Even the houses seemed more solid, more massive than those on the south coast, the granite darker, a little stronghold that wanted to say: I resist, over centuries. They were pushed close together, just like those on the Île de Sein.
Dupin had reached Le Conquet, steered through the narrow streets toward the town center, and then on to the modern fishing harbor, where the ferries to Ouessant and Molène also docked.
All at once he could see the almost tubular bay, the beginning of the narrow sea arm that was one of the best protected natural harbors, opposite a rocky peninsula with a green top. From the harbor quay it was hardly two hundred meters to the peninsula, which gave enough space to maneuver, even for bigger boats. A long pier stuck out at the entrance to the basin. At the end of the arm of sea lay the Vieux Port, directly next to the picturesque center.
Dupin parked his car on the big square behind the quay, where the day-trippers going out to the islands parked. He walked along next to the water. There wasn’t a soul in sight, not anywhere on the pier. Two ferries had tied up on the long pier; proud letters on one spelled out Penn Ar Bed, the same company as that to which the Enez Sun III, which he had seen this morning, belonged. A few fishing boats lay tied up to brightly colored buoys in the harbor basin.
Vaillant—Captain Vaillant—would only be able to tie up here at the pier. He wasn’t there yet. Nor was there any boat to be seen on the bit of sea visible at the exit from the harbor. Toward the northwest and Ouessant the peninsula blocked the view. On the other hand, even though it was just before ten, the sun still hung high enough to peek over and shine its mild, milky light into Dupin’s face. It was still remarkably warm. Definitely over twenty degrees.
A magnificent summer’s evening. It had gone through Dupin’s head while parking the car that it couldn’t be far to the restaurant where the whole gang from the commissariat had eaten. They had taken a walk down here to the harbor after dinner. He would be back in a quarter of an hour, a lot more lively and attentive. Dupin didn’t think long about it. Vaillant would have to wait if needs be.
Five minutes later he was standing outside the Relais du Port, down at the old port. It was an old stone house with a lot of flair, but a simple restaurant, an everyday one, the sort Dupin loved. You could look out at the Vieux Port while eating. It didn’t get any better than that. Right now that meant looking at the seabed and the boats laid up on the sand. Even on such a fine summer evening very many of them still had something melancholy about them. There were lots of patches of seaweed on the beach, glittering yellowy green in the light. Directly in front was a bright blue wooden boat, beyond that an orange one, a turquoise one, then a red—a crazy field of colors.
Dupin chose a table in the first tow of a cozily roofed terrace.
Perfect. He had downed his coffee in seconds. It was then that his glance—unintentionally—landed on the menu: Steak tartare, frites, salade. One of Dupin’s favorite dishes, just behind entrecôte steak. There was a lot the commissaire would do for a good tartare.
He reached for his phone.
“Nolwenn?”
“Monsieur le Commissaire?” Nolwenn said cheerfully.
“I’ve been held up. Tell Vaillant I’ll be there in—let’s say, twenty minutes.”
It didn’t take long to serve up a tartare, and he needed to eat something. The last bite he’d had was ages ago. Apart from that, the Amiral would probably be closed by the time he got back to Concarneau. That did it.
“I imagine you’re sitting in the Relais du Port. Just right, Monsieur le Commissaire!” Nolwenn said it as if it was common sense. “The pirate will just have to wait.”
Dupin had too often been a witness to Nolwenn’s uncanny ability to guess his whereabouts to be surprised.
“I assume you are aware”—Nolwenn’s tone of voice had changed and her choice of words also signified that she was not amused—“that your mother has several times tried to get ahold of you. And every time she’s been put through to me.”
As far as Madame Dupin was concerned, everybody outside the metropolis was a provincial, particularly people from such remote regions as Brittany, which was the epitome of provincialism. And she let them know that. Nolwenn had her own way to counter that. She avoided clashing with her and instead calmly and without sympathy let his mother dangle starving on the end of an outstretched arm.
“You need to talk to her.”
What that really meant was that she wasn’t going to do so anymore.
“I will talk to her, Nolwenn. First thing tomorrow morning.”
“Good.” Already she sounded happy again. “Apropos, as you happen to be in the region of Ys: Do you know when Ys will rise from the waves again? When Paris sinks into them. That’s the way the Bretons have talked for centuries about Par-Is: meaning ‘on a par with Ys.’”
Dupin chuckled.
“We’re turning the lights out here now, Monsieur le Commissaire. We’ve made our preparations for tomorrow and are trying to get some sleep, so we’re back at full strength tomorrow. But you know I always have my phone with me. Riwal, by the way, is going to spend the night on the island. We found him a room in the only hotel. Simple but clean. It’ll probably be the first night he’s slept through since Maclou-Brioc came into the world. Kadeg decided to come back. How are things with you? It’s a good hour and a half’s drive. I have—”
“I’m still coming back.” It was a reflex answer.
“One and a half hours.”
“It’s not a problem, Nolwenn.”
“As you wish.”
“Another thing,” Dupin said, massaging his temples. He had already involuntarily come back a couple of times to one of the stories the woman at the coffee stand in the auction hall had told him this morning. “This boat of Morin’s, the one suspected of smuggling, people say the customs men really did tail it into a corner, and, on Morin’s instruction, they sank it in order to get rid of any proof.”
“I haven’t heard anything of a story like that. The chief customs officer, whom I spoke to this morning about Morin, didn’t mention anything like that. But I’ll keep on it.”
“That would be good, Nolwenn. And ask where the incident is supposed to have taken place.’
“I’ll do that. Bonne nuit, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
“Bonne nuit, Nolwenn.”
Dupin leaned back and made a gesture to the friendly waitress who was just bringing something to the next table.
“I’d like the tartare, please. And a glass of Cornas. The 2009 Empreintes.”
For most things, Dupin had a lousy—recently damn lousy—memory. But for wines, their names and where they came from, he had no problem. They had drunk the Cornas on their work outing.
“Of course, sir.”
Dupin had to admit that Nolwenn’s “day of action” still made him nervous; he would like to have known exactly what was going to happen. Why it was important to be “at full strength.” But he should probably just stick to his instinct, which told him it would be best for everybody to say as little as possible about it. But there was another thing going through his head. And even though it required effort, he ought to do it.
He reached for his phone again.
“Riwal?”
“Boss, I was about to—”
“I want to talk to the boy again, myself.” Dupin had lowered his voice. “The one from the island, who hangs around the harbor all day. I want—”
“I’ve got the registered letter,” Riwal said. “I bumped into Antoine Manet in Le Tatoon. He knew that the mail woman had been invited to dinner this evening. He knew where and asked her to get me the registered mail quickly. Manet is—”
“Riwal, what is the piece of mail?”
“It’s a cautionary note, from a laboratory in Paris, for an unpaid check.”
Riwal paused unnecessarily.
“And?”
“A specialist laboratory, one that does chemical, physical, and biological analyses of materials of all sor
t, fabrics and liquids.”
“What?” He hadn’t been expecting that.
“The firm is called Sci-Analyses.”
“And what exactly was the issue?”
“Like I said, it was a cautionary note, with a copy of the check. All it says is ‘RfS-Analysis.’”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else. I checked on the Internet, but all I found was FRS-analysis.”
“And what does that mean? I mean the thing you found.”
“Distance X-Ray. It’s a form of analysis used in orthodontics.”
“Orthodontics?”
The waitress placed the glass of wine and a basket of bread and butter in front of Dupin.
“Exactly.”
“When does the check date from?”
“April 27.”
“And how much is it for?”
“1,479.57 euros.”
An expensive operation.
“Have you already tried to call the firm?”
“They’re only taking recorded messages at this hour.”
Obviously. Riwal went on: “I looked down the page to find the directors, to try to call them direct. Neither are in the phone book. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. I’ll keep at it.”
Riwal had done a lot already. He knew that in situations like this Dupin would go to great lengths, no matter how crazy and complicated it was. But if they were to get in touch with somebody from the firm tonight it would mean getting the big guns out. Without knowing if the matter had anything to do with their case.
“Okay, and like I said, I want to talk to the boy again.”
“You’ll need to come early then, Monsieur le Commissaire; he’ll be in school from eight thirty.”
Dupin sat back. He had instinctively, without thinking about it, assumed they would meet on the mainland. But that would obviously be hard to arrange. To take the boy out of school for the morning and bring him to Douarnenez on a police boat. For an interview based on nothing concrete.
That meant he would have to make the boat ride himself.
“Goulch will take you, boss. You just need to let him know.”
“I’ll see. Maybe it was a crazy idea, to see the boy.”
“The pathologist from Brest has submitted her report. She compared both wounds, and had the photos of the examination of Kerkrom sent to her. It could certainly be the same knife. No doubt about it. But there was nothing specific, for example she didn’t find anything that would have caused particular damage to the blade.”
“Hm.” A pause. “Anything else, Riwal?”
“Not for the moment. The news media are already reporting on the ‘big day of action’ tomorrow. It’s going to make the headlines,” the inspector said, obviously delighted. “That’s the way to go.”
“Meaning…?” Dupin didn’t finish the sentence. “See you later, Riwal.”
The commissaire put his phone back on the table. And lifted his wineglass instead.
What had Kerkrom been looking for with this scientific analysis? By a specialist laboratory in Paris?
The wine was rich and velvety, the way Dupin liked it. He took a chunk of the baguette, and spread salted butter on it. It was good.
It had been a hard day, harder than any Dupin had yet experienced in his career. Three murders. Clinically calculated. Each one carried out quickly after the other. In three different places, each one roughly an hour distant from the other. It wasn’t possible to investigate them jointly. Each time they had to start again, from the beginning; could never deepen the investigation, never dig down.
The waitress brought his meal, poured him more wine.
The tartare looked fantastic. And tasted as good as it looked. The French fries were excellent too. They were something Dupin had loved since he was a child. His godfather had at some stage moved to Brussels, and every time he visited him they had eaten fries in big paper bags full to the brim, conjured up instantly as if by magic from a few sheets of paper. Served with delicious sauces. They were superb: crispy outside, soft as butter inside. Eaten standing up, at a nondescript stall on some shabby square; his bourgeois mother was dismayed every time, but his father loved them, as did he.
* * *
Dupin hadn’t exactly hurried. It was a quarter to eleven when he got back to the quay. There was now a third boat on the long dock behind the two ferries. A conspicuous boat, in a light faded blue with a narrow white stripe that ran all around it below the railing. It was totally made of wood, to the front unusually high and sweeping like a sperm whale. A bow shape that Dupin had never seen before. It was at least fifteen meters long, pretty wide overall, and it sat low and heavy in the water. A captain’s cabin and the usual electronics. A curious boat, like something from a Jules Verne movie. A sign on the bow read Pebezh Abadenn. It had to be Vaillant’s.
Even on the longest day of the year it happened: Brittany had turned away from the sun—or as people said, the sun had gone down. It had turned the sea, out there where it sank, bright orange and seemed even to have set the sky alight. It seemed the entire horizon was on fire, a crazy orange-red. Only at its far fringes did it turn blue-black. The one thing that a Breton knew was that it was an occasion to relax, to remain calm, and not to fear the world was about to end.
On the deck of the Pebezh Abadenn stood a group of men. One of them was busy tying up the boat, an indication that it hadn’t been there for long.
Dupin stopped by the pier, then walked along it to the last of the three concrete ramps that led down into the sea, so that, as on the Île de Sein and everywhere along the coast, you could get on or off a tied-up boat at whatever the height of the tide.
“Here comes the cop.”
Dupin heard it as clearly and plainly as everybody else. But it didn’t sound antagonistic.
He had reached the height of the railing.
One of the men began walking toward him silently. A somber-looking guy with a deeply tanned face, notable rings under his eyes, slightly swollen eyelids, a great wild mop of black hair that dominated his whole appearance and reminded Dupin of seventies rock bands. The reflection of the bright orange just increased that impression. He wore a dark green linen shirt with the top buttons open, jeans, black rubber boots. Dupin put him in his midforties.
“We couldn’t resist, there was a huge swarm of mackerel beneath us, we just had to throw a few lines down.”
Vaillant nodded toward a few plastic buckets full of flipping, flapping fish. It was intended to be an explanation for turning up late—which at the same time meant that if Dupin hadn’t been in the Relais du Port, he would have been waiting here on the quay for three quarters of an hour.
“I’ll pack up a couple for you. They’re really delicious.” He meant it seriously. Only now was it obvious that there was a little door set into the thick wooden railing. Captain Vaillant opened it and was about to take a large stride onto the ramp.
“I’ll come to you,” Dupin said.
“Of course.” Vaillant retreated. He seemed completely calm. “Inspect as much as you will.” There was no sarcasm or aggression in the tone of his voice. “Take a look round everything. We’ve nothing to hide.”
Dupin took a long stride, almost a little jump, and was on board the Pebezh Abadenn. “Monsieur Vaillant, you followed and watched Céline Kerkrom’s boat, which Laetitia Darot was also on board, for several days. At the entry to Douarnenez Bay. Two women who were murdered between yesterday evening and this morning. Why?”
The other men on board had all got out of the way, disappeared up to the bow or beneath the deck.
“Didn’t you find them extraordinarily good-looking? For myself I’m happy to be around good-looking women,” Vaillant said, neither unpleasantly nor condescendingly. He laughed; a rough, deep laugh.
“Why did you follow Céline Kerkrom? What did you want from her?” Dupin said gruffly.
“They were being followed by Gochat’s fisherman. He had been on their heels for several days, ju
st keeping his boat far enough away so as not to be conspicuous.”
“That’s no answer.” But Vaillant had admitted it frankly. Dupin continued: “What was the reason for you following them?”
“Maybe I was just concerned and was following the fisherman who was following them.” Vaillant’s eyes gleamed. “Or I was simply, let’s say, ‘curious.’ Curious what the two of them were up to.” He made a mischievous face.
“No, seriously, in summer, we like to be toward the front of the bay, reeling in the fat squid. They also attract the dolphins. We weren’t following anybody. Even though the attractiveness of those women alone would have been grounds enough.”
Vaillant wasn’t giving anything away. He was lying, of course. He had been following them. That wasn’t by chance.
“How well did you know Céline Kerkrom and Laetitia Darot?”
“Nobody knew the mermaid. Not even me. She was as mysterious as the depths of the Atlantic itself. And as for Céline, we’d chatted pleasantly a few times. I have to say I personally wouldn’t have minded chatting with her more often.” For the first time he seemed serious. “But she wasn’t interested. I wasn’t her type. I think she’d already given her heart to that fisherman from the island.”
The Killing Tide Page 20