something else. I’d like to see it. I mean, they can do what they want, it’s not my island. But she can lick my—”

  “She has been murdered.”

  The man sneered at Dupin. “Oh, and you think…”

  “Where were you yesterday afternoon, last night, and early this morning, Monsieur Roiyou? And what witnesses do you have?”

  Dupin had taken an empty chair from the next table and sat himself down casually. Opposite the threesome, with their boss directly in his sights.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “I’ll be happy to ask you the same question after inviting you down to the police station.” Dupin had lowered his voice, and he pronounced his words coolly and emphatically, leaning the weight of his body into every syllable. It was a routine that rarely failed him. And didn’t here either.

  “So what?” Roiyou said, trying to calling his bluff.

  “It’ll take a whole day of your time. Possibly two, depending on the circumstances. Obviously we’ll arrange a time for you in Concarneau, maybe tomorrow morning, but you can imagine how much urgent police work there is to do in a case like this. You will have to come in and wait. And then I might have to push the schedule back and you’ll have to wait again. I’ll be very apologetic.”

  Primitive as the tactic was, it seemed to have gotten Roiyou to think about it. Which didn’t help.

  “You’re not scaring me.”

  “Have the police checked out your boat yet? If not, we’ll do it now.”

  “You can’t do that without—”

  Always the same old tune. Dupin was losing his patience. “Yes, we can. Without any search warrant. Two brutal murders have been committed just a few hours ago. You and one of the victims had a serious altercation. And apart from that, you’re behaving oddly. That’s grounds enough for reasonable suspicion.”

  Dupin was bluffing. But by now he was ready to go to extremes.

  “Last night, where were you? Between nine and midnight?”

  The man seemed to be thinking again. If you could say that. But not for long. “At that time I’m asleep.”

  In principle it might be true: his day clearly had a very different rhythm. As did the whole fishing world, and the sea.

  Even so.

  “Who can confirm that? That you were asleep at that time?”

  “My old lady?”

  “And this morning?”

  “We left Audierne at six in the morning and got to the island at five past seven.”

  The dolphin researcher had probably been murdered between six and seven, according to the island doctor. But it might also have been a little later.

  “The oil transporter was already waiting for us. Everything here takes its time. We refilled the tanks twice. When transport headed out to the lighthouse the first time, we hung around the boat.”

  “Were you and your men together the whole time?”

  “I think so.” It was one of the men with a sunbeaten face who replied. Both of them were grinning stupidly.

  “Was there anyone else with you?”

  “Just the driver. Or do you mean somebody else?”

  More grinning.

  “How long was he away,
taking the first load to the lighthouse?”

  “I’d say half an hour.”

  Dupin made a note. “We’ll check that,” he mumbled. “How long did it take for the tanker truck to fill up and set off?”

  “Ten minutes, I’d say. Tops,” Roiyou said.

  “So that would have been about seven fifteen. And he drove off immediately?”

  “Yes, what would he be hanging around for?”

  “And you had your boss in sight all the time from when you docked?” Dupin had turned his attention back to the two crewmen.

  “Yes,” they answered simultaneously, if not quite so obviously as the nodding of their heads. But it meant nothing.

  Dupin was thinking things through.

  “You could comfortably have made it to the cholera cemetery and back again in the time from when they docked.” Roiyou’s alibi was anything but convincing. “Did the truck driver see you before he set off?”

  “No idea. I was busy on the boat. Right, that’s enough.”

  Roiyou stood up abruptly. His voice was harsh and his facial expression hard. His force of movement knocked over the chair he had been sitting on, with a clatter so loud the whole island must have heard it.

  For a moment Dupin didn’t rule out the possibility that Roiyou was going to tackle him physically. The conversation had turned into more than just a verbal skirmish. Apart from anything else, the man made Dupin furious.

  “We’ll see each other very soon then.” Dupin had remained seated, not showing the slightest reaction.

  The other two men had got to their feet too. They followed Roiyou onto the quay toward the harbor.

  Dupin grabbed his phone. “Riwal, listen up. Send a few men right now onto Thomas Roiyou’s boat. They need to search it thoroughly. If Roiyou complains, tell him to call me. Ask around in the harbor and the boats of the Quai Nord if anyone saw him this morning, either on his boat or near it. And what time exactly the boat arrived. Oh, and one more thing: get the man who drives the oil truck to confirm what time he left after filling up the first time, and when he got back. And whether or not he had seen Roiyou when he set off.”