The Killing Tide

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  It was a breathtaking sight, as Dupin slowly came to. You could see and feel just how much the Mer d’Iroise was almost completely surrounded by the land, embraced and protected. Everything seemed peaceful, as mild as the air. The water was calm as a mirror, shining silvery blue in the first light of the sun. The boat glided gently and in a straight line across it, undisturbed by waves or wind. Almost sliding. Dupin had no fear at all of the calm, peaceful sea here.

  He stood there almost without moving when the penetrating tone of his cell phone tore him away from his thoughts. He had obviously assumed there would be no reception here. But he saw five bars. And Riwal’s number.

  “Boss. I tried to get through to you last night, but you didn’t reply.”

  Dupin had seen no indication of a missed call on his mobile, but then he had been half asleep. The inspector left an inscrutable pause.

  “Go on, Riwal.”

  “The experts in Rennes looked through the bank accounts and transfers between each of the three deceased. There was a transfer of ten thousand euros between Laetitia Darot and Luc Jumeau on June 6 this year. Both had accounts with the Crédit Agricole in Douarnenez.”

  It wasn’t easy to make out what Riwal was saying, what with the noise of the vehicle and the wind.

  “With some particular business in mind?”

  “No. At least there is no reference to what the sum was for.”

  Jumeau had said nothing. Which wasn’t very clever, even if it was harmless. He should have known something like that would come out sooner or later.

  “I’m on my way to Sein.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll talk to Jumeau myself.”

  Already the second piece of unexpected news for that morning.

  “He’s already out at sea.”

  “Get in touch with him. He must return to Sein.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “Do we already have details of the victims’ itemized phone calls? And what about their email accounts?”

  “The experts are working on it. It’s complicated.”

  “They need to let us know as soon as they manage it.”

  “They’ll do that.”

  Dupin glanced at his watch. “We’ll be there around a quarter past seven. Tell the boy’s mother.”

  “Will do, boss. Did you…” Riwal was doing his level best to sound unconcerned, without succeeding. “… sleep well, then? And do you feel all right this morning?”

  Dupin just hung up.

  He wondered how long the—what should he call it? “Plague incubation time”?—might take in Riwal’s mind. As long as it took, as long as possible.

  Then his mind switched to the latest piece of news. Ten thousand euros, that was quite a sum. He couldn’t wait to hear Jumeau’s explanation.

  They were due to start the search at Gochat’s any minute, and Kadeg would arrive in Douarnenez soon. Dupin realized that the operation was making him a little nervous. He called his inspector’s number.

  “Where are you, Kadeg?”

  He could hear the noise of an engine. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Four colleagues from Douarnenez are already in the street where Gochat lives, waiting for me.” His voice shook.

  It would make a splash, that was for certain. Dupin imagined Gochat opening the door, the harbor chief seeing a troop of policemen, and making a fuss before letting them in.

  “Let me know everything that happens, do you hear me? And try not to make too big a scene.”

  “I’ll behave fittingly.”

  Dupin stuck his phone in the pocket of his jeans.

  His eyes wandered across the wild, glistening sea.

  * * *

  “Hi, boss,” Riwal said. He was standing on the pier, where the museum chief had held her little reception committee yesterday. It felt as if it had been days ago.

  “How was the trip?”

  At least it seemed as if Riwal meant the question earnestly. Nonetheless Dupin ignored it.

  “When do I see the boy?”

  “At half past seven. At Darot’s and Kerkrom’s sheds.”

  In twenty minutes’ time, that meant.

  “Very good,” Dupin muttered.

  That gave him a bit of time.

  “You got here quickly,” Riwal said with an impressed nod.

  Indeed, they had come at top speed the whole way. The sea had remained calm not just out on the open water, but even on the last stretch, just lain there flat and lethargic. “Like oil,” was what the Bretons said, and it painted a precise picture. On days like this you could have sworn it wasn’t really water.

  Even out here on the island the air was still, already warm and damp. The smell of the sea was strong here too. Dupin had learned that the sea smelled differently every day, not just some days stronger than others but also differently in aroma. What they called in Brittany “the scents of the sea.” From heavy and intense—like today—to light and airy, from salty and bitter to sweet and mild, the whole spectrum. Bretons described the smells of the sea as if they were talking about perfume, with differing notes. Today it was seaweed that dominated.

  “Jumeau should be here soon. He didn’t react much.”

  Dupin could imagine.

  “Great.”

  He headed straight past him and was already a few meters away, then he turned around again. “Come along, Riwal.”

  Five minutes later they were sitting on the terrace of Le Tatoon, and for the first time that morning the commissaire was in a good mood. He felt nearly at home now on the Quai Sud, a feeling that Dupin didn’t get from being there often but from one thing alone: his relationship with the place.

  A series of islanders were already up and about as the island prepared itself for a new day, an atmosphere that Dupin very much enjoyed, as he did on mornings in the Amiral, in Concarneau, where, almost without exception, he began his days. An old lady with shining white hair, wooden clogs and a blue apron, and two baguettes in her hands strolled along the quay; an elderly man with a faded cap and broad-legged pants was pulling behind him a handcart laden high with wood. A laid-back young kid in jeans and T-shirt cycled past, legs splayed wide on a rusty bicycle that was far too small for him, whistling as he went. Somewhere on the island there was a lonely dull thudding going on. Like every sound on this island it vanished immediately again into nothing, ebbed away as if suddenly there was no longer any atmosphere to carry the sound.

  It was a great Atlantic day, one of those days of pure flaming colors that always made Dupin a little drunk. Every tone was intense, penetrating, dizzying. Glowing and luxurious. A real high on colors.

  Dupin had already chosen the sunniest place on the terrace, right at the front by the quay. Riwal had sat down next to him, rather than opposite, so he could enjoy the sun as well.

  “Have you heard anything more about the relationship between Darot and the professor?” Dupin asked.

  “No. Nobody knew about it. Manet’s made it into the talk of the island.”

  Dupin understood immediately what the inspector meant.

  “But nothing came of it.”

  That would have been too much to ask for.

  “So we’ve tried to get people to find out about the elderly man in the Citroën C2 who came to see Professor Lapointe once a month. A renowned literary professor. They got to know one another three years ago in the Tabac-Presse, Crozon’s cigarettes and newspaper shop. Both of them were classic literature fans, Maupassant above all. We’ve had people check it all out. He’s not remotely suspicious.”

  “Anything new from the crime scene team? What about the list of books?”

  “There was nothing out of the ordinary in the house, and the book list is ready.”

  “And?”

  “Lots of Maupassant. Mostly classic books. Lots about the local region: history, culture, flora and fauna, everything the heart could want for. But not one single book about virology or other natural sciences, not one scientific book. And no science magazin
es either—I have the list here.”

  He handed Dupin his smartphone. Dupin looked down the list. Right at this moment he could see nothing revealing.

  It was the same pleasant waitress as the day before. Dupin had ordered two cafés and two pains au chocolat, Riwal one café and two croissants, and she put them on the table in front of them with a charming smile.

  It did them good. And was delicious at the same time. The strong coffee, a real torre, washed away the taste of the plastic.

  There was a good view of “France,” the mainland, today—the Pointe du Raz, the high-and-mighty forbidding granite cliff, was superb despite the still air. Yet it seemed unimaginably far away. It was a basic feeling that immediately overtook anyone on the island; that of being far away from everything. Much farther than the nine kilometers it was in reality.

  Despite there obviously being lots to talk about, they had automatically both stopped talking with their first sip. They had lost themselves in the taste of the coffee and the picturesque scenery.

  Brusquely the pleasant quiet was broken by Dupin’s phone.

  Kadeg.

  “Yes?”

  “Madame Gochat wants to talk to you in person,” Kadeg barked. “We formally requested that she let us take a look at her garden house.” Gochat must have been standing close by Kadeg. She was clearly whom he was addressing. “She has dismissively declined the police request. We are asking now for your intervention to secure access.”

  Dupin hesitated.

  “Pass her over.”

  It had to be. There was no other way.

  “If you were to be so good,” said the harbor’s boss in a tone that was cutting and sarcastic, “to explain to me what you mean by all this. I have informed my lawyer, who is making a formal complaint. That’s what you are causing with this serious breach of the peace.”

  Dupin had known this was going to cause trouble. “We are in possession of substantial indications that you are hiding something relevant in your garden house. I have no choice, Madame Gochat.” Dupin’s cool tone of voice was not apologetic.

  “Are you trying to get a search warrant?”

  “The judge has been informed”—or soon will be—“which means I have the authority to order the search. Which I am hereby officially doing. Have no fears, Madame Gochat, everything will be done by the book. Your lawyer will confirm that. And as we’re speaking, do you have an explanation to give? Think well: if you do have anything to say it would be better for you to say it now rather than later.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, either now or later.”

  With that, she hung up.

  He had actually imagined her reaction being more drastic.

  Dupin leaned back and ate the last piece of pain au chocolat. “Madame Gochat is less than thrilled.” He got to his feet, still chewing. “I’d better go and see the boy. Let me know as soon as you hear anything from the company.”

  He dropped a bill on the table, left the terrace, and walked down the Quai Sud toward the sheds.

  A few minutes later he lifted his phone again. Maybe he would do well just to check.

  “Nolwenn!” he said quickly. “Do we have the okay for the search at Madame Gochat’s place?”

  “It should come through any moment. I imagine Judge Erevan won’t cause us any problems. I’ve had an extensive talk with his assistant, who knows him well. She suggested it would be a pure formality.”

  “Good, that’s all for now.”

  “Did you call your mother?”

  “I’m just about to.”

  “I’m not taking any more of her calls.”

  “I understand.”

  “More important, I’ve just been speaking to the customs people. Several people. The story about the sunken boat is complicated. They—”

  “So, it wasn’t just a rumor?” Dupin interrupted her. Maybe he wasn’t losing his flair after all.

  “It all goes back to a captain who’s since retired. A report by him. From May 23, 2012. The customs at the time suspected that the sea route was being used for cigarette smuggling. At which point they increased their patrols. The captain said that they spotted a fishing boat in the mist during heavy seas at dusk. A bolincheur. Just outside the entry to Douarnenez Bay. No fishing boats were going out at that time. He claimed to have recognized the typical colors of Morin’s fleet: bright blue, orange, and yellow. Another crew said the same, two others couldn’t confirm it. It looked suspicious to the captain and he tried to get closer to the bolincheur. At which point the fishing boat doused all its lights and set off at full speed. They followed it for twenty minutes, radar equipped with True-Track function. Until it vanished. They—”

  “Where did they lose it? Where was its last known position?”

  “Beyond the entrance to the bay, on the north side, where the panhandle from the Crozon peninsula comes down, Cap Rostudel.”

  Dupin stopped in his tracks. “That’s more or less where Kerkrom was seen in her boat. Both the women.”

  “Slightly farther south, as I understood it.”

  Dupin didn’t respond to that, but asked, “And after searching in vain, the captain assumed the boat had sunk?”

  “That’s what happened. And that the crew had reached land in the tender. In the meantime the weather had got even worse, which of course could be the reason they lost the boat. That was what it said in one commentary on the report. Of course, it could also have been that the bolincheur hid away in another bay. Given the weather conditions the captain obviously couldn’t have searched the area systematically.”

  “Did they search for the boat in the following days?”

  “Two days. But with no luck. They hadn’t had any exact position, so they gave up on the search. Then the news came that the smuggling routes over the water were no longer of importance. They had found heaps of cigarettes in refrigerated trucks driving through the Channel Tunnel. They had hidden the packs in deep-frozen animal carcasses.”

  “Was there any indication that the fishing boat had been scuppered? Apart from the captain’s supposition? Anything concrete?”

  “No. And apart from the conspicuous behavior of the boat there was no reason for suspicion.”

  Dupin thought about it.

  “The captain was totally convinced they’d played him for a fool. That they’d had vast quantities of smuggled cigarettes on board.”

  “What’s the captain’s name?”

  “Marcel Deschamps. I’ll text you his number. He’s a pensioner nowadays, but still alive.”

  “Good.”

  “See you later then, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

  Dupin set off again.

  * * *

  The commissaire reached the shed still deep in thought.

  He had expected to see the boy’s mother too, but Anthony was standing on his own in front of Darot’s storage hut, which had in the meantime been cordoned off by police tape. The boy looked as if he had been waiting a while. He was once again wearing the dirty jeans with the baggy pockets, but a clean green T-shirt.

  “I saw you come in on the police boat,” Anthony said with a proud smile. “I was watching you.” He spoke casually, not making a fuss.

  “The whole time? Since I came ashore?”

  “You went with your inspector straight into Le Tatoon. You drank two cafés and ate two pains au chocolat. And talked with the inspector. You kept running your fingers through your hair. That looked funny.”

  Impressive. Dupin hadn’t noticed Anthony. Despite the fact he must have been somewhere roughly nearby to have noticed all that so precisely.

  “You’d make a first-class spy. Did you come on your own?”

  “My mother told me to tell you she couldn’t come. I have little brothers and sisters.” He rolled his eyes.

  “My inspector tells me you also watch the fishermen when they’re out spearing fish at sea, and when they come back. And when they’re working here at the harbor.”

  “I help them too.”


  “With their catch?”

  “With everything: bringing the catch on shore, fixing up the nets, sorting through the fish.”

  “Was Céline Kerkrom’s catch good of late?”

  “Not bad. But she only brings fish here now and again. She sells her fish most of the time in Douarnenez.” He looked Dupin directly in the eye. “Why?”

  “No reason. You said she was spending more time at sea than usual.”

  “These are proper police questions, aren’t they?”

  “Absolutely proper police questions.”

  “Yes, more often.”

  “Anybody else? Any other of the fisherfolk more often out than normal? Jumeau maybe?”

  “No. Everything was as normal with him.”

  “When was the last time you helped Céline Kerkrom?”

  “Last week. I couldn’t say which day.”

  “Did you chat with her when you were helping her?”

  “Oh, yes. She told me stuff about the sea, about her trips. She knew great stories.”

  “What sort of stories?”

  “About secret places?”

  Dupin pricked up his ears. “Secret places?”

  “Where you catch the best fish.”

  “She told you that?”

  There was a bench made of wooden planks on concrete supports just a few meters away, right by the water. Dupin walked over to it, the boy following.

  “Yes. But I’m not saying where.”

  Anthony sat down next to Dupin.

  “Just tell me approximately. The general area.”

  “Maybe,” he hemmed and hawed, “maybe near the Witch.”

  “You mean the lighthouse?”

  The boy looked at him uncomprehendingly. “What else? Ar Groac’h.”

  They had seen it on the crossing yesterday. If Dupin had gotten it right, the lighthouse with the memorable name wasn’t in the Chaussée de Sein but a little farther north. Which also meant: almost in the entrance to Douarnenez Bay.