‘Yes?’
‘Do you have a light?’
She was nonchalantly, suggestively, dangling a cigarette in the space – in the maybe thirty centimetres of air – that lay between her lips and his. In the background, the Italian man was looking over, no longer laughing. Was he jealous?
‘I’m sorry but no I don’t.’
By the time the girl had moved on in search of greener pastures, he discovered his beer had arrived.
A beer had rarely tasted so good.
Later, after he’d polished off the sarcives and the beer, it was time to go. Time to get to work. Before he got up, he looked at the label on his beer bottle with its dodo bird logo. And compared it to an ad for the same beer on a nearby wall: ‘Le Dodo Lé La!’ – Creole for “The Dodo Is Here!”. Wasn’t the dodo from Mauritius? But he guessed that once you’d achieved the dubious honour of becoming extinct, anyone had a right to claim you, it was open slather.
All too often, things are not as they first appear (a fact Ruart was frequently reminded of in his particular line of work), and a quick internet search on his phone revealed that the bird depicted on the beer label was supposedly the white dodo, a bird which, until recently, was thought to have once existed on Réunion. It was, however, now considered that such a belief was unfounded: another theory blown, another good story ruined.
Maybe the Diamond Moon was another white dodo? Maybe it had never been here either?
* * *
A twenty minute, twenty kilometre taxi ride west along the Route du Littoral, hugging the island’s northern edge, under a long wall of volcanic cliffs (the ones with the pool on them), delivered him to the town of Le Port on the Pointe des Galets and the yachting marina there, the Port de Plaisance.
The Port Captain’s office, with a design supposedly inspired by the Sydney Opera House, was a small, white, sail-shaped building, feebly embraced by a clump of palm trees, along with some casuarinas and screw pines, the latter being ubiquitous on the island. Actually Ruart knew all about the common screw pine because he’d read about it on the plane – it was a type of pandanus (pandanus utilis), discovered by a French naturalist, Baron Jean-Baptiste Geneviève Marcellin Bory de Saint-Vincent (1778-1846), who was forced to leave his ship due to illness in Mauritius while sailing with Nicolas Baudin’s expedition to Australia in 1801. Bory de Saint-Vincent – who was even at the battle of Austerlitz (1805) – was one of the first naturalists to attempt a biogeographical classification of the oceans.
Ruart loved these kinds of facts, these pieces of pure information, with little if any room for argument. He lapped them up like a thirsty dog at a water bowl. He was frequently accused of being a slave to the facts (by his colleagues at the Préfecture and his wife Marine in roughly equal measure), and he always took it as a compliment.
And it wasn’t just raw facts he liked, but connections between them. Connections and coincidences. He liked, for example, the Australian connection, such as the marina office being linked to the Sydney Opera House, and the plants near it being first identified by a naturalist on his way there. An insignificant coincidence to most people, but not to him. After all, all coincidences could at least theoretically be explained (they coincided for a reason, even if that reason wasn’t always known or even knowable) and all were interesting by the very fact that they were coincidences, that is, there was a link between two apparently unconnected things which was yet to be uncovered. Because you first had to look at what is meant by the word “coincidence” – and the word was the same in French and English (which was no “coincidence” because the English word came directly from the French – this was a perfect example of an apparent coincidence which was not a coincidence at all, once you were equipped with all the facts). A coincidence in the true sense was more than merely a “co-incidence” of events: there was a sense of there being similarities so close to make it all too improbable, too flukey; a sense of there being something mysterious connecting the events which was not yet obvious. According to the dictionary definition, a coincidence was “a chance occurrence of apparently connected events”. This was curious to Ruart as in his view there was no such thing as chance: it only looked like “chance” when you didn’t understand how it happened. And once you understood that nothing ever happened by chance, that everything happened for one reason or another, then coincidences were merely mysteries to be solved. The real question was never “is this a mere coincidence or is there a link?” but rather “what is the nature of the link between these two events, and is it relevant to anything I want to know about?”. And thus, in Ruart’s opinion, the true definition of a coincidence was really “the occurrence of two or more apparently connected events, the link between which is yet to be explained”. And a coincidence that turned out to be a link that was relevant to an inquiry he was making, Ruart thought of as being “sparky”. He was always, in his job, looking for “sparky coincidences”.
As it turned out, a sparky coincidence was just around the corner.
Literally. Because as soon as they’d arrived at the marina office, and he’d instructed the driver to wait, and stepped out of the vehicle into the heat, and squinted at the glary tropical sky above and walked around to the front of the building…. there was the guy with the ponytail again, the potbellied Italian in the green and white frangipani shirt. He was walking out of the office building and although he wasn’t looking in Ruart’s direction at first, at the last possible moment he turned his head and glanced over – it was more of a smirk actually, and was one of those looks that seemed to suggest he knew Ruart was there all along. Coincidence? It was a small island, sure, but not miniscule. Ruart was seeing sparks.
He wiped away a film of sweat that was already beginning to form on his forehead and watched the man as he sauntered off, a spring in his step as he lit a cigarette. He almost expected the guy to launch into an aria, he looked that cheerful. He wondered where his companions were, the two girls, and imagined they were on his yacht – he looked like the yacht-owning type – and Ruart was about to follow discreetly when the guy suddenly stopped and greeted someone who gave the impression of appearing from nowhere.
It was a man in a suit – creased, as though he’d just emerged from a long-haul international flight and he could well have, as Réunion was a long-haul flight away from just about everywhere. He wore clear, rectangular glasses, and there was a certain paleness, and a certain corpulence about him (was he English?). The suit, apart from being creased, was charcoal grey which, frankly, in this climate looked just a little bit ridiculous. A little sad-looking, too: it was cut a fraction too short for its wearer. He was obviously not French: in France, such a fraction was an infraction. The blue and grey checked socks and brown suede shoes most certainly didn’t help. At least the man was tieless, his one apparent concession to the tropical climate.
The Italian was animated, even more so now than before, and greeted this non-descript character as though he were his long-lost brother. The man in the suit, though, was far more subdued and didn’t even raise a smile, treating the Italian, Ruart thought, like he was a long-lost pain in the neck, and this appeared to have the effect of dousing the Italian’s enthusiasm somewhat. At one point it seemed as if they were aware of his presence – the suit looked around in his direction, briefly, before the Italian seemed to subtly manoeuvre him to face the other way again. Was it simply his imagination, this conspiratorial atmosphere, or was there something behind it? When the two men eventually began walking away, the suit turned around one more time. Was it to look at the marina office with its Opera House design, or to look at Ruart, to see if he was following?
The really strange thing was that moments after the man in the suit had disappeared again, he couldn’t remember his face. Not at all, not for the life of him. As hard as he tried, nothing. A blank. And of all people, Ruart, a policeman! A facial identification session – had he been conducted through one, even straight afterwards – would have resulted in nothing but embarrassm
ent. He decided to put it down to the heat and jetlag. Or sleep-deprivation, whatever you wanted to call it. He was slipping, though, definitely losing his edge. He promised himself to lift his game from now on. Be more “on the ball” as they say in English.
In any event, he decided to let the two men go, whoever they were. He, for one, was pleased he wasn’t in his suit (he hadn’t even brought one, this time, it not being an official trip), and he was not at all unhappy with his choice of mustard shorts, black polo shirt and sky blue leather boat shoes. A slight breeze puffed in from the sea and rustled the hairs on his legs as he turned and made his way out of the sun and into the building with the sails - a design that made it look like it could have been a church for those who preferred to worship at the altar of the god of the winds.
Once inside, he removed his sunglasses and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, slicking it down, and in the process inadvertently flashing his Breitling watch (a prized acquisition and his favourite accessory, it was the Superocean 44 model with steel band, black face, automatic and water resistant to two thousand metres). He was greeted by a man who claimed to be the clerk of the Port Captain’s Office, a cheerful local who was overflowing with enthusiasm or, as the English would put it, “as keen as mustard” (moutarde, like Ruart’s shorts), especially after Ruart had indicated he was from the Préfecture de police in Paris and was making some discreet inquiries – and of course, a policeman in Paris is a policeman in Réunion, another wonderful thing about this island paradise! Yes, for sure, the smiling clerk was only too willing to help, and yes, he had heard of the Diamond Moon or, hang on, wasn’t it the Golden Moon? but yes, a superyacht had visited recently, yes, maybe a month or two ago. As far as this man could remember though, there hadn’t been room in the marina – the yacht had been too big, it was fifty metres for the love of God – and it had been moored near the naval base in the commercial section of the harbour, the Commandant should make inquiries there.
So it was back in the taxi, and they passed through streets with names such as Rue Walt Disney and Rue Charles Dickens (as if he’d landed in some kind of fantasy land), and as they did, he was doing all he could to not think about his sister Constance and what she had suffered at the hands of Dominique Drayle. But this was impossible, he was only on Réunion to find Drayle, he was thinking about Drayle the whole time, how could he not think about that terrible night the previous April? Palm trees and sun-drenched warehouses were sliding by outside, but the images began again, the cold night-time darkness inside the Paris apartment, the door slamming shut with the violence of an explosion, the screams that caused the neighbours to call the police…
Mercifully, this time, the familiar sequence was cut short as the taxi pulled up outside their destination, a plain brick building painted white, with a small sign outside indicating the harbour master was out between the hours of 1pm and 3pm. His Breitling told him it was still only ten to one. The front door was, however, firmly locked, with no-one visible inside. He grumbled to himself. Clearly these Creoles operated in their own time zone, and a flexible one at that.
36. 20° 56' 6" S 55° 17' 4" E
(Le Port, Réunion)
12.55pm Réunion Time (08:55 UTC)
Saturday, 19 October
‘The Diamond Moon? I’ll say! The superyacht, right? Silver. It was here all right, last month. The first week of last month. First week of September.’
Ruart had just struck it lucky.
‘And how do I know that?’ the man continued. ‘Because some bastard on that boat stole my coffee machine. A beautiful Marzocco, handmade in Florence.’
After he’d given up on the harbour master, he’d noticed a street vendor just down the road selling coffees and croissants to the passing sailors and tradesmen and office workers. He was working out of a converted Renault Scenic – he’d cut away the back section and substituted a tray holding all his equipment and food – and he’d distributed a number of stools around for people to sit on. It was quite a social scene, the customers looked like they were from the four corners, mostly men but one or two young women: there were Creoles, Africans, Chinese and Europeans, including a couple of French sailors. The host himself looked like a mix of all of them, but spoke perfect French and with a mainland accent too – he could have just arrived from Paris himself. Ruart had got talking with him on the off chance he’d seen anything. Just went to show, it was always worth asking.
‘I paid a visit to Théo,’ the man was saying, ‘…that’s Théophile, the harbour master… it was for no time, half an hour at the most, and when I came back, it was gone and that stinking boat was sailing out of the port. With my coffee machine! It had to have been them, who else could it have been? And there was no point in telling the police, they’re just a bunch of lazy slackers, and it was out of their jurisdiction anyway, and the Navy… They’re worse! You’d think I’d be well protected here, next to the base, but no, not at all! No! God help us if there’s a war.’
Ruart nodded.
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not one of them are you? From the yacht?’
‘Laurent Ruart. I work at the Préfecture de police in Paris. One of those slackers you mentioned.’
The man ignored the jest and held out his hand. ‘Éric.’ They shook hands and Éric started making another coffee for a customer, talking to Ruart at the same time. ‘So are you chasing them? What are they wanted for?’
‘Did you see the crew?’ Ruart countered. ‘Get a good look at any of them?’
Éric didn’t reply, busy with his coffee.
Was he thinking?
‘Or… what about where they were headed. The Diamond Moon. Do you know its next port?’
The barista still said nothing. Poured out the coffee he was working on, threw a croissant on a china plate, saw off another happy customer, until he finally came over and spoke in a low voice.
‘There are many pairs of ears here, my friend. It wouldn’t do for me to be known as a talker, you know? You understand? I will tell you what I know, but first, you tell me something Inspector. What’s your interest in this?’
‘Let’s just say we have a particular interest in the man we believe to be the boat’s owner. Dominique Drayle.’
‘What’s he supposed to have done?’
Those images again, flashing into his head. Constance…
‘We want to question him about a lot of things.’
‘Such as?’
Ruart looked at him for a moment. ‘Theft, rape, murder, armed insurrection… the questioning won’t be short.’
Éric nodded and again looked around to see if anyone was listening. In a slightly exaggerated way, it seemed. Was he for real?
‘If we ever find him,’ Ruart added.
‘OK, well listen.’ Éric looked as though he was weighing something in his mind. ‘The Préfecture in Paris, you say?’
He began making another coffee, although no-one had asked for one. He unhooked the portafilter and belted it down hard on a narrow wooden bin to empty the used coffee. Took a scoop of ground coffee and refilled the portafilter. Packed it down and wiped off the excess. Purged the machine with two short sharp hisses. Reinserted the portafilter.
‘First up,’ Éric said finally, ‘Théo won’t help you. The harbour master. He’s a stickler that one. Have you got a warrant? Anyway, lips like a clam, he has a strange sense of loyalty to anyone who sails into his port. He’d go to the guillotine before he blabbed. Even if you were to offer him money.’
He cast a little look at Ruart and then retrieved the espresso from the machine and handed it to him. ‘On the house.’
Even though the house was a car.
Ruart sipped on his coffee and waited for Éric to continue. Let his eyes follow the line of the side of the mountain in the distance… a ridge rising gradually, and draped in a seemingly innocent meringue of cloud, pretending to be moving along but going nowhere and spreading darkness. And further along, etching a shadow of its own, a j
agged crack in the foothills, a crooked valley into the mountainous interior. There was something forbidding about it. A hidden abyss. Sadak In Search Of The Waters Of Oblivion.
‘The yacht you’re after was sold,’ Éric said suddenly.
‘Sold?’
‘While it was here in Réunion. To a man called Bob. An Australian.’
Australian? More sparks.
‘Can’t remember the surname. Wait…’ Éric leaned over the tray of the Renault and pulled out a wooden box full of business cards. Handed one to Ruart. ‘That was him. Bob… Walman. Yeah, he was here, ordered about five coffees. Big man. And very happy with his purchase, he was telling everyone.’
The card said “Bob Walman, Executive Chairman, Kensington Mines” followed by his contact details in Perth, Western Australia.
So why hadn’t he heard about this sale? The Préfecture had their ‘man in Saint-Denis’ – they were never going to rely on the local police, Éric was right, they were “slackers” – so how had their man missed it? Éric seemed to read his mind.
‘They kept it quiet. I am not sure if even Théo knew. It was a quick sale, boom, and then it was gone again. With my Marzocco!’
Ruart looked at the replacement. Looked pretty good, but not, it was true, a Marzocco.
‘So Bob stole your coffee machine?’
‘No no no. Not Bob. He didn’t sail it away. Bob flew back to Australia after the sale. The same people who arrived in the Diamond Moon also sailed away in it.’
‘Even though the yacht was no longer theirs?’
Éric shrugged. ‘I assume Bob paid them for it. Charter basis. He told me he was picking it up again in… now where was it…?’
And again Éric struck a pose, it was one of those exaggerated theatrical gestures – this time it was forefinger to his chin, eyes to the sky, looking like he was thinking. And then a quick look at Ruart to make sure he was catching it. Was he pretending to think? Or did he want Ruart to know he was pretending? What game was he playing? Did he want money? He’d already made a reference to it, when he was talking about the harbour master. Was that it?
Dark Oceans Page 17