It didn’t matter, nothing mattered.
“I had to freshen myself up, I’ve just got here.”
Claire sat down without ceremony, took the bottle, and poured herself a glass. No less than Dupin had in his glass.
“My assistant doctor managed to come earlier.”
Dupin hadn’t said a word. He was too perplexed, and too pleased.
Claire.
No matter what he said, it wouldn’t have been able to express how happy he was.
Now everything was good.
Claire had that effect. She didn’t need to say a word. She just had to be there.
In this first year of being together in Brittany, they hadn’t seen as much of each other as he had hoped. But that wasn’t what it was about.
She was there. She would always be there.
“I…”
“Georges.” Paul Girard came over to them. “Telephone, for you…”
Dupin didn’t want to answer, whoever it was. He took the phone reluctantly.
“Yes?”
“Bon appétit, Monsieur le Commissaire. I won’t disturb you long,” Nolwenn said in a quiet voice. “You have to see things positively. You solved the case. You made everything clear. You did your job. But”—she spoke now immensely seriously—“you still don’t have everything in your hand. No one has. Not even you. I know, it’s hard for you to accept that. It is hard. But unalterable. And we’ll get Morin eventually. You’ll see.” She changed to an aggressive tone. “Nobody in Brittany gets away with lynch justice just like that. Where would we get to like that? No matter how unscrupulous a character Leblanc might have been. You absolutely mustn’t have your conversation with the prefect before tomorrow. Not until all the searches have been carried out. That way the case is still live. Right, now”—her voice became more lighthearted—“enjoy your evening with Claire. Tomorrow you have to start early. Call from Paris when you get there. Then we can talk over everything else. Until then, forget it all. We’re going into the brasserie here now to get something to eat. So, bonne nuit, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Clear instructions.
Nolwenn waited a few moments before hanging up—just long enough for Dupin to pick up all the threads. He would actually have talked to Nolwenn about the cross, at least a few sentences. But he’d let the moment pass.
And as soon as he had set the phone down on the corner of the table so that Paul could pick it up again, he had forgotten everything again.
Claire glanced at him curiously.
“Everything’s in order. Just a few—things—that need sorting.” Dupin hesitated briefly, then the words flowed with surprising certainty. “But they’ll sort themselves out.”
“Does that mean we’re going to Paris tomorrow?” Claire was genuinely pleased.
“Tomorrow morning. Paris!”
“Then we can spend Sunday morning in the park? And not come back until the evening?”
On Sunday mornings on fine summer days they used to go into the Jardin du Luxembourg, not far from Dupin’s apartment, and sit there in the sunshine in the brightly colored chairs, buried for hours in the Sunday newspapers with all their amazing supplements, the chairs close to each other so that their arms touched. Meanwhile Dupin had fetched both of them a café, a croissant, a brioche.
“Yes, we’ll do that.”
All of a sudden, Paul Girard was standing next to them again. This time with a really big plate. One of his waiters was standing behind him with a round metal rack.
“I just really fancied them.” Claire’s eyes sparkled. “And we’ve got the time. The entrecôte comes afterward.”
The waiter had put the metal rack in the center of the table, and Paul placed the large plate on top: oysters, langoustines, praires, palourdes—the little sea creatures, and the big ones: an immense crab.
It was perfect.
“Lots of time.”
Dupin looked at Claire.
And took a large sip of the wine.
Epilogue
Four weeks had passed.
Dupin had told the world the dramatic story, exactly as he had known it.
The prefect had for the very first time allowed him to speak on his own at a press conference, the matter having become too awkward for him in many ways, he had admitted frankly, although he welcomed the media fuss.
For Dupin things hadn’t become awkward.
He had spoken completely seriously. Leblanc’s crime had to be spelled out: his cold-blooded murder of three human beings. He related the story of the murders in minute detail. Part of that was the possibility that he had had an accomplice, something that was for Dupin a particularly important hypothesis because of the question of the location of the cross.
Riwal, Kadeg, and he had continued the investigation in every direction, had gone through everything again in the smallest detail, had talked once again to everybody, as well as with those they hadn’t spoken to. Leblanc’s telephone calls, his computer, email account, bank accounts, all of them had been thoroughly examined. But they had found no hint of an accomplice, and no mention of a cross or an “archeological find.”
Leblanc had acted very cleverly, very cautiously. The result was that the accomplice hypothesis was officially dropped. Eventually even by Dupin himself. Something—like so much else in this case—that he found incredibly difficult.
Dupin also felt obliged to report with the same exactitude on the crime committed against Leblanc, his unscrupulous murder. Dupin had calmly set out that he was totally convinced it was a revenge murder. Surprisingly the prefect didn’t object, even though he hadn’t a trace of evidence.
Obviously, as Dupin had expected, the press, media, and public saw the brutality of the killer as such that Leblanc’s death was nothing more than the punishment he deserved. Once again Dupin saw the influence of Morin in that he himself didn’t turn up, but a whole row of influential people did, and gave lengthy interviews in which they repeatedly referred to a “chain of unlucky circumstances.” That was the way it went. But Dupin didn’t let himself be influenced. He was continuing the investigation into the “police pursuit of a bolincheur suspected of smuggling.” A few actually applauded, while others shook their heads heavily. He wouldn’t rest until they knew if the boat still existed. If not, then they would really get started.
Charges were laid against the captain of the Gradlon, although the chances were slim of it coming to a trial, never mind a conviction. This “incident” had also been thoroughly reconstructed. Reports were submitted, thorough reports. The captain and seven seamen stated that it had been an accident. It was not them but a Zodiac traveling far too fast and too near the coast on a turbulent sea that was itself to blame. The reports had all referred to the adverse conditions. Nonetheless there remained a series of puzzling questions—for example why the trawler was coming out of Douarnenez harbor at all, when the sea fifty kilometers farther had suddenly been too rough for them?
The police investigation into the harbormistress on account of the discovery in her garden house of the murder weapon—which did indeed bear traces of the blood of all three victims—was dropped. In return Madame Gochat had dropped her charges against Dupin and the police and admitted she had guessed there was something to do with a “treasure,” which was why she had Kerkrom followed.
But what people had most been absorbed by over the past four weeks was the cross. The big golden cross Dupin had told them about. Despite the fact it hadn’t been found yet.
There was no hint of it, not a trace. No more witnesses. Just Dupin. A team of forensic experts who had specially come down from Paris had searched the cave, and in particular the dip in the ground. Without bringing the slightest thing to light.
The crazy thing was: the fact that the cross was missing was no bad thing; quite the opposite. Its absence gave free range to the boldest speculation, free fantasy and fable. A riot of imagination had broken out. Whether it was at the baker’s in the morning, at the Maison de la Presse, in the Amiral, it was th
e subject of discussion everywhere. The newspapers, the radio and television—local, regional, national—and of course the Internet, the most ripe medium for gossip, were filled with the most exotic tales told for days and weeks. Naturally most were about Ys. Some—and it was more than just a handful—saying a mythical realm was about to return, to the extent that even Riwal, reading the morning papers, furiously cried “Ridiculous!” and “What a load of humbug!”
The leader of the scientific expedition that was due to look for the ruins of Ys in Douarnenez Bay next year had announced he was bringing the whole thing forward, as they’d had three large donations. The regional council had turned head over heels to give permission to the plans. Only a few scientists and art historians had meticulously passed around Dupin’s description of the thing, which had in any case remained very vague. But none of them had dared to offer a guess, or place it in the context of a history of art.
What wasn’t reported was that the police search for the cross had meanwhile been called off. Dupin found that hard to live with.
It took a while, but gradually the press reports tailed off, primarily because there was no follow-up. It had been three days now without a single item on the subject.
Even at the commissariat the cross no longer seemed a topic of conversation.
Only Dupin couldn’t rest, found no inner peace.
In conversations with Claire or Nolwenn he heard himself saying that one day the cross would turn up again. But he realized it only made it seem more mysterious.
ALSO BY JEAN-LUC BANNALEC
Death in Brittany
Murder on Brittany Shores
The Fleur de Sel Murders
The Missing Corpse
About the Author
International bestselling author JEAN-LUC BANNALEC divides his time between Germany and coastal Brittany, France. He is also the author of Death in Brittany, Murder on Brittany Shores, The Fleur de Sel Murders, and The Missing Corpse. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Day One
Day Two
Epilogue
Also by Jean-Luc Bannalec
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE KILLING TIDE. Copyright © 2016 by Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch. Translation copyright © 2020 by Peter Millar. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design: David Baldeosingh Rotstein and Rowen Davis
Cover photographs: France © Don White / Alamy Stock Photo
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Bannalec, Jean-Luc, 1966–author. | Millar, Peter, translator.
Title: The killing tide / Jean-Luc Bannalec; translated by Peter Millar.
Other titles: Bretonische Flut. English
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2020. | Series: A Brittany mystery; 5 | First published as Bretonische Flut in Germany by Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019036389 | ISBN 9781250173386 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250173393 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PT2662.A565 B73413 2020 | DDC 833/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019036389
eISBN 9781250173393
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
Originally published as Bretonische Flut in Germany by Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch
First U.S. Edition: February 2020
The Killing Tide Page 37