A single high-pitched note was audible, but only just. A text message. Dupin got his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans and looked at the screen. Claire. The promised details for their meet-up. The corner of Rue de Kergariou and Rue du Sallé, 6:30. That was it. Riwal blinked curiously at him.

  “Back to Smith. What else is there on him?”

  “That’s all for the moment. Our local colleagues are trying to find out whether there might still in fact be family members whom they have to inform.”

  “When did Smith last have a job with Mackenzie?”

  “Over the last Christmas and New Year’s holidays. That’s the high season in oyster farming. For three weeks.”

  “And not again after that?”

  That was almost four months ago.

  “And Mackenzie. What news is there on him?”

  “The policeman is with Mackenzie’s wife right now. We’ll hear about that soon. I had given him a quick call because of the druidic issue. Riwal pulled a face. “Our colleagues have looked up what they can find on his company. He has tried to expand a few times. He set up the company thirty-five years ago, he had a branch in Kirn, but he sold it again two years later. Then he bought a smaller oyster farm in Lochgilphead ten years ago. And after that he opened an oyster bar in Tobermory where he offered his own oysters and mussels to eat or buy. Six years ago he deregistered these two businesses again.”

  “Why?”

  “It wasn’t clear from the official documents. The recession, I suspect. Tourism must have severely declined in northern Scotland too. Or the impact of the oyster death at the time; even if Scotland was spared, he definitely wouldn’t have got any more seed oysters. Or both of those reasons.”

  “So in the end he only had one business left?”

  “Mackenzie did in fact invest in a bar in Glasgow last year called Oyster Heaven—he’s a co-owner. His oyster farm on the Isle of Mull and this bar, those were his two current businesses.”

  Mackenzie was someone who had obviously always kept trying. Had tried to build himself something bigger. And kept failing. Due to adverse circumstances perhaps, Dupin thought.

  “We need to know as soon as possible whether Mackenzie imported oysters from the Belon. Or whether he had any refined here. Whether he specialized in European oysters. Tell our Scottish colleague to grill his co-workers.”

  “We’ll do that, boss.”

  “Are our colleagues working on Mackenzie’s business records yet? They ought to be logged…”

  “If they even existed—and were legal. If not, they definitely won’t be on the books. And also not if he was only just setting it up. Perhaps that’s why he came.”

  Dupin was walking up and down in front of the tables. The panorama was enchanting. In front of the magnificent manor house, straight across the Belon, stood a handful of extremely weathered long wooden tables with benches. Lined by old, wildly overgrown oak trees was a view of the Belon estuary, shimmering an emerald green in the afternoon sun.

  “So does it happen often, such a large-scale oyster death?”

  Dupin was still, he realized, preoccupied by the blight issue. The potential catastrophe.

  “Not on the horrific scale of 2008, but on a smaller scale, it happens over and over again. In 1920, an infection wiped out ninety percent of the huîtres plates in Europe. Up until the end of the nineteenth century, it was the only species of oyster in Europe, from the Norwegian fjords to Gibraltar, apart from smaller cultures of the Portuguese oyster. Even in the years before the infection, it had been badly affected by the excessive rise in consumption, after the Sun King really made it into a delicacy again, which it had previously been amongst the Greeks and Romans.” Riwal’s eyes gleamed. “In the Middle Ages, oysters were just for poor people, they were out of favor. But Louis XIV later had every guest at his sumptuous parties served exactly one hundred oysters. His chef could never source enough of them.” Riwal suddenly sounded glum. “And the chef threw himself into the Seine because of a delayed oyster delivery. He—”

  “Riwal—the oyster death!”

  This was not the time for historical digressions. It had also sounded a little macabre; Riwal seemed fully capable of understanding the motive for this desperate act.

  “The millennia of European oysters were followed by the great half century of the Portuguese oyster.” Dupin almost burst out laughing at Riwal’s words. “The year 1868 is the crucial date. A Breton ship loaded with six hundred thousand Portuguese oysters sought shelter in the Gironde estuary from a terrible storm that wasn’t letting up. At some point, the captain figured the oysters were spoilt. He had them thrown into the water—and some were still alive.” Riwal had begun to speak very quickly—he was aware that Dupin would interrupt again otherwise. “They quickly spread out all the way along the Atlantic coast. When the disease almost obliterated the European oysters, people were glad to have them. The Portuguese oysters were more delicate and could be sold all year round because of their spawning habits!”

  “Kolenc talked about a Pacific oyster,” Dupin said.

  “In around 1970, the Portuguese oyster caught two deadly viruses one after the other and was almost wiped out itself. Luckily an oyster farmer had brought a small culture of the Pacific oyster from British Columbia and Japan a few years before, which was immune to the viruses. The ‘giants.’ More were soon sourced and people began to farm them. They are the most robust kind of oyster. Tragically, there was another terrible virus lurking in some imported specimens, which almost completely eradicated the by then slightly regenerated cultures of European oysters.” Riwal took a deep breath for his finale: “The Pacific oyster makes up over ninety percent of the world market today; the European oyster makes up point two percent.”

  Dupin was—whether he liked it or not—impressed. Clearly the history of oysters was an extremely violent one—a history of mass death and disaster. And, like everything else in the world, a history of coincidences.

  “At some point, the European oyster will die out completely,” Riwal said wistfully. “It has just received the award for Mollusk of the Year, an important award!”

  Dupin almost laughed, but Riwal was serious.

  “The award is for mollusks whose survival is under threat and who have an important ecological function. The Desmoulin’s whorl snail, the great gray slug, the mouse-eared snail, the thick-shelled river mussel, the door snail. In this way, they inform the public about select species and try to bring more attention to mollusk-related issues, they—”

  “Riwal! We are not at the university!” There were some moments when you had to step in. Although Dupin could easily see why mollusks with names like these needed someone to champion them.

  “Kolenc didn’t mention anything about a potential epidemic. Or that they could possibly be on the brink of a catastrophe here in Port Belon.” The commissaire was pensive. “But it could actually mean the end for the farms. Including his.”

  “There are many reasons the bacterium might stop before the river. Just a few currents would need to change. And it would all be irrelevant to the Belon.”

  “Riwal, do you think that the plates taste superior to the creuses?”

  For a moment there was astonishment on Riwal’s face, then joy. Unalloyed joy at Dupin’s unexpected interest in oysters. For years they had all—Riwal, Nolwenn, but also Paul Girard from the Amiral, and Henri—tried in vain to give Dupin an understanding of oysters.

  “There is something uniquely nutty about the plates, something delicate, something subtle, and there’s an undercurrent of saltiness. Here in the Belon anyway. They taste of the extraordinary water they live in. A mixture of river flavors and sea flavors.” Riwal’s face was rapt now, transformed like a wine critic’s at a tasting. “The river flavors are reminiscent of cucumbers, melons, or fresh soybeans—on the other hand, they have that very specific metallic clarity of the iodine flavor. Which the oysters from the refining pools in Marennes-Oléron, for example, have almost none of, although they are of course fantastic. With the oysters from the large sea bays or the open sea, the iodine component is even more pronounced. It all just depends on…”

  “… merroir,” Dupin finished his sentence.

  Riwal nodded appreciatively.

  “You have to close your eyes if you’re eating oysters. Smell, taste, feel. The sea, the place! Only philistines wash oysters down.” These words were resonant with anxious disgust. “You’ve got to chew them slowly and pay attention to the flavor with all of your senses. And anyone who really wants to do that will avoid any added flavors like lemon, pepper, or vinaigrette. The water is as exquisite as they themselves are. Another bad habit is eating oysters ice cold, that damages the flavor!” Dupin would need to intervene again; Riwal was digressing. “They taste best at a temperature of between eight and twelve degrees, like the young, lightly sparkling Muscadet with its mineral taste and the flavors of apples and citrus fruits that you drink on the side!”

  “You can’t beat a Muscadet,” Dupin blurted out. His mouth was watering, but not because of the oysters.

  “A wine that can stand up to oysters is important and it depends on flavor, region, and species of oyster. But not all white wines are appropriate by a long shot. For Belon oysters, the Muscadet is the absolute perfect wine! But what also goes well is a Chablis. A Pouilly-Fuissé. A Puligny-Montrachet. Why not? Excellent!”

  “All right, Riwal. All right!”

  Suddenly a pleased, delighted expression appeared on Riwal’s face.

  “Do we have an oyster case, Monsieur le Commissaire—what do you think?”

  Dupin furrowed his brow. At some point Riwal, Nolwenn, Kadeg, the whole commissariat, and last but not least the Breton press had started to refer to the cases from the last few years like this. The “art case,” the “island case,” the “salt case.” Absolutely ridiculous. When he heard this, he feared the worst for the party the day after tomorrow; it occurred to him again that he needed to elicit a promise from Nolwenn that there would be no speeches. Or any kind of funny retrospectives. Or amusing anecdotes.

  “Riwal!” Dupin was desperate to get back to the investigation now. They needed to concentrate.

  “We need to know whether any of the other oyster farmers knew Mackenzie. All along the Belon. Whether anyone has done business with him.”

  “Absolutely, boss.”

  “We should build up a picture of who on the Belon maintains business ties with Scotland. No matter what kind. There won’t be that many. Call in our two colleagues from Riec. Make inquiries at every farm.”

  The staffing situation was still poor. Riwal might have been back but Dupin could have done with Kadeg and Nolwenn.

  “I’ll take on the farms here in Port Belon.” Dupin looked at his watch. He still had about an hour, then he needed to leave to get to Quimper more or less on time—for his mysterious plans with Claire. His instinct told him that he should under no circumstances risk being late. During their first relationship, he had been far too late far too often. Or hadn’t turned up at all.

  “Did you get through to the man in Cancale, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

  This was important. Dupin hadn’t tried again yet.

  “I’ll do it immediately. On my way to see Monsieur Tordeux.” Dupin leafed through his notebook. “Ah yes—at Super de Belon.”

  “Okay. I sent the name and number of the man in Cancale to your phone. You ought to have everything.”

  “See you later, Riwal.”

  “Another thing, boss.” Riwal seemed embarrassed all of a sudden. “This business with Kadeg. Just briefly, so that you’re aware: internal affairs is having him painstakingly show them everything on the site right now. The sand samples. To get a complete picture of our undercover operation. Nolwenn just let me know.”

  “From the funeral?” Dupin stopped moving.

  “Yes. Aunt Elwen was already in the ground, don’t worry.”

  “And when will we see Kadeg?”

  “This evening, I think. Or else tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks, Riwal.”

  Dupin left the tables at a brisk pace. He had just turned the corner when Magalie Melen suddenly appeared in front of him. This was inconvenient.

  “Commissaire—Madame Bandol is asking when you’re seeing each other again today. She has been trying to call you.”

  “Has she recalled new details? Did something else spring to mind?”

  That could happen at any moment.

  “I don’t think so. It was about her next ‘meeting’ with you, she said. And how you propose to progress with the investigation in general?” Magalie Melen had no doubt repeated Madame Bandol word for word.

  “Tell her that unfortunately I won’t make it today anymore. Unfortunately. That I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  Dupin really was sorry.

  Something else had occurred to him during his conversation with Kolenc. He had even made a note of it:

  “What exactly has happened to this madame who owns the château?”

  “Morocco, Agadir. She’s away until the end of the week. With her whole family. Her husband and two children. They’ve been gone since Sunday of last week. They take two weeks’ holiday a year. Traditionally always in the weeks before Easter.”

  “And who’s staffing the tastings there now? If you want to eat oysters at those tables?”

  “Her niece. Late twenties. She’s actually a baker. She comes here every year for these two weeks. But only does the tastings here on-site. And reads a lot. Things aren’t very busy round here yet, as you can see. And then there’s also the three employees who look after the oyster beds. They come from Riec.”

  “You know the owner?”

  “Quite well.”

  It sounded more like “very well.”

  “Suspicious in any way?”

  The young policewoman remained unfazed. “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Call her in Morocco—and inquire about Mackenzie and Smith. And Scotland in general—about any possible connections to it.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ve got to get going.” Dupin hurried on.

  A call and a visit were still doable—he would no longer manage the conversation with the trader before Quimper. He actually really needed a coffee. The commissaire emitted a loud, deep sigh. It could be heard far and wide.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  The phone had rung for a long time—Dupin almost hung up again.

  “It’s Commissaire Dupin here. Commissariat de Police Concarneau. Am I speaking to Monsieur Cueff?”

  “Speaking.” An irritated tone of voice.

  “We’re investigating a murder case, monsieur. A man you know disappeared last night.”

  “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  “No, Monsieur Cueff. It’s about Ryan Mackenzie.”

  “Ryan Mackenzie?” There was concern in his voice.

  “Yes. It’s highly likely he was murdered in Port Belon.”

  “Highly likely?” A legitimate question, expressed with undisguised condescension. “Do you mean it’s highly likely he was murdered—or do you mean it’s highly likely he was murdered specifically in Port Belon?”

  “Both.”

  This was correct. And it ought to have been enough. There was quite a long silence and Dupin didn’t intend to break it.

  “That’s crazy. He called me just last week. Wednesday afternoon.”

  “He did what?”

  “I hadn’t heard from him for a good year, I’ve known him for almost twenty years, we—”

  “What did he want?”

  “He told me that business was good and that he might want to come by in the near future to discuss the idea of taking a share in the company. His last visit was two or three years ago.”

  “He wanted to come to Brittany?”

  This was getting more and more interesting.

  “To see me in Cancale. Yes. So?”

  “What were these plans about a share? How far did they progress?”

  “It was still just an idea. Nothing more. He wanted to buy in to my oyster farm. Potentially twenty percent of it or so. He’d had the idea a long time ago, I was very interested.” What Cueff was saying was very informative, in contrast to the undisguised reluctance audible in his voice. “But the considerations never progressed very far.”

  “Why was he interested in it in the first place, do you think?”

  “Breton Oysters is an attractive business in Britain. Plus he would have had a reliable supply of seed oysters.”

  It was a good thing Dupin had spoken to Kolenc in some detail; he was up to speed.

  “And how long have you known him exactly?”

  “Since 1997, I think. We met at a fair for European oyster producers here in Cancale. He was sitting at our table, next to my wife and me. He has visited us every few years since then, whenever he made a trip to the Continent.”

  “Did he mention anything about an imminent trip to Brittany he was planning? Soon, this week?”

  “No. He…” Cueff hesitated, an uncertain hesitation. “Nothing. He only said he wanted to come soon, without mentioning a date. He was going to get in touch again.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No.”

  “No hint, nothing indirect or implied?”

  “No.”

  “Did anything seem unusual during the phone call?”

  “He was in a very good mood. The call lasted maybe three minutes. No. You now know pretty much every word we said to each other.”

  Dupin had reached the quay. On the left-hand side, the little white building directly beside the high, overgrown stone wall of the château was easy to see from the ramp. A neat white sign that read Super de Belon in enormous blue lettering pointed the way.

  “A share in a business like this, what kind of figures are we talking about?”

  “We didn’t get as far as figures in our considerations at all.”

  “How much is your farm in Cancale worth?”

  It took Cueff a while to answer. He seemed to be considering whether he should answer at all.

 

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