If Dupin understood properly, an operation like this could be a real slap in the face for Morin.
“Could Laetitia Darot have known about this operation?”
“The dead dolphin researcher?”
“The murdered dolphin researcher.”
“In theory it’s impossible. This has nothing to do with the parc’s scientific department.”
“Darot’s boss, Pierre Leblanc, does he know about it?”
“He’s in on the secret.”
Dupin had no firm idea, no clear plan to follow, but the whole business was of great interest.
“However, seeing as you are investigating within the parc, I thought it proper to inform you.”
“I am very grateful to you, Monsieur…” He had of course already forgotten the man’s name.
“Controc. Do you see—” Controc paused for a moment. “In the circumstances of your investigation at present, do you see any possible connection between this operation and the murders?”
“I can’t say for now,” Dupin replied honestly.
“Everybody here is very worked up about it.”
“Here too, Monsieur Controc. I suggest we keep in touch with one another in case there are any new developments.”
“Agreed.”
Dupin hung up. Goulch was waiting for him a few meters farther on. Dupin caught up with him and put him in the picture.
“They must have real grounds for suspicion. I can’t remember anything on this scale in recent years,” Goulch said. He had started walking on, and Dupin with him.
They were walking along the last stretch of the quay, mountains of colorful fishermen’s nets in big wooden boxes along the way. To their right a concrete slipway led down to the sea. Straight on led to the harbor area, with a handful of long, low, flat-roofed buildings, the storage sheds.
“You didn’t find any net on Darot’s boat,” began Dupin, returning to a point he had been mulling over. “With little bits of equipment attached?”
“Certainly not.”
The sheds were worn by the wind and the sea. There were just a few painted white, while most were bare concrete that over the years had taken on yellow or green tones. Bright orange patches of lichen. Narrow doors with tiny windows next to them. The frames of the doors and windows were painted in bright colors: turquoise, bright blue, petroleum green, sunlight yellow. Between the barracks lay buoys, anchor chains, all sorts of rusted bits and pieces.
Outside one of the barracks stood two policemen, the Gendarmerie Maritime.
These had to be the sheds belonging to Darot and Kerkrom.
Dupin slowed his pace.
“I just want to take a quick look to see if we can find this net.” For some reason the strange net was nagging at him.
Without waiting for any reaction from Goulch, Dupin went up to the policemen.
“Which is Laetitia Darot’s shed?”
“This one here, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
An extremely carefully painted door—reddish ocher. The frames of the narrow windows were deep blue. There was a small wooden bench in front, with two empty plastic boxes on top. Two old window boxes with a few wind-blown flowers still managing to be in bloom.
“The one next to it”—the policeman pointed to the door a few meters away—“belongs to Céline Kerkrom. The crime scene team have already documented everything.”
“Is it just by chance that they’re next to one another, Darot’s and Kerkrom’s?”
“Apparently.”
What else was the poor uniform to say?
Goulch had followed Dupin. “I’ll follow up again with the colleague who checked out the houses. About the net. Just to be sure.”
“Good.”
Dupin headed toward the reddish-ocher door, which was half open. He opened it wide. And walked in.
The dusty window didn’t let much light in, and the light bulb fixed to the ceiling didn’t help much. It took Dupin’s eyes a moment to adjust. There was a rather musty smell, but not unpleasant. In the right-hand corner—the room was some five meters by two and a half—lay a few buoys.
They were different shapes, most of them oblong and orange, which to Dupin looked like those used by divers. There were at least a dozen of them.
Then there was divers’ equipment on metal shelves half a meter high, which took up most of the room: bottles in different shapes, breathing apparatus, diving masks, neoprene suits. A handful of knives.
The rear part of the room was occupied by a large table with an unusual hodgepodge of objects on it: sticks of driftwood, rusty bits of metal, a largish ship screw, things that Laetitia Darot had brought up from the sea bottom, pretty shells in various shapes, dried seaweed, unusual stones.
No nets.
Not even one.
Dupin walked out again.
Goulch seemed still to be on the phone.
He would take a quick look at the other shed.
Perhaps it had been Kerkrom’s net. And for some reason or other she had kept it in Darot’s shed.
The room was the same size. But it created a completely different impression. It was impossible to say if it was random chaos or the result of what had actually been a systematic collection of things that over the years had been picked up and put down, which in the end would give an outsider the same impression.
There was a rusty old fridge directly to the right of the door, and next to it, piled up against the wall, lobster cages, fish boxes in various shapes and sizes, paddles. Then buoys, much larger than Darot’s, mostly in fire engine red, and reaching into the far corner, mountains of nets. Dupin pushed his way through them. With meshes in different sizes and colors. Dupin rooted around a bit. They looked as if they were no longer used. Amidst them were lines, lots of long lines, wrapped around logs. A bucket full of fishing hooks, a bucket of lead weights.
But nothing with little gadgets attached.
Everything seemed to belong here, nothing out of the ordinary.
Dupin turned around and left the shed. The light was so blinding, he had to hold his hand in front of his eyes.
“We have already made progress,” said Goulch, who was standing directly in front of him. “The crime scene team have been through the dolphin researcher’s house in detail, and are now on the fisherwoman’s. They definitely found no net at Darot’s. There were a couple at Kerkrom’s, but none with some sort of gadgets attached. Nor did they find a cell phone on Darot’s boat. Nor a computer or laptop. Just a battery charger. No laptop at Kerkrom’s either, and it was a big fifteen-inch notebook, from what we know by now.”
In which case the killer had been into the houses. Maybe he knew there were clues on the machines, or at least was afraid there might be. In which case maybe he had also taken other things.
“We need somebody to go through their email accounts straightaway.”
“That’s complicated, as you know. But we’re working on it.”
“Good. Okay, let’s go.”
Dupin had already set off; his voice had sounded grumpy.
He was unsatisfied. And nervous.
It wasn’t long before the shakedown on the sea was due to start, the so-called “joint services action.” That would stir things up. Maybe even throw up things to do with their case, speed things up, bring them to a head.
* * *
This boat trip was torture too. Neither the calm sea, the beautiful weather, nor Dupin’s trust in Goulch and his team changed anything. Nonetheless, there was one good thing to say: it was definitely not as bad as that morning.
They had just gone around Cape Quillien in Douarnenez Bay, and straightaway, there it was, with the sun framing it: the Île Tristan. An apparition. A secret island of adventure, a pirate island like in picture books. A legend.
Half a kilometer long, half as wide, stretched out evenly in almost an oval shape. To the west soared high, rugged rocks, dark at the bottom, turning to dark gray and then light gray. Bright sprouting vegetation that made the island
look like it might be too small and be overwhelmed by it. Tall spreading trees in every shade of green—some nobleman in the last century had imported unusual and also exotic trees and plants, and laid out a botanical garden, which had gone wild. Different types of bamboo, myrtle, araucaria. Fruit trees too: miniature red apples, plums, apples, pears, medlars.
Ancient stone walls enclosed meadows and heathland, defiant remains of a fortress, an atmospheric ruin. A fallen-down house next to an equally dilapidated pier, a small weather-worn lighthouse. There were endless unbelievable stories about the island—Nolwenn was keen to tell the story of a fearsome devil pirate—and even for Brittany the legends and historical poems were extraordinary.
“We’re steering round to the other side of the island and will dock right by the old fish cannery, which is now where the scientific department of the Parc Iroise is located. We’ll be there in two minutes. Leblanc has been informed. He’s waiting for us in his office.”
Goulch’s precise information brought Dupin back to reality.
The commissaire had made several calls on board the boat: to Riwal, Kadeg, and Nolwenn.
They had got hold of Jumeau, the young fisherman, who had grumbled but then without too much resistance given up on fishing for the day and come back to the Île de Sein. Dupin just listened to the barest details, as was his habit.
In fact, he would have been prepared to have seen him himself. He would still do that. A young lad, not unfriendly but sparse with his words; Riwal hadn’t managed to get much out of him. He had drunk a beer occasionally with Céline Kerkrom—“once a month maybe” was as precise as he could be—and chatted about this and that. “Nothing in particular.” Obviously they had bumped into one another regularly down at the harbor, and exchanged a few words, though their boats were moored far apart. He had also occasionally run across Laetitia Darot, mostly down at the harbor too, and then, Riwal had obviously asked him about their “walk” together; they would take a few steps together in the direction of her house. On those occasions they would talk about anything and everything. He had no idea what had happened, what could have led to the murder of the pair, and there was nobody who seemed suspicious to him. Dupin was convinced Riwal had done all he could to drag anything more out of him. But he knew the type.
The inspector had also spoken with Frédéric Carrière. These days the bolincheur spent the night more frequently on the island, as he was fishing in the far west of the parc. He claimed that he had been on Sein around nine o’clock, but so far no witnesses had been found. He had been in his mother’s house and he had only been seen by anyone else when he arrived at Le Tatoon. This morning, by his own account, he had been out at sea by five. Around ten he had had to go to Douarnenez for a brief appointment. Right now he was on his own boat west of the Pierres Noires lighthouse. Riwal had asked him about his row with Céline Kerkrom. Carrière had spoken about his anger openly, without seeming in any way reluctant to admit it. Their major falling-out had occurred in the auction hall in January. Kerkrom had accused him and the other bolincheurs of using catch methods that were wiping out the coastal fishers’ living. That was the conflict Manet had mentioned.
At the end of their conversation, Riwal had asked Dupin how he was, if the journey had gone “smoothly.” In reply Dupin had simply grumbled testily: “Everything’s in order.”
He had gone over the agenda for this afternoon’s interviews again with Nolwenn. She had pulled all the levers to find out what she could about Morin’s much-rumored paternity issues, setting a whole information machine in motion: amidst relatives, girlfriends, and her husband, who all wanted to hear everything, all of whom would put out their listening ears too. Concentrated particularly on Douarnenez Bay and western Finistère beyond. That was the maximum; there was nothing more anyone could do. It had always been successful in the past.
Nolwenn had of course also come up with the name of the bolincheur who had been caught with two tons of pink bream: it had indeed been one of Morin’s boats, but not Frédéric Carrière. A heavy fine had been levied, but nothing more. Dupin hadn’t asked about the protest demonstration in Lannion; it was better to leave that alone.
Obviously, the commissaire told all three about the maritime raid about to take place. They needed to be aware of it.
Riwal had handed the hairdresser and oil boat man over to Kadeg. He had spoken to the hairdresser’s “friend,” with whom the hairdresser had spent yesterday night. It had turned out, all too comically, that “the friend” was the mayor of Camaret, which raised the question why the hairdresser hadn’t said so in the first place. It would have greatly increased the credibility of his statement. Kadeg had made a few discoveries: the mayor was highly regarded on the peninsula, and in Quimper, which seemed to put the hairdresser out of the picture. On the other hand the reputation of the oil boat man, Thomas Roiyou, was pretty poor. Kadeg had heard a few unpleasant stories. Over the past few years, Roiyou had been involved in several serious scuffles, one of which had resulted in charges, curiously withdrawn a few days later with no explanation. It was a fact that nobody on the island had seen his boat before 7:05 A.M., not that that mattered much given that the boat could have lain unnoticed on the northern side of the island, by the jetty not far from the cholera cemetery, for example. He also had a tender. But two of the islanders had confirmed they had seen the whole crew—including the captain—on their boat between the oil tanker’s two trips. In which case the only time that could have mattered—according to Manet’s estimate and the forensic pathologist’s—was before they moored in the harbor. What was likely to be impossible to be sure of was his assertation that he had gone to bed early last night.
The Douarnenez side of the island came into view. They had been going along the long side of the island at the same tempo and the boat had only now begun to slow down.
They could see the long, whitewashed building of the former fish canning plant, with its sharply pointed high roof, white chimney, and bay windows, and behind it, at an angle, another long building made of stone. A little farther on, partly concealed by flowers and shrubs, was a rather dilapidated but still noble manor house, a building of substance. All the buildings lay only a stone’s throw from the water. There was a concrete quay running along the western side of the island with a pier at either end pointing toward the mainland, no more than two or three hundred meters away. A clutch of weary seagulls were dozing in front of it. Between the houses, pathways led into thick woodland, with inviting shady patches under the tall pine trees. It was a little paradise.
In this weather the island had a delightful light and contemplative aura, radiating a bright strength, not in the least reflecting the sinister world of the stories told about it; on a day like today there was no trace of a dark aura—quite the opposite. Dupin was relieved.
The boat headed for the first pier.
“Goulch, I’d like you to keep a close eye on the action taking place in the parc. Get in contact with the operational boss, confidentially of course. He needs to keep you constantly informed.”
“Consider it done. We’ll be waiting for you here. It’s too late today to get to Douarnenez by foot. The tide will be coming in.”
Dupin hadn’t thought of that.
One of Goulch’s young team leaders—none of his men were older than thirty—had climbed into the bow and was using a hook to skillfully bring the boat parallel to the pier.
A few moments later Dupin was on dry land. He had to admit he had been particularly careful getting out of the boat; he had reluctantly found himself thinking about the stupid story with the butcher.
He walked across the unkempt lawn and found himself in front of an apparently recently built entrance to one side of the building with a white placard declaring PI-Antenne Sud du Parc Naturel Marin d’Iroise.
Dupin opened the door.
“You must be the commissaire,” announced a cheerful young voice wafting toward him. It belonged to a particularly beautiful woman with fine feature
s and chestnut brown hair. She was wearing casual jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. She seemed to be expecting him. “I’m Pierre Leblanc’s assistant. We saw you dock. Come in.”
The original internal factory architecture of the building had been forced to accommodate a wholly functional layout, to fit in as many offices as possible.
The young woman was already standing on a spiral staircase leading from the entrance to the upper stories, and practically flew up it.
When they got to the third floor they found themselves in a workroom with a row of desks and large screens on one side and on the other a professional maritime map of the Parc Iroise.
“Come in!” called a deep, dynamic voice. “We need to talk urgently.” The tone was almost friendly.
A suntanned man—in his early forties, Dupin reckoned—came toward him with his hand stretched out. Short frizzy hair, almost black, a modest V-necked T-shirt, faded jeans—a surfer type. The most striking thing about him—so striking that they seemed to define his personality—were beaming pale blue eyes.
He shook Dupin’s hand, strongly, engagingly.
“She was our best scientist. Already a distinguished expert at such a young age. Nobody else was as close to the dolphins. Some people said she was one of them.” There was real tragedy but also sincere warmth in his voice.
“One thing is sure: she belonged to us, human beings, a lot less than she belonged to the dolphins.” Leblanc paused. “None of us can come to terms with what has happened. It’s terrible.”
They went into the room next door, a signally untidy room: stuffy, small gray carpet, white walls with charts, diagrams, and photos hanging all over them. In one corner was a desk with a computer and an outsized screen. On the wall opposite the door was a little table with four chairs. That tabletop too was covered with papers. The remarkable thing about the room was the extraordinarily superb view from the bay window.
“What was Laetitia Darot working on, Monsieur Leblanc?”
“Various things. As opposed to what most people think, we are still in the early days of research into dolphins. Laetitia had been primarily involved in studying dolphins’ exceptional cognitive and social facilities. Chiefly among the great porpoises that live in the parc, the Tursiops truncatus, but not just them. For example, they are capable of learning simple sign language; Laetitia properly established a friendship with certain individuals of the two populations in the parc. The dolphins had even given her a name of her own. They know one another by whistle names, you should know; even after twenty or thirty years, their memory functions excellently.”
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