The Killing Tide

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  Dupin was envious—his own memory for names lasted barely two minutes.

  “Laetitia had put all that together in one coordinated project.”

  “And this project is all stored on your computers and servers?”

  “Obviously.” Leblanc gave Dupin an inquisitive look.

  “I assume she had her own notebook, her own computer?”

  “Of course. We give all our researchers laptops.”

  “And they have their own hard drives?”

  “Yes. Running special software, programs that automatically sync their data with our cloud. And all their notes too.”

  Dupin had begun taking notes of his own, in his Clairefontaine paper notebook.

  “But she could have had data on her laptop that only she had access to? In a word processing program, for example?”

  “Absolutely. Most of the researchers also use their laptops for private matters. It’s explicitly allowed.”

  “What about email?”

  “The email runs on our client server. But it is strictly limited to professional use. Private communications have to run on private accounts.”

  “Do you know if she had a private account?”

  “Unfortunately I don’t know.”

  “We didn’t find a laptop either in her house or on her boat—could it be somewhere here?”

  “Definitely not. It was her everyday work tool.”

  “Did she have an office here?”

  “She didn’t want one. And didn’t need one.”

  So the killer had to have taken her laptop. Or got rid of it.

  “Tell me more about Darot’s research work.”

  Even if it was specialized, Dupin wanted to know more. You never knew what might turn up. He had come across deciding factors before in the most improbable subjects.

  “She was chiefly concerned with showing that with each dolphin we were dealing with a specific personality, with specific individuals with different mental and emotional attributes. More developed and closer to humans than in the case of chimpanzees. Dolphins are, after humans, the most intelligent creatures on our planet. That also applies to their neuroanatomy. Seen purely anatomically and physiognomically, the brain of a dolphin is closer to that of a human than that of any other animal.” He was getting carried away now. “Despite the fact that it evolved along an entirely different route. Laetitia had not only come closer neurologically, but over meticulous behavioral studies of individual dolphins, demonstrated wholly consistent, complex personality depictions: a distinct sense of self and awareness, including awareness of the future that permitted making plans for the future. Most important of all, they also exhibit highly nuanced emotions that lead them to behave in groups the same way humans do.

  “That was her second focus, after the question of individuality: the social life of dolphins. She studied the highly complex structured manners in which dolphins live together. They are capable of learning, and she studied how they passed on their learning, actually teaching one another. Animals released into the oceans, for example, can teach their wild fellows the artistic tricks they’ve learned in those dreadful dolphinariums: in a distant part of the Caribbean all of a sudden whole populations began swimming on their tails. Other dolphins use sponges as tools to extract little sea creatures from rocky ground—a learned trick passed on from dolphin mothers to their children.”

  Dupin was deeply impressed. But it was the dolphin researcher he was interested in, not the actual dolphins.

  “What was a standard working day like for Darot? How should I imagine it?”

  Leblanc had gone over to the bay window. Dupin followed him.

  “She spent it either on her boat or in the water. With the dolphins, one way or the other. That was her working day. Like I said, she wasn’t really interested in people. Every two weeks she came to see me and we talked over her latest discoveries.”

  “Was she the only dolphin researcher in the Parc Iroise?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about you? What is your area of research, Monsieur Leblanc?”

  “Marine ecology. I’m mainly involved in long-term studies in two areas: overfertilization and excessive acidation. Parc Iroise, like all seas, suffers from eutrophication, from phosphates leaked into the sea by industrial farming methods, which lead to the production of poisonous phytoplankton and excessive green algae. Only”—his face darkened—“to give an example of the consequences: last year in Douarnenez Bay certain types of shellfish couldn’t be fished for a hundred and fifty days because of an exaggerated concentration of toxic plankton. I’m sure you know about the consequences of the green algae.”

  The commissaire nodded.

  “Humanity’s excessive production of CO2 is acidifying the oceans, which has already had fatal consequences: one-third of all life in the sea is now threatened, countless species are already extinct. This is no alarmist futuristic scenario, but has already long been reality. Just like the tangible warming of the Atlantic, take cod for just one example: the temperature has risen so far that the fish are laying their eggs even farther north, because they need cooler water. But there isn’t enough of the nourishment they need there, so they die after hatching.”

  Leblanc rested his case on that topic.

  “Sorry.” He was speaking calmly in a deep voice once again. “We had a meeting with politicians yesterday and I’m still angry. The current reform of EU fisheries policy doesn’t go far enough, and even now we’re getting fatal decisions about quotas. The reality is that we need significant reductions in the allowed catches, and support for small fishermen along the coasts, which lies at the heart of our ideas here at the parc. But the quotas are being shared out in the same old way: the fishing barons, and their fleets with their destructive drag fishing, get the lion’s share, which leaves the small-scale fishing businesses and the independent fishers hugely disadvantaged and driven further into ruin. Just look at the quotas for trawler fishing of sole in the Channel, beginning north of Ouessant and taking in all of northern Brittany. Along with the devastating overfishing it ends up with huge waste catch.”

  “Was Laetitia Darot at this meeting?”

  “No. She hated all that.”

  “Do you think—” The monotone chirping of Dupin’s cell phone interrupted him.

  Paris.

  His mother. Unbelievable. There was absolutely no point in answering; what was he to say at this junction, except that it was getting less and less likely that he could come.

  “Do you think”—Dupin took up where he had left off, letting the phone ring—“Darot’s murder might have something to do with her work? Directly or indirectly?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “In recent weeks numerous dolphins have washed up dead.”

  “Happily none from our populations, but all the same, Laetitia was apoplectic, with anger and despair. They were probably caught up in the collateral catch of the sole fishers north of the parc. The dolphins hadn’t been dead longer than a day, the inquest said. So they must have died locally.”

  “Had Darot anything to do with the inquest?”

  “No. It was a veterinarian from the Gendarmerie Maritime.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it possible”—it was pure speculation, but still—“she could have caught out the culprit?”

  “Unlikely—and even if she had, nothing would have happened; the culprit had nothing to fear. In this year alone three thousand killed dolphins have been washed up on French shores. In the north Atlantic, on our side of the Atlantic, dolphins are at risk of going extinct.”

  “What type of nets are banned in the parc?”

  “There are six different kinds of fishing practiced in the parc. Drift nets are forbidden, dragnets and gillnets only allowed up to certain sizes. On top of that, the catch quotas for the different types of fish are strictly enforced. Those of us here at the parc are only involved in the recommendations made; the leg
al binding regulations are then decided on by politicians, and then put into law by the prefecture. We’ve been trying for years to implement a special program to make major reductions in the by-catch. We’re just beginning to have some success.”

  “If there are no legal consequences, proof that the dead dolphins in the last weeks were by-catch victims of one of the local big fishing businesses would seriously damage the owner’s reputation, and maybe also his business?”

  “You mean Morin, the so-called fisherman king?” Leblanc didn’t wait for an answer. “I should think so. But Laetitia didn’t go out to sea that often. And in any case she would have filmed it or taken photos; she would have gotten close up.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Laetitia Darot who witnessed it. Maybe it was one of the fisherfolk? Who told her about it later. Céline Kerkrom maybe? The pair of them were friends.”

  “Even that’s extremely unlikely.”

  But possible. Obviously that too was pure speculation.

  “Or”—Dupin was thinking again—“somebody had laid down the banned dragnets inside the parc, north of Ouessant. More than once. Or ignored the quotas, caught banned species of fish … And perhaps the women had systematically checked it out, documented it, over weeks, months?”

  “You think the two women might have been spying on Morin?”

  Dupin didn’t reply. Something had just occurred to him that he hadn’t mentioned yet.

  “What could be the connection of the strange net that was seen at Laetitia Darot’s—a net with little bits of apparatus attached to it?”

  The answer was prompt. “That was one of her current projects. Those little bits of apparatus were sonar devices that send out ultrasound signals to warn dolphins and other mammals. They ought to keep them from getting trapped in the nets in the first place. The parc is in charge of doing scientific tests of their effectiveness. In some parts of the world where conditions in the sea are even worse, there have already been positive results collected.”

  That was the mystery of “bits of apparatus” solved. But not the fact that the net was there and what else it could be used for.

  “And this test net is currently here with you in the parc?”

  “I think so. I can ask. Is it important?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “The parc worked together with several fishermen.” Leblanc paused for a moment’s thought. “I don’t know whether or not Kerkrom was one of them.” It sounded as if he was kicking himself for not having thought of that already. “I’ll find out right away.” He walked over to the telephone—the same ancient old office sort that they also had in the commissariat, the same ghastly green—and pressed the key for a preprogrammed number. “Mathieu, just a quick question: Laetitia’s program with the sonar devices, was the young fisherwoman from the Île de Sein, Céline Kerkrom, involved?”

  He listened for a moment, then nodded and said: “Yes, dreadful.”

  He listened again.

  “Ah, right. Thanks, Mathieu. Do you know anything about how they got on? Did Laetitia say anything to you about it?”

  A brief answer.

  “Thanks, do you still have the net?… Good. And send me a list of who else was involved.”

  He hung up.

  “That was the technical assistant in the scientific department. So, yes, she was there. Along with three other fisherfolk. From the north of the parc, where the major population of dolphins lives. Near Molène and Ouessant. You’ll have the list soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Well, that was something. An actual factual connection between the two women apart from their friendship.

  “Also the test nets are for now still with us. All four. My colleague didn’t know anything more about it, he’s not been here long.”

  “Do you think the ordinary fishermen would take to nets like that?”

  “There’d be very different reactions. The large part of the fisherfolk cooperate well with us—apart from the odd skirmish here and there—because they know that it’s in their own interest for the sea to be kept in good order. But not all of them, of course.”

  “Have there been rows over the nets?”

  “No.”

  Dupin looked out of the window.

  The view was superb. The silver shining sea; to the right Douarnenez, which looked particularly picturesque in this light. The air was so clear he could even see the broad beach of Quillien at the far end of the bay; it looked as if it were close enough to swim to it. He could see the pier, Goulch’s boat, the seagulls still snoozing. He turned round to face Leblanc.

  “If I understand rightly, you were the only one of all the staff who had regular contact with Laetitia Darot?”

  “I think so. Not that Laetitia was particularly unfriendly to the others, not at all. Quite the opposite: she was a very warmhearted, likable creature. It was just that she didn’t seek out contacts, human company just wasn’t her thing. But I know next to nothing about her private life. We had a purely professional relationship, she never told me anything about herself.”

  Leblanc pulled a sheet of paper from the printer and handed it to Dupin. “The list of the fishers involved.”

  Dupin put it in his pocket. “About the rumors that she was a love child of Charles Morin, do you know anything?”

  “Somebody mentioned it to me once. But I don’t listen to rumors; I couldn’t care less. They only say something about the people who spread them.”

  Dupin was of the same opinion.

  “She never referred to it herself?”

  “She never would have.”

  “So you don’t know anything about her family situation?”

  “No. I’ve had somebody look through her personnel files to see what information we had about her. There’s no more than date of birth, place of birth, school career. We have extensive documents only about her studies and her scientific positions. She studied maritime biology at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, passed everything summa cum laude, has excellent scientific references. She went on to work there for two years, and following that, three years in Halifax at the famed Bedford Institute of Oceanography. She’s been here now with us for three years, even when she was still living in Brest. She can hardly have had much time for a private life; she was already spending most of the time with her dolphins. I can’t tell you much about her time in Canada. But I can send you a copy of all the documents we have.”

  “That would be good. Do you know why she moved from Brest to the Île de Sein?”

  “To be closer to her dolphins. There’s a large population of great porpoises living around Sein, and if she was lucky she could see them just by looking out of her window in the morning. And then—I think this was also a reason—there were fewer people on the Île de Sein.”

  “And why did she suddenly come back to Brittany?”

  “Her contract in Halifax ran out, and here she had all the scientific freedom she wanted. Maybe there was a bit of homesickness too? To be honest, I just don’t know.”

  There was a pause for the first time in the conversation.

  “There’s a big collective action taking place in the parc today, as you know.”

  Dupin had just dropped the sentence into the room.

  Leblanc nodded. “We’re counting on catching one or another of the culprits red-handed. The regular controls and checks aren’t enough. It’s easy to see that more reaches the market than can legally be caught.”

  “Do you have a suspicion who it is that’s not keeping to the catch quotas?”

  “It’s no secret—we talk about Morin’s boats. But not only his. There are another two big-time fishers who are suspect.”

  “This could be a big thing then?”

  “I hope so.”

  Dupin glanced at the clock.

  “That was all very worthwhile information, Monsieur Leblanc.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything to help. I hope…” He hesitated, then continued in a firm voic
e, “… that Laetitia’s murder had nothing to do with her work. I mean this collaboration between the two women in the net project.” He broke off.

  “What would a possible story in that respect look like—how would you imagine it?”

  The question was, how could the thing have evoked such a force that could have led to murder; two murders.

  “I’m a scientist.” He smiled with a sad expression on his face. “I need facts, empirical facts. My imagination isn’t that well developed.”

  “Call if anything occurs to you.”

  “I’ll do that. You can count on me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dupin turned away, left Leblanc’s office, and strutted rapidly across the anteroom; the assistant’s workplace was empty.

  He found his way on his own.

  A minute later Dupin was out of the building, grateful to be in the open air.

  He walked toward the pier. Goulch waved at him. Suddenly Dupin stopped dead and turned around. He let his gaze drift over the fabled island. He had the strange impression that, however bright and pretty it might appear, it simultaneously belonged elsewhere. In other, darker realms.

  A vague, indescribable feeling of unease crept over the commissaire, though he himself had no idea why.

  * * *

  It had been a brief trip. Harmless. A speedy crossing. Dupin had sat in the bow to watch Douarnenez harbor coming toward him.

  It reminded Dupin of the little town ferry in Concarneau that one took to get from the Ville Close, the medieval old town in the mouth of the Moros, to the eastern part of the town, just a stone’s throw, maybe a hundred meters. An enjoyable tour in a little green boat; it went through the sheltered harbor and had nothing whatsoever to do with a trip on the sea. Sometimes, when he needed to think, the commissaire would take a walk along the fortified walls of the old town as far as the wild garden on the hill and the church, then take the little boat and cross over. Not to get out on the other bank; he stayed in the boat and took it back again. He had the picturesque view of the fortifications, the harbor, the town, a bit like a bus trip in the old days on the open buses. It was one of the commissaire’s many enjoyable rituals; his whole life and work were filled, if the truth be told, with an extremely rich and well-stocked storehouse of such rituals. Including those that might be categorized by others as tics, quirks, or foibles.