The Killing Tide

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  “Feel free to take me out of class anytime you like. You know now where my classroom is.”

  With a broad grin he took off.

  Dupin had to smile.

  He closed the door of the treasure chamber.

  Shortly before the exit he found Madame Coquil suddenly standing in front of him, as if she had just materialized out of nothing.

  “And? Did you find what you’re looking for?”

  Dupin hesitated. “A gripping collection. But what I’m interested in are—more recent finds. Things from the past few weeks.”

  He gave Madame Coquil a penetrating gaze. It was pointless. Even if she had known anything there would have been nothing to see in the expression of the woman he had come to know. She showed not the slightest reaction to his sibylline question. Instead she just stared straight ahead.

  “Now, I shall show you a little of the history of the island. We only have to go next door. We’ll start with Sein in prehistoric days.”

  “I have to—”

  Dupin’s telephone rang. The commissaire gave a sigh of relief.

  Kadeg.

  “I’m afraid I have to take this call, madame. I’m sorry.”

  He took a few hurried steps out into the courtyard.

  “What’s up?”

  “There are no fingerprints on the knife. They tried it there and then with special fingerprint lifting papers,” Kadeg said. “But the knife is now on its way to the laboratory, where they’ll check it for DNA traces. And analyze the blood on the blade. A car is taking Madame Gochat to the headquarters in Quimper. I’m off there too now. Naturally we’ll wait for you if you also want to take part in the interview. Also the IT experts in Rennes have come back on the anonymous email. So far they can only give us the email client’s service provider.”

  “We’re going to have to let Madame Gochat walk free, Kadeg.”

  “We’re … what?!” Kadeg was finding it hard to control himself. “You can’t do that!”

  “We’re setting her free. Here and now. Did you hear me?”

  “We found the murder weapon at her house. She has no reliable alibi. She had Céline Kerkrom tailed.”

  It was still not certain if it really was the murder weapon, almost nobody she had had anything to do with had an alibi, and Gochat was in no way the only person who had had Céline Kerkrom tailed. Of course naturally it had been enough to take the harbor chief temporarily into custody and have her interrogated—naturally it was possible to classify the facts to be as conclusive as Kadeg had done. The commissaire was concerned with other matters.

  “If it was her it’s more interesting to watch what she does when set free.”

  That was true, Dupin was convinced of it.

  “I want to see what she gets up to. And you, Kadeg, will have her followed step by step, inconspicuously. Maybe she has something hidden away or knows where something might be hidden.” Dupin was speaking less to Kadeg than he was to himself. “Or she might at least have an idea.”

  Kadeg had pulled himself together. “Have you something specific in mind?”

  It wasn’t yet time to divulge anything about vague and maybe completely crazy ideas, without it being a state of emergency.

  “I mean in general.”

  “I think it’s a mistake, but fine, you’re the one who gives the orders here.”

  “Exactly so, Kadeg. I’m the one who gives the orders.”

  Something else had suddenly occurred to Dupin, an alternative, one that was an excellent extra idea.

  “Kadeg, before we let Madame Gochat go, I want to talk to her one more time. Bring her here to the island. Straightaway.” Dupin was liking the idea more and more. “Set off right now. With bells and flashing lights. Straight to Audierne. Directly on a speedboat.” Kadeg was confused. “What if she refuses? I mean, if I tell her she can go and won’t be interrogated, except that beforehand she has to go through an interrogation on the island … Her lawyer…”

  “If she has anything to say about it, tell her she has a choice: she can go free, but has to talk to me once beforehand, or she goes straight into investigative custody. Which means numerous interrogations. It’s up to her.”

  There was a brief silence. Then Kadeg said: “I think we’ll see one another soon, on the island.”

  “I think so too. I’ll wait for you.”

  Dupin hung up. While they had been talking he had carefully slipped out of the museum.

  There was one thing that had remained on his mind the whole time. The phone call with his mother. One way or the other, he had to deal with it before long. And there was no way he wanted her to end up calling Nolwenn again. He took the telephone in his hand, bravely.

  * * *

  “Boss! Boss!”

  Yet again Dupin had headed down to the quay and once again Riwal had emerged from one of the small alleyways just in front of him.

  “You were busy, boss. Jumeau is there. He’s sitting in the Chez Bruno.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Dupin headed straight to the bar’s little terrace. The call with his mother had been awful. But quickly over. It may have been the circumstance—lucky for him that the florist had just arrived and she was “occupied.” He had poured out the truth to her, that the case had become more complicated since their last conversation, that there had been a third victim, that they had so far seen no sight of land in their investigations and that therefore it appeared more unlikely than ever that he could come tomorrow.

  Despite him setting it out twice, she hadn’t accepted his conclusion for a single minute, even at a rudimentary level, but had remained basically where she was. It was a technique—completely ignoring his information—which she had mastered perfectly. Anything she didn’t want to hear she simply didn’t hear. End of story. And that was the merciless but nonexistent punch line. She had mastered completely the ability to leave whomever it was with a bad conscience.

  The lean young fisherman was sitting with a petit café, and seemed almost pensive.

  “I would like to know,” Dupin began to say before he had even reached the table, while Jumeau had just turned his head toward the commissaire, “what the large sum Laetitia Darot had transferred to you was all about.”

  Dupin sat on the facing stool, Riwal next to him. The question didn’t seem to bother Jumeau in the least.

  “I’m in financial difficulties. Have been for the past two or three years.” He said it with no sign of self-pity or regret. It seemed nothing to him to admit it. “Fishing is a complicated business, for somebody like me anyhow.”

  “And she just sent you a bank transfer of ten thousand euros? Just like that, a large sum like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  Jumeau gave Dupin an indifferent look.

  “Was it meant as a loan?”

  “No.”

  The problem was that Dupin himself hadn’t the faintest idea what the money transfer might have been about. Not even to what extent it might or might not be criminal. Even given the—extremely speculative, extremely airy-fairy—considerations that had come to light over the past few hours, no scenario occurred to him. Even so, ten thousand euros was a hell of a lot of money.

  “Do you have debts?” Riwal took over.

  “A loan from the bank for the boat. And I already had an overdraft on my account. I didn’t ask her for it in any way. She had got hold of it by chance. And without another comment, asked me for my account number.”

  For Jumeau, that was a remarkably thorough answer.

  Laetitia Darot had a regular income, and not too bad a one. But even for her it must have been a lot of money. Riwal would have mentioned if there had been irregularities on her account, such as large deposits, for example.

  Riwal continued: “What if Laetitia Darot had paid you for, let’s say, specific tasks? Perhaps for your help in recovering something? Or”—he wrinkled his brow—“for you to observe Morin and his boats taking par
t in something illegal?”

  Obviously, that was easily plausible, although Dupin was getting more and more interested in the former idea.

  “She just gave it to me like that. To help me.”

  “And,” Riwal continued, “you did nothing for her in return?”

  “Nothing at all.” Jumeau fell silent. “She was like that. Money meant nothing to her.”

  “At the beginning of June, during the heat wave”—Dupin was keeping his eyes on Jumeau, alert for the slightest movement of his eyes, his mouth, his facial muscles—“the two women were out one day together in Céline Kerkrom’s boat and came back relatively late in the evening, as the sun was already going down.”

  “I remember the hot days. So what?” He showed no reaction.

  “You docked your boat shortly before the two did. At the front of the quay.”

  “That’s where I always dock.”

  Jumeau didn’t even appear impatient, something that would have been understandable enough given Dupin’s awkward behavior. Riwal looked as if he was waiting for the punch line.

  “Do you remember that day, Monsieur Jumeau?”

  “I can only remember one of the evenings when Céline came in late. I had everything tied up when I spotted her boat at the back on the first jetty. I didn’t notice whether or not Laetitia was with her.”

  “Was it already dusk?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Did you come back down later to the moorings? To the sheds?”

  “No.”

  Dupin thought for a moment. Then he spoke deliberately, sharply: “Where did the pair of them take it, Monsieur Jumeau? Where is it now? We know about their find.”

  The surprising question was initially met with nothing at all. This time too, Jumeau hadn’t shown even the slightest reaction.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jumeau said.

  Was Dupin deceiving himself or had the fisherman sounded unusually sad?

  “And I don’t believe a word you say.”

  “The decision’s up to you.”

  “We know…” Dupin was about to try it again, then gave up.

  The message that they knew about some discovery hadn’t had any visible effect on Jumeau. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to mention it at all. Dupin was annoyed. Without warning he got up and said: “Thank you.”

  It would have been a good opportunity to drink another café, but Dupin had lost enthusiasm. He was extremely annoyed. With everything. But most of all with himself. The whole case was going against the grain. Everything kept going head over heels. They weren’t even managing a rudimentary investigation, to follow a thread properly. Figures were marginalized, then suddenly surfaced again, tasks left undiscussed. He felt everything was falling short.

  He turned around and left the terrace silently.

  Riwal stood up indecisively, looked at Jumeau, who didn’t seem to be bothered by Dupin suddenly leaving, murmured, “Au revoir, monsieur. We’ll be in touch,” and followed the commissaire.

  At the end of the quay Dupin turned onto the path that led directly to the sea, and inevitably, like all the others, to the lighthouse. Next to the path lay a gigantic rusty steel ship’s screw, just like the other bits of shipwrecks that rose up around the island, like sculptures in a vast open-air museum. And under the great ship’s screw there was a family of rabbits with little ones.

  “Have we got anything yet on Morin’s alleged sunken smuggler’s boat?”

  “I’ve asked for all the checks to be carried out at maximum priority, but it’s going to take a while yet.”

  That was how it went. Follow-up checks took time. No matter how much Dupin resented it.

  “Nolwenn is helping out. She has a good contact in the authorities.”

  “Perfect.” That reassured Dupin.

  “Do you really think”—Riwal made a serious face; something seemed to be worrying him—“that it’s really all about the sunken boat, that it’s Morin we’re after?”

  “I don’t know!” That was the truth. “We have to keep looking in every direction.”

  Riwal cleared his throat, not particularly discreetly.

  “Has anyone ever told you that Professor Lapointe was a particular specialist on Ys?” Riwal held back, then reformulated what he had just said: “I mean, he was an expert on local archaeology in general, but in particular on Ys. For the past two or three years, the legend-soaked city was his chief point of interest.”

  “Ys, really?” Dupin wasn’t in the mood for the rich treasury of Breton legends.

  “Kerkrom and Darot might have made some archaeological find on the seabed, that’s what I mean. An important find. Something precious, of high value. And maybe that’s why they sought out Professor Lapointe and his expertise. Advice. The business with the analysis of the material would be plausible in that case. Darot and Kerkrom’s purchase of technical stuff too. The new lifting arm, and the high-quality sonar which was capable of scanning the seabed beneath the mud and layers of sand. They could find anything with that.”

  Dupin was silent.

  “It would also explain why Kerkrom and Darot were out to sea in a region where they had never been before. Maybe Darot had found it first. In the entrance to Douarnenez Bay, where the dolphins go in summer to hunt squid. And then she had taken Kerkrom there. Kerkrom’s boat is vastly better equipped for salvaging something. And when they spent some time in the relevant region somebody noticed. The harbor chief and Vaillant for sure, as we know. But maybe someone else too. And they were watched. It could all have happened like that.”

  “You mean”—Dupin was trying to keep a neutral tone in his voice—“this is all about some sunken treasure in the end?”

  This time it was Riwal who fell silent while the commissaire tested out the theory.

  Dupin chose to follow the adventurous thread: “Say the two of them made a hugely important archaeological find? A cross, for example? Or something similar?”

  He had spoken as absolutely casually as he could. But even so, at the word “cross” Riwal raised his eyebrows. “What leads you to the cross idea?”

  Dupin made a dismissive gesture. “At the beginning of June the Anthony boy had been watching Kerkrom and Darot when they came back in aboard Kerkrom’s boat at dusk with something on board. An object as big as he himself, he says, wrapped in a cloth. As far as he was concerned the object had the shape of a cross.” Dupin interrupted himself and added—he clearly found it difficult to do—“He said it was a cross. The next day he asked Kerkrom and she told him it was a wooden beam she needed for her house.”

  Dupin had reckoned it was important to put it all in as matter-of-fact a tone as possible, but it wasn’t exactly easy to treat the business with the cross as matter-of-fact.

  Riwal had stopped in his tracks. For a moment he had looked pale. Then a light appeared in his eyes. Just the reaction Dupin had feared. The commissaire quickly added: “I think it might have been the engine or a part of the stern end of the sunken boat, a piece of a plank maybe. With the identification number on it.”

  “You know what they say about Ys, boss, don’t you?” Riwal was trying hard to keep his excitement under control but not succeeding. “When they read mass in the big church in Ys on Good Friday, the city will arise again. And Dahut will come back. The legendary empire will rise again. And here comes the crucial bit, even if you aren’t going to believe it: the mass, according to one of the reports”—reports rather than legends, Dupin noted—“that day has to be read under the great gold cross, standing on the church altar! The emblem of the legendary cathedral.”

  In fact Dupin wasn’t unhappy: the more fantastic the stories got, the less he had to bother with them.

  Another two rabbits appeared just in front of them; they only ever seemed to appear in pairs, again with daredevil speed.

  “And are there some versions of the legend in which there actually is a great golden cross that plays a role?” Dupin had asked the foll
ow-up question against his will.

  “There are indeed.”

  “Tell me about it.” He was sure he was going to regret asking. “Briefly. In as few words as possible, just the important bits of the myth, in a nutshell.”

  Riwal took a deep breath. “King Gradlon the Great was the king of Cornouaille, a famous king, repeatedly victorious and extremely rich, the son of Conan Mériadec, the first king of Armorica. The historic score could have been settled in the fourth or fifth centuries. Gradlon met the magnificent Malgven in the fjords of the north, and she bore him a daughter, Dahut, but herself died in childbirth. Dahut grew up to be an even more beautiful woman than her mother. Gradlon loved her more than life itself. Because she loved the sea more than anything else, he had a city built for her directly by the sea, the most splendid city the world had ever seen—with roofs of pure gold. And a spectacular cathedral. Great walls, the size of houses, surrounded the city, protecting this little empire from the sea. There was a single great gate, to which Gradlon alone had the key.

  “Gradlon was a wise king loved by all and had an important adviser called Guénolé. Dahut was self-obsessed and greedy, but her father considered her a ray of sunlight and didn’t see it. He named her queen and gave her the key to the gate. No man was good enough for her until one day she met a young prince at a ball, considered him the most handsome man on earth, and wanted to have him. She was a queen now and had power and vast riches, and now she also had love. The prince wanted a sign of her commitment. One night of the full moon she handed him the key. But the prince,” Riwal caught his breath briefly, “was the devil himself. During the night he transformed back into his diabolical form and used the key to open the great gate. Within next to no time the whole city sank into the Atlantic. The king and his adviser saved themselves initially by climbing to the highest tower of the castle. Suddenly two horses emerged from the sea and took Gradlon and Guénolé to safety on the shore. The king called ceaselessly after his daughter—Dahut! Dahut!—but he caught no more than a glimpse of her in a wave. ‘It’s all my fault, I’m cursed,’ she called to her father. Then she disappeared beneath the waves, of her own choice.” Riwal was clearly moved.