The Killing Tide

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  Riwal, somewhere in the distance.

  “Here.”

  He could see the inspector now. Riwal had been standing on the grass outside the institute and now came running toward him. Dupin walked in his direction.

  “They’ve taken Leblanc’s body on board. The body was horribly mutilated. The ship’s screw must have caught him. It must have been a terrible death, his left arm and the whole shoulder are—”

  “That’ll do, Riwal.”

  “I’ve spoken with the captain of the trawler. He’s in shock, or so he says.”

  But of course. Dupin had expected as much.

  “He had seen the Zodiac coming. They had been happy finally to get out of the storm. There are three police cars on their way to Lanildut. We’ll bring the captain and the whole crew to Quimper and interview them.”

  “Do that.”

  It was a waste of time. But they had to give it a go.

  Riwal had already come to terms with Leblanc’s death. Just as everybody else would. Morin had predicted it. Nobody was going to be much bothered by the death of a brutal murderer.

  Dupin put his hands behind his neck.

  “I want—” Then he stopped. “I need to think.”

  He turned abruptly away.

  He needed to be alone.

  * * *

  Only a native of Brittany would believe it. There wasn’t a cloud to see in the whole sky, not one. The fuss over the heavy storm was over. As if the world hadn’t nearly drowned two hours ago. The only reminder of the storm was the fact that everything was wet—including Dupin, his inspectors, and all the uniformed police who had been on duty.

  Dupin had walked on farther. A long way farther. As far as the little bay.

  The whole world was steaming, Douarnenez, the town—on his right hand—the island, the trees, the rocks, the ground. Everything had now warmed up, as the cool rain had sunk into the land. It was an entrancing sight, one Dupin normally loved: these dainty, ethereal plumes. But now he barely noticed them. Nor the warmth and strength of the sun, even in the evening.

  He turned his eyes to the water, hazy, empty. His wrists ached endlessly.

  “Boss?” Riwal was approaching him cautiously from the side. Kadeg next to him. “We’ve—” Riwal began.

  Kadeg interrupted him. “We’ve searched all over the island. It isn’t big. Without finding anybody or anything. Unless there are more hidden caves, then I don’t know where anyone could hide a one-and-a-half-meter-high cross. Especially if you didn’t have much time. We’ve also, by the way, checked the fissure in the other cave. After a few meters it gets ever narrower and more inaccessible. Nobody could get through there.”

  Dupin didn’t reply.

  “Two boats in the bay have been searched.” Riwal made no secret of his disappointment. “They were the only ones to come out after the storm had ended. Nothing suspicious about either. We haven’t found anything yet in the leisure harbor either. The harbormaster couldn’t think of any boat that came in during the time in question. His office is right at the front by the entrance and he has a very good view.”

  “Somebody took it.” Dupin spoke in a low monotone. “Somebody has to have taken it.” The second sentence sounded as if he was pleading. “There’s no other way.”

  “Or,” Kadeg said calmly, “it was the seasickness, like I said. These things happen.” This time too he didn’t want it to seem he was making fun of Dupin.

  “Where were Vaillant, Jumeau, Gochat, and the others in the last hour?”

  “Gochat and her husband turned up back in Douarnenez, we actually caught them at home on their landline. Gochat had something to do in Morgat, she went from the Île de Sein directly there, we checked it out. Out of the question that she could have made a trip to the Île de Trielen during the time in question.”

  “What about Frédéric Carrière, Morin’s bolincheur?”

  “We haven’t managed to raise him yet. I have the number. I’ll try it again now.” Riwal reached for his phone.

  “Same goes for Vaillant. Not to be reached.”

  “If you don’t reach him soon, send out a search warrant for him.”

  Kadeg raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you think that’s a bit over the top?”

  The commissaire ignored Kadeg’s comment.

  The inspector tried to adopt a friendly tone of voice, which was bad news: “I don’t want to offend you, Commissaire, nor do I think that you’ve really lost your mind, but like I said: lots of people have had seasickness and—”

  “That’s enough, Kadeg. Do you understand? That’s the last time!”

  Dupin had made the sentence as forceful as he still could. “Try Vaillant again. Now!”

  The inspector moved away, looking insulted.

  Dupin saw that Riwal, already a few meters away, was on the phone. He seemed to have gotten through to somebody.

  Before long the inspector was back.

  “Carrière headed for Ouessant before the storm. He was there the whole time, in a bar by the harbor. There’s a whole crowd of witnesses. If you want…”

  “That’s fine, Riwal.”

  Yet again the wrong tack.

  “And Jumeau?”

  “Sitting in Chez Bruno. He went back to Sein when the storm broke. He’s out of the question too.”

  It was cursed. Somebody had to have taken the cross.

  Riwal seemed embarrassed. “You shouldn’t despair now, boss. You solved the case.”

  Riwal meant well, but it didn’t help.

  It was unbearable. They had found the killer. A solution to one of the hardest and most challenging cases in his whole career. Then, however, the killer was caught and killed before their very eyes. By the father of one of the victims. Who was himself a criminal—and now a murderer, too. A last brutal twist in an otherwise brutal case. A case filled with dark, devastating moral chasms. A murderer they wouldn’t catch.

  Everything else was laudable enough. But at the same time it wasn’t sufficient. The “spoils”—the thing it had all revolved around—a massive golden cross of inestimable value, had escaped them. Dupin had had it, and had it stolen away from him. When it came down to it, that was a sorry defeat.

  The day had been long, terribly long. Just like the day before. He’d had hardly any sleep either night. And he hadn’t had any caffeine since midday. On top of that his wrists were still aching. To make everything worse, Dupin had to deal with the prefect. Who didn’t want the case cleared up before Monday and would now learn that the case had been “solved.” Anything but a stroke of luck.

  “Boss.” Dupin had almost forgotten that he wasn’t alone. “I’ve been thinking.” Riwal was trying to speak as softly as possible. “To be honest, there was very little time to take the cross. I mean”—he seemed uncertain if he should continue—“twenty minutes isn’t much. Somebody must have been watching you from a boat as you were going to the grotto. The island was full of police. Then, when you came out again, he must have waited until you were some distance away, then moored at the pier, gone into the cave, loaded the cross into a car or something of the sort, maneuvered his way out, and taken it back to the path to the pier. Then loaded it onto the boat, and”—Riwal was using long, awkward phrases—“got away so quickly that we never saw him again. It has to have been a semi-military operation.”

  Dupin had had similar thoughts, a few times, even if he had put them to one side. There was really nothing plausible about such assumptions. Nothing.

  “We’re not getting anywhere with a natural explanation. There’s no doubt about the following: the cross exists. You saw it. Then it was gone,” Riwal whispered, meaningfully. “Something mysterious happened here.”

  Those weren’t the thoughts that had struck Dupin.

  “This isn’t the time for things like that, Riwal.” Something else had just occurred to him. “Where is Leblanc’s assistant, by the way?”

  “She was down in the reception with us the whole time. She behaved extremel
y cooperatively, even if she’s a bit agitated.”

  Then it couldn’t have been her.

  “I think…” Riwal started again in a whispering voice, “it was the cross…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Dupin wasn’t pleased. He could tell from Riwal’s tone what it would have been about: Ys. Or something else fantastic. And that was the last thing that Dupin would have been able to bear now: a serious mention of the supernatural.

  “Vaillant is in Ouessant,” Dupin continued.

  Kadeg had come closer unnoticed and said, “They went there for safety’s sake. Obviously reception was patchy during the storm. There are witnesses, he says, we can…”

  “—speak to him any time,” Dupin said. “Damn.”

  “Another thing: the units who searched Leblanc’s house and weekend retreat want to know if they are still needed.”

  “They can go home,” Dupin said wearily.

  “I think so too.” Kadeg marched off.

  Dupin took a few weak paces along the shore. And then stopped.

  Riwal followed him discreetly.

  The commissaire and inspector stood there silently together in the bright evening sun for a while.

  “Kadeg and I will deal with the interview with the captain in Quimper. Maybe, maybe we’ll come up with something.” Riwal was trying to be somewhat circumspect.

  “Do that.”

  “And,” speaking decisively now, “I think you should also go home, boss. That’s it for today.”

  Nothing happened. It wasn’t even clear if Dupin had heard what he said. Then he gave a deep sigh.

  “You can rely on the fact that our colleagues will carry out the searches at the harbor conscientiously. If they find anything we’ll hear about it straightaway. And obviously we’ll leave a few uniformed police officers on the island to keep watch on everything. Through the night as well.”

  There really wasn’t any more they could do.

  “You should also have your wrists looked at.”

  Dupin glanced at his hands. There were notable large swellings on both wrists. As far as the base of his fingers. They hadn’t been there until now. There was a blue sheen to his skin.

  “I … right, Riwal.” Embarrassed, he tried to stick his hands in his pants pockets. Which was a stupid idea.

  “Let’s go.”

  Riwal’s face showed deep relief, which clearly meant more than just Dupin’s readiness to let things be for the evening.

  “You’re through now, boss. You actually were lucky. Good luck amidst bad. Things can go like that. You should be glad.”

  Dupin had no idea what the inspector was on about.

  “You have the aura of the island to thank, its bright aura. They say the grave of Tristan and Isolde, their last and eternal reunion on the island, wards off harm. It’s supposed to be somewhere near the cliffs above the grottos.”

  Dupin still hadn’t understood, but had got enough to be sure he didn’t want to.

  “Do you understand? The evil spell is diminished by the other, the good spell. The curse of the seven graves was too strong to be completely neutralized.” Riwal shot a stolen glance at Dupin’s hands. “It so often ends in death. But…”

  “Enough, Riwal. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  His harsh reaction didn’t seem to have any effect at all on Riwal. The relief on his face had even turned into a smile.

  “Fine, boss. I’ll let Kadeg and the captain know. We’ll meet up on the boat.”

  Dupin winced at the mention of the word “boat,” but then got a grip on himself again. It really was only a stone’s throw to the mainland.

  More important, he had had another thought. A wonderful thought, such a seductive promise, that it gave him new strength. In an hour’s time he would be sitting in the Amiral in front of a wonderful entrecôte frites and a rich, velvety Languedoc wine.

  “Can I just borrow your phone for a moment, Riwal?”

  The inspector handed it to Dupin. “You can give it back to me on the boat.”

  Riwal turned away.

  It was one of the few numbers Dupin knew by heart, one that his head had no problem retaining.

  “Hello?”

  “Claire, it’s me.”

  “Georges? This isn’t your number.”

  “I’ll explain later. Could we eat together tonight?”

  “I … I can’t, Georges, I thought … Are you finished already?”

  “More or less.”

  “I didn’t think you’d have the time. That’s why I agreed to stay on to midnight. I could do it after that. But that’s ridiculous. The earliest I could get to the Amiral would be a quarter to one. But I’ll come to your place, naturally. As soon as I can. I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Claire.” Dupin did his best to sound convincing, but didn’t succeed. “We’ll see each other later then, at my place. I’ll look forward to it.” There was only real enthusiasm in the last sentence.

  “See you later, Georges.”

  That was a shame, a real shame.

  He had to rely on the vision of the delicious entrecôte to help him. Which it did. Even if it couldn’t rescue everything.

  * * *

  The sun hadn’t gone down yet, but it wouldn’t be long now. It had already spectacularly colored the western sky in all imaginable, softly merging shades of red, orange, lilac, and pink. The sea too. The sun itself had chosen a classic yellow for its performance.

  Shadows had grown endlessly long, of everything, including the row of plane trees on the big Quai Square where Dupin had for ages parked his old Citroën. The soft light covered the trees and the rest of the world with a warm golden sheen. Made them light up magically.

  The shadow of the restaurant—a fine old building from the end of the nineteenth century—stretched almost as far as his car.

  Only the sight of the Amiral changed Dupin’s mood.

  The anticipation of the entrecôte had made him put his foot on the gas. But even more urgent was the desire to get home. Back home to Concarneau. And, above all, unquestioned reality. To leave behind the island of fantasy, the whole region of fantasy with its legends, myths, and wild stories. The sinister case and the grim fatalities.

  Dupin opened the heavy door, and went in.

  And saw his regular seat. In the corner on the left near the bar. It was free. Dupin relaxed. He hadn’t warned the owner, Paul Girard.

  He had made a few calls from his car phone. First and foremost he had tried to get hold of the prefect, feeling unwell about the idea of somebody else summarizing the events. He himself didn’t know exactly what he would tell him, and how. But the prefect had only his voicemail turned on. Dupin saw him in his mind’s eye, hidden in a ditch next to a hugely busy highway, enthusiastically bent over the latest high-tech radar equipment which they were currently testing.

  The fact that his regular seat wasn’t taken also meant, however, that Claire definitely hadn’t arrived; he had secretly hoped she might have managed it.

  Paul Girard was standing at the other end of the bar, opening a bottle of wine. He gave Dupin a long look, warm and friendly. A surprisingly emotional greeting by his standards. The long look was also asking if there was any difference to the usual order, the meal for particularly stressful, difficult days.

  Obviously not.

  Dupin sat down at the already laid table for two.

  More accurately, he collapsed onto the dark blue, pleasantly upholstered bench. With the last of his strength. He pulled off his jacket. It was still damp and smelled of salt and seaweed. Like everything he was wearing. It occurred to him he must look completely disheveled, all the worse for wear. He didn’t care.

  The first tables were already empty, the big ones, for families. The others, the tables for two, were already being served dessert.

  It was Friday night, the mood was relaxed, easygoing.

  Dupin liked the noise in the room, a cozy background noise that created a jovial, anima
ted atmosphere.

  The captain of the deep-sea trawler would be in Quimper by now. Kadeg and Riwal were probably beginning the interview in the next few minutes. But Dupin wasn’t going to think any more about that. It only made him angry. And would change nothing.

  He knew less and less what he should be thinking about the vanished cross, and everything had seemed more unreal with every kilometer he distanced himself from the mythical island. There again he had seen it. With his own eyes. Which might have played a devilish prank on him; there were more than enough devils in the many wild legends. This cross existed—of that the commissaire was certain—a remarkable archeological find that had been the cause of three brutal murders.

  And he would have to talk about the cross. The cross of gold. The whole truth, the whole story. Even though it would cause a huge fuss, a riot in the media. But whatever it caused, he was putting it aside for this evening.

  What he did have to do was give a quick call to his mother. To relieve her. And above all to relieve himself. No more hardnosed putting her off. Yes, he would be there tomorrow. The party had been saved. And so had his soul.

  He would ring Nolwenn too. The “big operation” had to be over by now. A chat with Nolwenn at the end of a case belonged anyhow to his fixed rituals.

  Paul Girard headed toward him with a decanter carafe in his right hand, which he put down on the table with an unusually ceremonial gesture.

  “I’ve found a last bottle of Le Vieux Télégraphe, your favorite Châteauneuf-du-Pape, 2004. The secret last bottle for extraordinary occasions, and emergencies. There was a lot of talk this evening.” A conspiratorial smile.

  “Wonderful.”

  Dupin adored this wine; he was moved.

  Paul poured the wine, rather more than one normally poured into this round-bellied glass. He meant well toward the commissaire.

  He set the carafe on the table and was gone in a flash.

  Dupin lifted the glass, ignoring the pain in his wrist the movement caused.

  He sat there rather reverently.

  The first sip.

  “You’re not going to drink it without me?”

  Dupin looked up. Wine spilled over the rim of the glass and splashed on his polo shirt.