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Riwal and Dupin were now two or three meters away from their colleagues' boat, and the scene was gradually taking shape. There was a line stretched between two large white buoys, and further lines were attached onto that, for mooring boats. The body had become entangled in them and was pressed up against one of the buoys by the current. Kadeg and Le Menn were trying to free the body.

"We're almost there," panted Le Menn, her long ponytail dangling in the water, "just a moment."

Dupin fixed his gaze on the body.

With a few powerful, deft strokes, Riwal had steered their boat to the other side of the buoy, and it was now directly by the body. The commissaire had knelt down in the rowboat, not even noticing the violent rocking he'd triggered.

The dead man was lean in build. Not particularly large, nor particularly small. He was floating on his back. The current kept pulling his head underwater, then it would suddenly emerge again; a macabre sight. The entire body was in constant motion. But the eyes were the most unsettling thing: narrow, rigid slits, through which the wet, glassy pupils seemed to be staring. The eyelids were swollen. The man was probably around sixty years old, with short hair, and a rugged face with an unnaturally ruddy hue.

"He clearly hasn't been underwater long," Le Mann stated calmly, still grappling with the lines.

"A few hours at most," confirmed Kadeg in a grave tone. The man was wearing black cloth pants and a green short-sleeved shirt. The current had exposed half of his stomach. "Where's Docteur Lafond?" Dupin was just about to sit back down when he suddenly froze.

"He just called," Le Menn informed them. "He's coming down to the harbor now. He—"

"Riwal," Dupin interrupted her, still kneeling, "could you bring us a bit closer?"

The commissaire was leaning far over the edge, making the boat tilt.

"What is it, boss? What have you spotted?"

"Closer, Riwal!"

The inspector did his best. It was impressive how, now standing, he had control of the rowboat with just one oar. Dupin was almost close enough to touch the dead man's body, when the boat suddenly turned.

"Shit!" exclaimed Dupin.

"The current, boss. It's impossible."

It seemed futile to repeat the maneuver.

"Monsieur le Commissaire, could you tell us what you're trying to do?" asked Kadeg in a peeved tone. He was now gripping the dead man's right leg.

"I..."

Dupin broke off. He clambered past Riwal to the bow, laid down his gun—and even more importantly: his sacred notebook—warned the inspector with a brief "Watch out!" and jumped overboard. He submerged for a moment, then began to swim toward the buoy with powerful strokes.

"You okay, boss?" Riwal knew further questions were futile once Dupin had got something in his head.

"Yep."

Dupin had spotted something around the dead man's neck. Or at least, he thought he had. The commissaire held on to the line between the two large buoys, now directly by the body, reached for the collar of the man's shirt, and pulled it aside. There was no doubt; Dupin hadn't been mistaken. There were clear injuries around the neck. Very specific ones. Signs of strangulation. The man at the buoy had been murdered.

They had brought the corpse to the front of the harbor office. Now it lay on the asphalt in the middle of the parking lot, which had been fully cordoned off. The fog over the sea seemed to be growing even more dense, but still kept strictly to the puzzling border: toward inland, the sky was clear and blue, including over the parking lot.

The dead man lay in the bright sunlight. Even though it was only just past nine, it was already strong and didn't feel like morning sunshine. The coroner, Docteur Lafond, had arrived with two colleagues and taken an initial look at the body. The forensics team were on site too, meticulously searching the harbor. Despite his notorious aversion to making hasty statements, Lafond had gone so far as to say the man had "clearly been strangled, with a rope or cloth, and probably just one to three hours ago. More like three hours. That would be around six o'clock this morning. No longer than that." Tonelessly, Lafond had added: "A brutal way to go." This was gruesomely evidenced by the wounds, bruising, welts, and, in particular, the hematoma on the neck, which without the cooling effect of the Atlantic were now looking increasingly horrific. The man had—and Lafond was certain about this too—already been dead when he had fallen, or been thrown, into the ocean. This established the basics; they could work with this.