“Yes, please?” A slim, dark-haired woman was standing in front of them, friendly but clearly not with unlimited patience, a little notepad and pen in her hands.
“Two, please,” Dupin announced.
“Gladly, sir. Two—that would be two what, precisely?”
“The lobster ragout!” Riwal blurted out. “And two glasses of Quincy.”
“Make it a bottle,” Dupin corrected him.
The woman nodded appreciatively and disappeared.
This was a great place to sit too. From Ar Men’s daringly pink painted tables and benches you looked out onto the rear of the island, the lighthouse and the chapel, down the road to the cholera cemetery, fields of the tiny pink flowers here and there. And on either side: the sea.
The milky white of the sky that had replaced the magnificent blue—there was no doubt about that—had gradually but inexorably turned to a hazy gray. Riwal looked as if he were still in another world. And he was once again in story-telling mode.
“Merlin, the most famous magician in the world, was a good friend of the nine witches of Sein. He came to the island regularly, to talk with them about the art of magic.” With every word his story gained vitality. “They told Merlin of their visions, including the future of a great king, that of the Arthur we all know, whom Merlin met a little later. One day Arthur was wounded in a fierce battle at Camlann. So badly that not even Merlin could save him. To cut to the quick, he brought Arthur here to the Île de Sein. To the nine witches. Who made him a shrine of pure gold. Veleda, the healer amongst them, ‘the woman from another world,’ took charge of him. He was as good as dead. But she restored him to life. Not even Merlin knew how. She had the power to open the doors to the underworld. You see, the island plays an important role even in the legend of Arthur.” Riwal’s eyes were gleaming.
Dupin said nothing.
He felt helpless.
“Monsieur le Commissaire!”
Dupin flinched in shock. Kadeg. He had almost forgotten him. The next moment the second inspector was standing, breathing hard, next to the table. For him, he was making something of an impression.
And there was a reason:
“She got away from me,” he said, his tone a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “She’s crafty! After the conversation with you she had to phone her husband straightaway. She walked around the harbor, not looking at all suspicious. Between the piers—”
“What are you talking about, Kadeg?”
“Gochat! She’s gone. She’s left the island. Her husband came to collect her with a boat. At some time she wandered down to the big pier, and all of a sudden a boat pulled up to the big rocks by the entrance to the harbor, pulled up next to them very briefly, and then she was gone.”
It didn’t really surprise Dupin. Even so, it was irritating.
“How do you know it was her husband?”
“I recognized the name of the boat, Ariane DZ. It’s registered to François Gochat, and I saw a man.”
“You can get anywhere with that boat,” Riwal, the expert, chipped in, “and fast. It has an excellent engine, I saw it yesterday in Douarnenez.”
Kadeg looked grief-stricken, a rare sight.
“Make sure that Gochat is watched as soon as she reaches Douarnenez harbor. And then take over yourself. Now.” Dupin spoke extraordinarily perkily. “Would you like to eat something first, Inspector Kadeg?”
Kadeg had been on his feet longer than either of them. And you could see it. At the moment, however, he looked astonished; he had expected a totally different reaction.
But he didn’t protest. “The lobster ragout?” he asked, anticipation in his voice.
“Yes.” Not long later he was sitting peacefully alongside Riwal on the bench, Dupin opposite them, each of them lost in their thoughts. Happily it wasn’t long before the waitress arrived with the bottle of Quincy and three enormous plates, then the vast cooking pot, full to the brim, lobster claws sticking out left and right. As if the cook had known the state of their stomachs and wanted to cheer them up. They could have invited a couple of ordinary uniformed police to join them and all of them would have been full.
“Phenomenal, isn’t it, boss?”
Dupin nodded, a nod of serious agreement. It really was magnificent, hearty and full of flavor. You could taste the sea itself, the character of the island, compared with which the lobster meat was sweet and tender; a confusing but wonderful mixture. And the cold white wine with it. Pure happiness.
The ring of Dupin’s phone tore them out of their mix of exhaustion and enchantment.
It was Nolwenn.
“Yes?” Dupin swallowed the last bite.
He could hear the satisfaction in Nolwenn’s voice: “I’ve found the eighty-six-year-old brother of Lucas Darot, Laetitia Darot’s alleged father. He lives a solitary life in a tiny hick town near Pointe du Raz and sounds pretty sprightly to me.”
It sounded confusing, but promising.
“A nephew of my husband has a butcher’s shop nearby, and the brother sometimes shops there.”
Dupin still couldn’t quite follow.
“I’ve spoken to him. It’s all true. It was an affair, Laetitia’s mother and Morin. A very short one. Lucas forgave her. And brought up Laetitia as his own child with all his love. He never told anybody. Except for his brother, who had kept it in his heart until today. But now with Laetitia’s death everything is different.”
So it was true. And that was what his gut feeling had been telling him all along.
“A moving story, Monsieur le Commissaire. This case gets right down to the nitty-gritty. It demands everything from us. But lobster ragout gives you strength—you’ll see.”
How could she have already found that out?
“We’re sitting here, Riwal, Kadeg, and me,” Dupin said. “All together in the Ar Men. We can talk it over peacefully here.”
He could hear engine noise over the phone; somebody had just shifted down into lower gear. Nolwenn seemed still to be in the car. Dupin could imagine the chaos. Cars, trucks, tractors, crawling along at a snail’s pace. The “four-lane roads” would be crippled.
“I’m afraid your mother’s party is going to be wrecked. But that’s the way it goes,” Nolwenn said, her tone of voice totally lacking in irony. “There’s nothing to be done. Work is work. See you later, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
Dupin put his phone away and raised his eyes to the sky. The light gray had now become a threatening gray. And it was getting thicker, looking like it was growing into a cloud bank. It covered the whole sky, like a shapeless, diffuse gray wall. There was still not the slightest wind, the air was still. Dupin had never seen anything like it, despite having experienced so many tricks, sensations, phenomena of the weather in the last five years—exposed to the most basic elements of Brittany—that he thought he had seen it all.
They needed to get going again. To pick themselves up.
“We’re going to extend the search to the mainland.” There was an urgency in Dupin’s voice. “There’s nothing more for us to do on the island for now.”
“Where exactly are we going to spread the search to?” Kadeg said with his mouth full. He had to rub it in, of course.
“We will locate all the properties, plots of land, houses, second homes, third homes, sheds, storerooms, and cellars that belong to our protagonists. Starting with Morin.”
“They’ll never tell us,” Kadeg said while appreciatively cracking the last lobster claw, “where they’ve hidden the thing.” The supremely tender, endlessly delicious final tip of the claw disappeared into his mouth. “If there even is such a find! Nobody has seen it yet. The whole thing might just be a fantasy. A small boy who gets bored and dreams up fantastic stories! A new boat trailer, and a few scratches on the floor and in the wall! It’s all very thin.”
It had been a stupid idea to let Kadeg gain new strength. Dupin should have known. The bad bit was Kadeg hadn’t intentionally set out to make a malicious impression. It hadn
’t been his intention to insult Dupin; he meant what he said. And up to a point he was only raising the doubt that kept haunting the commissaire.
“We’re finished here.” Dupin stood up unexpectedly. “We can discuss the details on the boat.” His gaze had again turned to the sky; he was getting ever more queasily worried. He added a postscript intended to be as determined as possible: “First I’ll meet up with Morin again.”
* * *
They were ready to set off. The commissaire and his two inspectors had gathered in the bow of Goulch’s sleek boat.
“The slip lines are loose,” shouted one of the lanky young men to Goulch, who was already at the bridge. One moment there was just a gentle puttering, the next the mighty diesel engine roared away.
Dupin had left four uniformed police officers on the island and given them precise instructions. One each of them should mark Kerkrom’s and Darot’s houses, one at their storage sheds, and one down by the harbor to coordinate the little team. You never knew.
To be on the safe side, Dupin hadn’t asked Goulch about the weather. Could a storm really develop out of this nebulous gray mass? Goulch would let them know in good time if he saw changes worth mentioning in the weather coming toward them.
“First I want us to…”
All of a sudden the diesel engine fell silent. Dupin paused in irritation.
Within seconds Goulch had clambered out of the bridge house, looking extremely worked up, by his standards.
“A radio message, just came in. Charles Morin! They just fished him out of the water. Wounded, bleeding, totally exhausted. He almost drowned, was seemingly saved at the last minute.”
It couldn’t be.
“Morin?”
“Exactly.”
“What happened?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“A coast guard boat. Morin was saved by an algae fisherman. A goémonier. He took him on board and called the coast guard, who had come out from Molène. They must have got to him in a few minutes.”
“I need to know what happened.”
“Like I said, we have no more information for now.”
“Didn’t Morin say anything to the algae fisherman?”
“At least the algae fisher didn’t say anything to the coast guard. It only just happened, I mean the report just came in.”
“Where was he fished out?”
“Four sea miles from Molène, toward the south, toward the Île de Sein, that is. An area with extremely strong currents. And think about the reduced visibility.”
It seemed to have been a lucky chance that they had found him at all and he was still alive.
“Is it possible to talk to Morin? I mean is he fit enough to answer questions?”
“I can’t tell you that either.”
“Where are they taking him?”
“Douarnenez. To the hospital.”
It was obvious what they had to do.
“We head for Douarnenez, as quickly as possible.” Dupin knew what that meant: maximum speed. But there was no alternative.
“Okay, take charge of my radio. The coast guard will come through again.” Goulch handed Dupin the bright yellow device.
A few seconds later the engine was screaming, twice as loud and fierce as before. The boat took a real leap forward.
A quarter of an hour later they were well out into the open sea. Theoretically they ought to have been able to see the Pointe du Raz to the east, but the diffuse gray wall had turned into a horrible, deep dark brew that had nothing in common with normal fog or mist. The sea itself had taken on a pale concrete gray; it was hard to see more than two or three hundred meters. The horizon had long since been swallowed by the ominous mass. Even Goulch wouldn’t be able to see anything, neither the steep cliffs, or worse, the hidden flat rocks, of which there were swarms around here. That meant he would have to rely totally on his high-tech navigation equipment. And he clearly trusted it, because they hadn’t slowed down from maximum speed for even a second. Dupin had passed the quarter hour in silence.
“Stelenn Bir, come in, please.”
The broken voice emanating from the radio in Dupin’s hand gave him a shock.
“Yes, here Bir, Dupin.” He had to pull himself together. “It’s me, Dupin. Captain Goulch is at the helm.”
“We have Charles Morin on board. He’s refusing to be taken to the hospital in Douarnenez. He wants to go to Île Molène. He says he has a house there and the island has a good doctor. Morin is extremely weak and hypothermic. He really needs to go to the hospital,” the coast guard man said professionally and calmly. “But he insists he’s fine. Even if we can hardly understand a word he says.”
It was unbelievable.
“Did he say what happened?”
“He says it was a spot of bad luck.”
“A spot of bad luck?”
The man from the coast guard was unperturbed. “He says he was out line fishing and fell overboard when he leaned too far over the railing to pull the line in. He was caught in a current. His boat was taken two kilometers away. He was spotted by another algae fisherman. The trouble is that these positions simply don’t agree,” the man continued as dryly as ever. “The position where Morin was fished out of the water, and the position where his boat turned up.”
“What do you mean?”
“The currents go the other way.”
“So how can it be that he turned up where he did?”
“No idea.” The coast guard man wasn’t the type to speculate.
“When did this happen?”
“Monsieur Morin says he swam for about half an hour. That makes it around one forty-five that he must have fallen into the water.”
Dupin was silent for a few seconds, different thoughts rushing through his head. Or more accurately, whirling around in his head, like in a snow globe shaken fast and hard.
“Are you still there, Commissaire?”
“Yes.”
“He is conscious and has made clear his wishes.” Dupin knew what that meant, he knew the formula. “We will have to take him to Molène.”
The commissaire didn’t hesitate for a moment. “I’ll come there too.” He had to see Morin.
“As you wish.”
“Where is he injured?”
“His upper arm. It’s bleeding substantially. He says it happened when he fell out of the boat. But when I ask myself how … what the hell. He’s bleeding.”
The whole thing sounded completely absurd.
“You don’t believe him?”
“When he says something like that…”
“You have doubts about his story, am I right?” Dupin also had doubts, great doubts. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“I don’t think so,” the man came back as calmly as ever.
“We’re already on our way, monsieur. Over.”
Riwal and Kadeg had come over to Dupin, and despite the wind noise had overheard every word. Dupin just had to tell Goulch on the bridge. He was back in no time.
“Obviously it wasn’t an accident.” Riwal sounded decisive.
“The coast guard man is undoubtedly an expert on the currents here. It will be exactly as he says.”
That was exactly what Dupin felt too. An accident would be far too much of a chance.
Riwal’s features were dark. “It was an attack.”
“Attempted murder,” Kadeg said more precisely, “an attempt to murder Charles Morin.”
Dupin said nothing.
The consequences were enormous. And turned Dupin’s current scenario to dust. Either that or somebody wanted revenge? Because he had been particularly close to one of the victims and knew Morin was the murderer? That could explain why Morin lied. Why he gave no explanations. Why he’d dished them up the fairy tale about the accident.
Dupin leaned far out over the railing, dangerously far. The wind could blow your head off. He breathed the ferocious airstream in and out a couple of tim
es. Then he went and stood in front of his two inspectors. When things were going bad and you didn’t know how to proceed there was only one thing to do: charge headlong.
Dupin’s voice was clear and steady, strong in presence: “I want to find out from all our suspects where they are now and where they’ve been for the past hour. I want to know precisely, and I want witnesses. Proof. Nothing vague. From now on that’s all we’re interested in. Nothing else anymore.”
“Precisely which individuals?” Riwal asked, just to be sure.
Dupin narrowed his eyes: “Our young fisherman Jumeau; Vaillant, the pirate; our charming harbormistress; Pierre Leblanc; and of course, Frédéric Carrière, Morin’s bolincheur.”
* * *
Morin was half sitting, half lying down, in a brown leather chair in the living room of his house, which was very different to the one in Douarnenez where Dupin had visited him. Simple, plain, not even very big. The one thing that at first glance made it different from the other was the magnificent location: right behind the old harbor with the laguna-like sandy beach, not that there was much to see in the dark gray soup that engulfed the island.
Morin was wearing a jogging outfit and was wrapped in several brightly patterned woolen blankets. He looked to be in a worrying condition. Totally exhausted. It was easy to see that the strain of what had happened had taken its toll on him. He was overwhelmed by shivering fits at irregular intervals, during which he appeared so weak that he looked like he might collapse. At the same time, however, Dupin thought he looked upset, deeply upset, his face muscles contracting and his features distorting.
The doctor had bandaged up Morin’s upper arm so that Dupin unfortunately couldn’t see the wound—“an ordinary wound.” The doctor had also given Morin a painkiller and something for his circulation. And he had made it clear to Dupin that—for medical reasons—he would not leave Morin’s side.
Dupin was on his own; Riwal and Kadeg hadn’t come in with him. “I was fishing, yeah, at one of my secret places, I was standing in a stupid position and fell overboard, wounding myself in doing so—that’s it. That simple.”
The Killing Tide Page 30