“Do all oyster farms do that here, including you?” Dupin still found the idea dubious somehow.

  “You don’t know much about oyster farming, do you?” The question had not been phrased in a malicious way, but Kolenc did now sigh audibly.

  Dupin didn’t have the slightest clue about oyster farming; of course, quite a few people had told him about it on quite a few occasions over the last five years, but, of course, he had often not listened; generally that was one of his greatest talents: pretty elegant “not-listening” when something didn’t interest him.

  “You need to know the differences between reproduction, farming, and refinement.”

  “Really?”

  Dupin particularly wanted to understand refinement.

  “Reproduction only takes place in a few areas. In Brittany, for example, it takes place in Cancale or in the parks between the Couesnon and the Loire. Then farther downstream by the Atlantic, in the Arcachon Bay. The creuses come to us at eighteen months for farming, including refinement. That takes another eighteen months. We get the plates once they’re fully grown—just for refinement. For proper refinement.”

  “And how long does that take?”

  “Different lengths of time. Everyone decides for themselves. We say six months.”

  “Is there a minimum?”

  “It’s strictly regulated. Fifteen days. What you really have to know the differences between are farms who cultivate the oysters in their own parks and refine them properly and then finally sell them as their own oysters from here, and the farms,” Kolenc sounded scornful now for the first time, “who do nothing more than refine other people’s oysters for the minimum time—and then send them back. They do nothing more than rent out their parks, the spaces in the water here. Including to foreign companies.”

  “Do you know of farms round here that refine oysters from Scotland? In the proper way or in the minimal way?”

  This was the point Dupin was essentially interested in. Possible connections to Scotland. Direct, indirect, it didn’t matter. Refinement would be, if he understood correctly, a plausible reason why a Scotsman, a Scottish oyster farmer, would actually come to Port Belon.

  “No. But it’s possible. We only refine our own oysters.”

  He sounded proud. Kolenc turned aside and got out a steel brush. He began to brush the bags down vigorously, dirt, shells, and scraps of seaweed falling away.

  “Is it big business? Refinement in general?”

  “It is indeed. The oysters come from many European countries. I’ve heard they even come from Japan and China. But most of them are from France, from the less famous oyster regions.”

  “Who does that kind of business here?”

  “In Port Belon, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “The trader, Madame Premel. And Matthieu Tordeux, one of the three farmers. You’ll need to ask them about business ties to Scotland. Just like us, the Château de Belon doesn’t do it.”

  Dupin had heard of those two before, too.

  “You’ll just have to watch out, there’s no love lost between Tordeux and Premel. Apart from them, some of the big farms in Riec do it. They have much bigger nurseries all the way along the stretch of the river between here and Riec. It’s four or five kilometers; they have factories everywhere there.”

  Pretty little Riec-sur-Belon was the oyster capital on the river. Just a few minutes away from Port Belon by car. Dupin was fond of it. There was a wonderful bakery there, a well-stocked newsagent, and a lovely market.

  “You said something about…” The commissaire searched for a term he had just noted down. He generally made a lot of notes—although usually just single terms. You never knew when it might come in handy. “Seed oysters. About seed oysters, you said this couldn’t be about them. What does that mean?”

  “Seed oysters are the oyster babies. As I mentioned, reproduction only happens in a few areas. From there, they are in turn sold to other areas for farming and refinement. In Scotland, for example, the oysters don’t spawn. The water is too cold. There’s no reproduction there.”

  “Where do the seed oysters here in the Belon come from?”

  “Some are supplied from other countries, mostly from Holland, the largest seed oyster producer in Europe. Lots come from the Arcachon Bay too. We only get our seed oysters from Brittany. And the plates that come here already fully grown, ours are from Brittany too. They love the Belon.”

  “And this is big business too—the seed oyster business?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And the plates, what kind of oysters are they?”

  Kolenc’s eyebrows went up. This was quite clearly the question of a rank amateur.

  “You don’t even eat them?”

  “No.”

  It took a moment for Kolenc to respond. He seemed torn between bafflement and disgust.

  “The huîtres plates are the indigenous ones, the original European oysters. Almost extinct. They are flatter, rounder, smoother, smaller on average.” Kolenc sighed again. “And the creuses—they are, as their name implies, deeper, longer, more dome-like. Originally a Pacific oyster. The creuses make up the lion’s share of the market, throughout Europe and around the world. Like the château, our farm specializes in European oysters, but we also cultivate creuses—most other businesses only cultivate creuses.”

  “And in Scotland?”

  “Both kinds. Like in England. But the European oysters only make up a very small proportion of production everywhere. Of the forty-five thousand tons of oysters that Brittany puts on the market every year, only a thousand tons are huîtres plates.” Kolenc seemed pensive now. “Perhaps this Scotsman just wanted to buy oysters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s quite simple. That he buys finished oysters from the Belon, imports them to Scotland, and sells them on there. Some farmers are also traders. Or he puts them directly on the market himself. Perhaps he has specialized in the plates, they love them in Britain. And he gets them from the Belon. They’re the best.”

  This was of course conceivable. It would be completely plausible, just like the refinement theory. A plausible reason for Mackenzie’s connections to Brittany—and for business trips to Brittany.

  “And the plates—those are the better ones?”

  Kolenc looked amused.

  “It’s a question of taste. We think so.” Kolenc smiled. “But not all creuses are the same. With oysters, everything depends on the local composition of the water they live in. It depends on the plankton, for instance, the various species of plankton available—we call them the ‘green flavors’—or on the makeup of the minerals, principally the salt content, of course. Oysters do nothing more than concentrate the taste of the water they live in. They are pure sea.” Kolenc’s voice took on a poetic tinge, which was an amusing contrast to his down-to-earth nature. “Just as the climate and soil of a cultivating area determine a wine and make it unique, so it is with the water and the taste of the oysters. It’s terroir for wine, merroir for us. So the creuses from the Belon are of course wonderful too.”

  Dupin had never looked at oysters this way before. It was a lovely idea: that oysters allowed you to taste a very specific sea, a very specific place, very specific water. Yes, like wines. Dupin realized he was digressing.

  “So you don’t know this Scotsman—Ryan Mackenzie?”

  As he had earlier, Kolenc looked confused. It was an abrupt change of topic.

  “No. But do ask the others. And in Riec.”

  “Does anything at all occur to you about what might have happened here? I mean why in the oyster world such”—Madame Bandol’s word came to him—“incidents might come about? And serious conflicts too—going as far as murder?”

  Kolenc’s expression became very serious. “No, no idea, but this much is for sure: there’s a lot of money at stake. Along with image, ambition, greed. Oysters may be the most contented, amicable creatures, but people are not.”

  Dupin knew what Kolenc meant. That’s how it was. Everywhere.

  There was one thing that still interested him: “What do you mean when you say there’s no love lost between them: Monsieur Tordeux and this trader?”

  “They were married once, for half a year.”

  A succinct explanation.

  “And it didn’t turn out well.”

  “Not at all well. It looked like true love at first. She wasn’t running the business at the time, it still belonged to her father. She’s more than twenty years younger than Tordeux and has long since remarried and had two daughters. Tordeux has become a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor.”

  “I see. And now they’re fighting?”

  “They’ve just gone up against each other. There was an oyster farm for sale near La Forêt-Fouesnant and both of them wanted it. Tordeux got it. They”—he seemed to think it over—“always clash at every opportunity actually, even at our association meetings—they never seem to happen without a fight.”

  Both the Amiral and Henri with his Café du Port sourced their mussels and oysters from a farm near La Forȇt-Fouesnant. But the business in question must have been a different one; Dupin would have heard about a sale. He would ask Henri or Paul.

  “Otherwise, since we’re already on the subject—any other rifts here in the area? With or without Scottish involvement?”

  “Not that I know of. We all get on well with each other. Not that they’re friendships. But we respect one another.”

  “Do you think—”

  “Monsieur le Commissaire!” Riwal was running toward them and shouting at the top of his lungs from far away. It was starting to resemble a slapstick comedy.

  “I’m coming.” Dupin turned to Kolenc. “Thank you, you’ve been so helpful.”

  “Armandine Bandol said you two were a team.” Kolenc laughed; he seemed to like this idea. “Maybe I’ll be your consultant,” he said, and then added: “Armandine likes you. She trusts you.”

  Dupin understood what he meant. He was pleased that Kolenc was protecting Madame Bandol’s secret.

  “An extraordinary woman!”

  “So come by if you’d like to know more about oysters.”

  “I will—see you soon, Monsieur Kolenc.”

  Kolenc turned his attention back to the oyster tables and with a vigorous movement he tore a thick cluster of brown algae off the supporting rods.

  While Dupin was saying good-bye, Inspector Riwal had set off back to the bank. Dupin caught up to him before the ramp up to the quay.

  Suddenly the commissaire stopped walking.

  Without any explanation, he turned around and walked briskly back to Kolenc, who was watching him curiously.

  “Just one more question. Perhaps it’s slightly off topic. A building contractor has a house here in Port Belon.”

  “Pierre Delsard. Yes. A pompous show-off.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Delsard isn’t here often. He comes with friends or ‘business partners’ and throws huge parties. On the days when these parties are happening, there are Porsches, Jaguars, and Range Rovers parked here. From all over Brittany. And from Paris, of course. There’s a steady stream from the best traiteurs in the region. Oysters, rare mussels, lobster, champagne, foie gras.”

  Dupin’s mouth automatically watered. He hadn’t eaten for far too long.

  “Where’s his main home?”

  “In Lorient. His company is there too. They say he has invested in an oyster farm or two. For fun. Because he doesn’t know what to do with his money.”

  “Here in Port Belon?”

  “I couldn’t say. Nothing is official knowledge. Ask Tordeux. He’s a good friend of his.”

  “Do you think he got into business with Monsieur Tordeux?”

  Those would be confusing entanglements—the building trade and oyster industry. Which Dupin had not considered before.

  “I don’t know, Tordeux acts aggressive; he’s constantly expanding his business. Besides the farm near La Forȇt-Fouesnant, he bought a business in Cancale recently,” Kolenc said.

  “Cancale?”

  “Yes.”

  Kolenc added, “It’s not that unusual. Cancale is by far the largest Breton oyster location for everything, including seed oysters. Lots of larger oyster farms have a site there.”

  “I see. Where does the building contractor source his oysters from—for all those parties?”

  “I assume his mate supplies him.”

  “Thanks again, Monsieur Kolenc.”

  Kolenc’s open smile was back. “That’s what consultants are for.”

  Dupin turned round once and for all. Riwal was waiting for him on the quay.

  “News on Smith and Mackenzie. Most importantly: the director of the Shelter House has turned up again; she was shopping in Fort William as suspected.”

  Dupin was relieved to hear this.

  “The director of the hostel knew that Smith was in fact an active member of a druidic society in the past, but”—there was noticeable relief on Riwal’s face—“definitely not for the past several years. The group is called Seashore Grove and is a direct member of the Scottish Gorsedd. At most, Smith still went to special celebrations, but even then, not on a regular basis. So it’s unlikely that this is about a druidic matter.” He had uttered this sentence with emphatic certainty. “And nobody knows anything about Mackenzie having any interest in druidic matters.”

  Dupin was torn, but he let the subject drop for now.

  “Go on.”

  Riwal looked downright grateful. They walked along the quay, turning right and going up the road.

  “Smith has been a guest in the Shelter House for twenty-seven years. He’s actually from the Isle of Skye. A complete loner, according to the director. No family ties or other strong social bonds—he never spoke about them anyway, and in the hostel they never heard of any. A reserved man, he generally spent his evenings alone, a lot of alcohol, but no medical problems as yet. And a good eater.” Riwal’s description was thorough. “There’s a man around his age in the house whom he chatted to now and again, but he doesn’t know anything relevant either, our colleagues have already spoken to him. The two of them told each other tales of the high seas. Talked about old times, fishing, rugby, Celtic sports, bagpipe competitions. That kind of thing. Smith often went fishing and every now and then he brought the cafeteria a big fish. All in all, a guy who wanted to be left alone. On occasion, when he had had too much to drink, he lost it. Over small things. But that didn’t happen often. He was very amenable, really.”

  “Physical violence, bodily harm?”

  “No. It descended into a brawl once, but nobody was hurt. It happens more often with other residents. The other thing the director had to report was this: he had been involved in a bank robbery that went wrong.”

  That was a major crime, at any rate. Riwal mentioned it last and almost in passing.

  “When was that?”

  “In 1970. He was nineteen.”

  “That’s almost half a century ago.” Dupin’s interest was waning. “Has he come to the attention of the police again since then?”

  “No.”

  Dupin was noting everything down; the notebook was filling up.

  “And his casual jobs?”

  “Only very seasonal, never anything permanent. As we already knew: as a young man he had been a deep-sea fisherman, on the big boats far out in the North Atlantic, the truly wild sea.” Riwal’s respect was palpable. “But the director didn’t know any more details about that.”

  “And his links to Mackenzie?” Dupin asked impatiently.

  “I was just coming to that. It seems he has always worked for Mackenzie, a few weeks here, a few months there. Seven years ago he worked for him for nearly twelve months straight, then suddenly it was less; it was only weeks at a time in recent years. The Shelter House residents have to document their working circumstances precisely, that’s one of the requirements for being admitted. It’s all there.”

  “What happened? Why did he work there so much less often as time went on?”

  “We don’t know. Perhaps because of the devastating events in oyster farming at the time. In 2008, the huîtres plates across Europe caught a brutal bacteria that almost wiped them out. Widespread oyster death. Or because of the major economic crisis—businesses collapsed all over the place.”

  “Here in the Belon too? I mean, did the oyster death happen here too?”

  “Everywhere. There’s another wave now. At this very moment.”

  Dupin gave an involuntary start. “Right now? Here in Port Belon?”

  He looked around, an absurd reflex. Nobody had told him about this yet. They had all seemed so relaxed.

  He and Riwal had arrived at the tables outside the château some time ago. At their “command center.” They had chosen the last table, away from the others. There was nobody there apart from them. Braz and Melen seemed to be out on duty.

  “It’s not in Port Belon yet. It started in the Arcachon Bay and is just arriving in the Île d’Oléron now. The border of Brittany. Catastrophic. And a complete mystery. An unknown bacteria. It’s been killing off oysters wholesale for a while now. Mainly the plates. It strikes with terrible force and it strikes the fully grown animals. Up to two-thirds of the oysters are affected.”

  Riwal had sat down, but Dupin stayed on his feet. He knew that Riwal knew what he was talking about when it came to oysters. Apart from the obligatory langoustines, he usually brought a dozen oysters to the commissariat for lunch and complained vociferously about the price every day—in Paris, Dupin knew, it was four or five times as much!—and then he and Nolwenn set about them with relish. Riwal naturally put his never being sick down to this daily oyster consumption. And of course, oysters were a symbol of Brittany and that meant it had to be defended.

  “And it could strike here too?” Dupin’s question sounded unintentionally melodramatic.

  “Any time. At any second.” Riwal’s answer was equally melodramatic.

  Dupin didn’t have a clue how this could be connected—but perhaps it was no coincidence that the Scottish oyster farmer and his seasonal worker had set off for their trip to Brittany right at this moment. At a moment when—possibly—a fresh disaster was happening in the oyster world.

 

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