The Killing Tide

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  Dupin had told Goulch about his conversation with Leblanc. Despite the minimal information, a picture of Laetitia Darot as a person was slowly emerging. Dupin was getting an idea who this wonderful dolphin researcher had been.

  Goulch’s speedboat, the Bir, had moored at the quay right in front of the auction hall, between two larger boats flying Spanish flags. Dupin and Goulch, who had emerged from the captain’s cabin, were already standing to the rear, from where Dupin was going to take to the land.

  “Here is the list of the other fisherfolk involved in the net project,” he said. “Talk to them. I’m interested in everything. Particularities of the project, incidents of any sort. Ask them also what they know about Darot and Kerkrom. What they spoke about with them.”

  Goulch took the list and glanced at it. “Do you think this might have something to do with the case?”

  Dupin didn’t know, but he did know it was bothering him. First and foremost: at this stage of a case they had to put their feelers out in all directions.

  “We have to check everything, Goulch. And we mustn’t neglect Céline Kerkrom.” The sentence was primarily directed at himself.

  “We’ve just gotten the information on the radio. Operation Red Lobster is going according to plan. Every boat currently fishing in the parc has been ordered to halt where it is. I’ve just spoken with the head of the operation.”

  “Good. We’ll see how it goes. Any news from Kadeg, Riwal, or Nolwenn? Anything new from the island?”

  “Not so far.”

  “See you later, then. I’m going to remain on the mainland for now.”

  Dupin sprang enthusiastically ashore.

  Goulch went back to the bridge.

  Dupin looked around. He was standing almost exactly in front of the entrance to the auction house, just where he had been standing early that morning. It was busy now too. He saw the big ice silo and next to it a functional office building, which had to contain Gochat’s office. The sun shone as bright as ever, there wasn’t a breath of air, just a strong smell of fish, seaweed, salt, oil, and rust—the smell of a harbor.

  Dupin was intending to head for the office building when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a figure coming out of the auction house and heading toward him with resolute steps. Madame Gochat.

  He stopped in his tracks.

  She was looking down at the ground.

  He waited.

  She walked straight past him.

  “Madame Gochat!”

  The harbor chief started in shock.

  “Ah, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

  They crossed glances.

  “I was on my way to see you, madame.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not convenient right now, we’re—”

  “You asked a fisherman to follow Céline Kerkrom. To watch where she stopped at sea, where she fished. Something that you can imagine makes you look suspicious in our eyes. More so than anyone else up to now. That might be the reason why you were so taciturn during our conversation this morning.”

  She replied to him promptly, without showing the least sign of annoyance. “I had no motives.”

  “I’d like to check that out, Madame Gochat.”

  Just a second of hesitation, then she said: “I like to see things are done properly. That’s what I do. It’s my job.”

  “You’ll need to explain a bit more to me.”

  She seemed to be thinking.

  “You know Céline Kerkrom fished with small gillnets, but for sea bass and lieus jaunes, she mainly used a line. That means she was primarily in three areas: around Ouessant-Grabens, the Pierres Noires to the west of the Molène archipelago, and in the Chaussée de Sein. Never in Douarnenez Bay; in that area you’ll find completely different fisherfolk with different boats and different nets. Yet it was right there that I’d seen her with her boat recently, four weeks ago and again three weeks ago.” She sounded almost sarcastic.

  “And I wanted to know why. That’s why I asked one of the fishermen from the bay if he would just keep an eye on her now and then. A harmless request.”

  “Had you any particular suspicion?”

  “No, nothing in particular.”

  Madame Gochat was saying no more.

  “What could possibly have been her reason?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  Or wouldn’t.

  “And how did you happen to see Céline Kerkrom there?”

  “My husband has a boat, and every now and then we take it out for an excursion. Usually in the afternoon, when I don’t work.”

  “How big is your husband’s boat?”

  “Eight meters ninety.”

  “That’ll take you wherever you want.”

  Anywhere in the parc. Or out to the Île de Sein.

  The harbormistress gave Dupin a piercing look.

  “Do you know about this experiment the parc is carrying out with these nets that send out signals to warn dolphins and other creatures?”

  “I’ve heard of it. But only peripherally. It’s parc business,” she said, once again in the deliberately neutral tone of voice Dupin recognized from the morning. “I supported anything that tried to unify professional fishing with ecological and animal welfare.”

  “Of course”—Dupin affected a ponderous tone—“the parc might be seen as your enemy, Madame Gochat? At a time of economic stress, ever more requirements, regulations, restrictions all make things harder.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Monsieur le Commissaire,” she said. “The direction the parc is taking is the only one that over the long term is viable for economic survival.”

  Dupin couldn’t be certain whether or not she was having him on. It had sounded as if she was talking from deepest conviction. But it also might all have been a show.

  “So you also support controls by other official bodies?”

  “We support all official bodies.”

  Nor did she show any emotion at the use of the word “controls.” But that meant nothing. Maybe she knew about the big operation after all. Dupin accepted she could have that much self-control.

  She hadn’t moved a centimeter. It was an extremely tense conversation.

  “I need to get back to my office, Monsieur le Commissaire. They’re waiting for me.”

  “Is there something in particular going on?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can the auction hall”—Dupin spoke in a way that made it clear he had paid no attention at all to her last sentence—“be held responsible if it sells fish caught by illegal practices? Or if the catch quotas have been disregarded?”

  “No, and nor should it be. We have no way of checking where the fish come from. The fishermen just tag them. They are the only ones responsible for their declarations. In any case, there are different regulations outside the parc and they may have come from there. Anyway, we’ve already discussed the fact that the majority of the catch doesn’t get sold at the auction. Or the boats go to other harbors outside the parc. If you want to put a stop to illegality the fishermen need to be caught in flagrante. The harbors can’t do that.”

  “What were you doing down here in the hall, Madame Gochat?”

  “I wanted to see if after the excitement of this morning all had returned to normal.”

  “I—”

  A phone rang.

  Dupin took his cell phone from his pants pocket. “Just a minute, please.” He took a few steps to one side, toward the water. There was serious irritation written on Madame Gochat’s face.

  It was Goulch.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” the normally calm Goulch said excitedly. “The first boats they checked were Morin’s. They found nothing, not a thing. Not a single red lobster, not even as accidental by-catch. Completely clean, every one of his ships; it’s not possible. In comparison they found loads on the ships of two other fishermen, so that means—”

  “Morin was forewarned. Somebody tipped him off.”

  Dupin was finding i
t hard to keep his voice calm.

  “The project leader thinks it’s not possible.”

  “Humbug.”

  Dupin realized he wasn’t exactly keeping calm.

  “Should we talk to the other two fishermen?”

  “Take their names. That’ll do for the moment. Have a chat with the man from the Affaires Maritimes, the one who called me. Tell him there’s a leak somewhere.”

  If only half of what Dupin had heard about Morin’s godfather status was true then it was no wonder. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “He’ll deny it.”

  “Anything else, Goulch?”

  “Not right now, the operation is still going on. But Morin’s boats have got through.”

  Dupin hung up and went back over to Madame Gochat, who had remained standing exactly on the same spot.

  He had lost the thread, but it didn’t matter.

  “I’m afraid now I have to—” the harbor chief began, but Dupin interrupted.

  “There were a few other things you left unmentioned this morning, Madame Gochat.”

  She looked as if she hadn’t a clue what Dupin was talking about.

  “Let’s take those charges against Morin that actually were successful: criminal jettisoning of caught fish, high-grading the catch so only the most expensive were sold, exceeding the permitted numbers of ormeaux mollusks.”

  “I repeat what I said this morning: so far Monsieur Morin has never been convicted. And I haven’t the time to deal with the countless allegations.”

  “One of his bolincheurs is about to get a heavy fine. He’s been found with pink gilthead bream.”

  “I’m afraid that happens now and then. The authorities have to react as swiftly as possible, there’s no space for error. The question is whether Morin gave the orders.”

  There was no way of getting around her.

  “And the serious row between Frédéric Carrière and Kerkrom—did that not seem worth mentioning?”

  “Have you any idea how long it would take if we talked over every quarrel Céline Kerkrom had with somebody or other? I assumed your question about unusual occurrences was aimed at things of importance?”

  She could hardly have been more callous. Everything rolled right off her.

  “That’ll do for the moment, Madame Gochat.” There was no point in carrying on the conversation. Dupin had lost patience. “We’ll see each other again. Soon.” Even this gruff end to their conversation didn’t disconcert Madame Gochat. She feigned a smile and immediately set off, at the same time as Dupin. She headed straight to the entrance of the office block.

  Dupin went in the opposite direction. He had to go along the harbor road a bit to where his old Citroën stood.

  He was early. He would head to Tréboul, then drive around a bit, to reflect, pull his thoughts together. The events of the morning had hurtled past.

  He pulled out his cell phone and called Nolwenn’s number.

  “Nolwenn, I’m going to—”

  “I just had my phone in my hand to call you. It’s like a curse. I simply can’t find out anything about Morin’s possible paternity.” He could hear that she felt as if her honor were at stake. “I’m still sitting here with a scanned copy of Laetitia Darot’s birth certificate, issued at the clinic in Douarnenez. It lists the parents, I mean the mother and father, the birth parents, as Francine and Lucas Darot.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “It would hardly be the first time that a birth certificate has been forged. It’s not all that long ago, but those were different times. Obviously Morin could have had an affair with Francine Darot which had consequences. According to the certificate, Darot’s father was forty-two and her mother thirty-seven when their daughter came into the world. They lived just outside of Douarnenez. The mother died two years ago, the father twelve years ago. Also in Douarnenez. I’m trying to find out more about the pair of them. Laetitia Darot had no siblings at the time of her birth, and nothing changed.”

  Nolwenn was in the best of form despite her apparent despondency at the beginning of the call. It would have taken Dupin longer to find out all that information thirdhand.

  By now the commissaire had arrived at his car not far from the famous Connétable sardine factory.

  He had wanted to hear something in particular from Nolwenn, which was why he had picked up the phone, but he could no longer remember what it was. It was something that happened to him more often recently, and he would have mentioned it to Docteur Garreg, if he hadn’t been too afraid of the treatment he would prescribe.

  “What about you, are you still in Lannion?”

  It sometimes helped him to remember what it was if he talked about something else until it hit him all of its own.

  “We’re at my aunt’s. Her living room is a fully equipped communications center. An astounding broadband width, superfast network, two computers, high-resolution scanner and printer. Just what is needed for things like this.”

  “I understand. I’m…” Dupin left off asking another question, instead saying, “I’m on my way to see Charles Morin.”

  “Have you already spoken with Madame Gochat?”

  “Just now.”

  “She seems to lead a tough regime. A typical Douarneniste! The Douarnenez women have a reputation for being strong, busy, and efficient. Breton women in general, but in particular those from Douarnenez. It’s a matriarchy,” Nolwenn said, a dry statement of fact. “It goes back to the fisherwomen in the nineteenth century who worked in the fish factories. The ‘whitebait daughters.’ Their men would spend weeks and months at sea and most of the time couldn’t support their families, so the women earned the money, did the housework, brought up the children, organized the commune and the town. Everything. ‘Rien’ got done without her, she did ‘tout.’ Nothing happened without her, and everything that did get done got done thanks to her, that was the Douarnenistes’ proud boast. Actually the proud boast of all women!”

  Certainly Nolwenn didn’t come second to them, and seen like that, there was also a matriarchy in the commissariat.

  “You’ve got to Tréboul a bit too early. I would recommend that you go to the Ty Mad for a coffee, just a stone’s throw from Morin’s house. It’s a remarkably fine hotel and restaurant, with a fabulous terrace. You’ll be completely undisturbed there. Max Jacob, Picasso, Dior were all there in the thirties, a place with an extraordinary soul. The Ty Mad is run by a woman too.”

  A quick café absolutely belonged to Dupin’s idea of a reflective sit and think, but of course he was aware Nolwenn knew him very well, so he felt a bit caught out.

  “See you later then, Nolwenn.”

  * * *

  With the help of his car GPS—a ridiculously minute display that did more to cause confusion than provide orientation—Dupin made it as far as Chapelle Saint-Jean, and left the car there.

  A narrow path led from the chapel to the bay with its pristine white sand and bright blue shimmering sea, hemmed in on both sides with spiky rocks. The chapel, the narrow little path, and the old houses seemed as if they had come from ancient times, with prolific vegetation of elegant trees, extravagant shrubbery that cast welcome shade, palm trees with tousled tops. A rare alluring charm. A tiny seaside resort from the end of the nineteenth century, pretty but not overexaggeratedly prettified. The fishermen from here once sailed as far south as Andalusia, Morocco, and Mauretania to catch lobsters, and had called their quarter “petit Maroc.”

  According to the map, Morin’s house had to be on the other side of the chapel. A wonderful footpath led by the sea, above the little beach, meandering along the cliffs and by a big cemetery in the direction of Douarnenez’s town center. From here too you could see the Île Tristan, barely half a kilometer away. It must have reached high tide because there was no sign of the dark lower part of the cliffs.

  Dupin decided to drink his café first before walking on. He turned around and walked back to the Ty Mad.

  There was rough white gravel on th
e hidden inner courtyard, which had the atmosphere of a beautiful little garden. On the left was the old stone house, overgrown with vines gone wild, dark shutters; a tall building under the circumstances here, with three floors and an extended roof space.

  The terrace was filled with a sea of flowers in different colors, beguiling scents mixed with one another, little rows of tender green bamboo, lacy tall grasses, profligate rhododendron in blinding white, dark green pots with olive trees, tables, chairs, and cozy sun beds all over the garden in the midst of the green.

  A magic place.

  An oasis.

  Pairs of lovers sat at two half-hidden tables, with eyes only for each other.

  Dupin chose a table by a high bamboo tree.

  He had scarcely sat down when an elegant woman came out of the house, down the stone steps, and directly over to him. Maybe early fifties, of a particular, unique beauty; wild dark locks of hair gathered into a bun from which a few loose strands had strayed; wise, dark, velvety eyes; a singular complexion. Bright pink linen blouse, a deep red skirt, a long string of glass beads of differing sizes.

  A smile that came from deep within beamed at him. “Nolwenn said you would be coming.”

  Nolwenn hadn’t mentioned she knew the owner. Only now did Dupin notice she had an espresso cup in her hand, which she set down on the table with a casual gesture.

  “Thank you.” Dupin was a bit embarrassed. But mostly he was delighted.

  “I knew Céline Kerkrom. A little.” Her voice was gentle but strong. “Every now and then she would bring us sea bass. Caught by line. Incredible fish. My chef said they were the best. She was an extraordinary woman.”