“The last time the police questioned this guy they came back empty handed,” Lebreton said.
“The last time the police questioned this guy they did a shitty job of it. Up to us to prove we’re better.”
Rosière unwrapped the biscuit that came with her coffee and gave it to her dog, who took it delicately between his teeth, gobbled it up in one gulp, then looked at her eagerly, all set for round two. Rosière looked at Lebreton, who surrendered his speculoos.
“You look like you’ve got a plan,” he said.
“No. But we’re not going in stark naked—I’ve got something up my sleeve. We’ll win him over with a fake commission.”
“I’m not convinced that’s admissible, Eva—”
“Oh my little Loulou, you are sweet. Listen—we have to make do with what we’ve got. He’s loaded and lawyered up, and we don’t have any cargo whatsoever. We need to come in at an angle. This Guénan business goes way back—he won’t suspect a thing. Let’s go in softly-softly, talc up his balls, then grab them.”
Lebreton stirred his coffee in silence for a few moments. If they went in like their predecessors, they would come away with the same results. Rosière was right about that. Better to mix things up.
“Fine,” he said, setting his spoon down on the saucer. “I will be amazed if it works, but I’m listening.”
At 9:15 a.m., they left the Lexus at the Marée parking lot next to a thirty-eight-ton ship unloading huge polystyrene boxes full of sardines and walked to Jallateau’s company headquarters. Between the seaweed and the bird shit, they were getting a good dose of the local fragrance, Rosière thought. There were few people around, and the capitaine was the only woman. The men gazed at them: they were hardly your average tourists looking to get off the beaten track. Gigantic concrete towers loomed overhead, dominating the rusty corrugated-iron roofs of the warehouses. The grinding of the cranes competed with the squawking of the seagulls, and farther along the masts of a thousand yachts swayed clumsily in the wind. The sea smelled of oil here. They arrived at the glass doors of a long, single-story building, above which were the words JALLATEAU SHIPBUILDERS in blue lettering.
“Let’s smoke him out,” Rosière said. “Best celebrity smile, now.”
At the reception, a young man with ash-blond hair asked them if they had an appointment.
“Yes, at 9:30,” the capitaine said. She had been careful to make an appointment. “Madame Rosière and Monsieur Lebreton.”
“Absolutely. For a forty-two-foot catamaran.”
“Indeed.”
They did not have long to wait before Jallateau arrived. He greeted them and introduced himself in a friendly manner. He was wearing a gray suit and pointy shoes. The guy looked like a desert buggy ready to tackle a dune: thick, bumper-like eyebrows protecting his steely glare. Rosière realized it might not be so easy to hoodwink him after all.
They went into his office, their shoes sinking into the thick carpet, which was pristine and beige. There were shelves running the length of the wall exhibiting model boats and a few framed newspaper articles. At Jallateau’s back, a wide sliding window looked out over the mouth of the channel. On the far bank you could make out the waterfront with its endless row of low multicolored houses. For Rosière, the charming view made focusing on Jallateau’s ugly face all the more painful.
She kicked off her con artistry while Lebreton kept an eye on the shipbuilder’s reactions. Jallateau was tight lipped as Rosière relayed her spiel, and when she finished he looked at them both in silence. He brushed a few pencil shavings off his desk, then clasped his hands together.
“You don’t want a boat.”
“How dare—”
“Buying a boat is the stuff of dreams, and you’re not dreaming,” he said with a contemptuous smile. “So. What do you want from me?”
Rosière needed a plan B. Supplier? Mafia? Insurer? She racked her brains as quickly as she could, but Lebreton beat her to it:
“Commandant Lebreton and Capitaine Rosière. We’re investigating the murder of Yann Guénan.”
Jallateau shut down immediately. An icy chill swept through the room. The silence lasted an age, pulsing with an electric tension.
“Police,” he said.
The businessman’s body language had lost all semblance of customer-facing courtesy, and his shoulders squared up as he sat forward in his chair.
“I wasted enough time with you back then,” he spat with the tone of a dockworker. “Get lost!”
Lebreton braced himself as he opened up his file.
“First we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’ve heard them all before: I didn’t like them then, and I won’t like them now,” Jallateau said.
“Guénan came here with a dossier about the Key Line shortly before his death. Did you have anything to hide?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing!” Jallateau exploded. “It’s a fantasy dreamed up by the filth! Nothing but mass paranoia. Don’t start running after me with your conspiracy theories again. Do you really believe that this shipwreck hasn’t been examined with a fine-tooth comb? Have you read the results of the public inquiry into the ship? There are six fucking volumes, a foot thick! Experts, engineers, insurers, judges, inspectors . . . my offices were full of them for months! Americans, French, even Cubans! Ten years of official investigation and they’ve got nothing on me! And do you know why? Because I’ve got nothing to do with that fucking accident! They should never have set sail in that weather, end of story. Now get out!”
The two police officers stayed where they were. Jallateau’s face had turned purple and his hand was shaking as he pointed at the door.
“I said fuck off!”
“What do you think?” Lebreton said, turning to Rosière. “Should we fuck off? Does that sound good to you?”
“No, not so much. I like it here—we’ve got a nice view
