The Fleur De Sel Murders

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  The policewoman pulled out a radio and the commissaire turned back to Dupin, clearly annoyed. “Let’s go. Personally, I dislike circumventing important service regulations. You’ve been shot and I’m going to make sure you see a doctor. Due diligence.”

  “Shot?”

  “Your left shoulder is bleeding.”

  Dupin held his left side and turned his head. His polo shirt was wet with sweat and water from the salt ponds. It wasn’t easy to make it out in the light from the headlamps, but when you looked carefully, you could see it: the left side was a much darker color than the right. And he had occasionally—only occasionally, the adrenaline had acted as a powerful stimulant—felt that sharp pain. He hadn’t thought about it any more than that and had put it down to his cramped position. He could see that the polo shirt between his forearm and shoulder was ruined. He grasped his arm there. Suddenly the pain got much worse. Sharp.

  “Absurd,” he said with conviction. The commissaire smiled at him for a moment and Dupin could not interpret what she meant. She spoke very softly and calmly, while looking him directly in the eye.

  “You’re in my world here, Monsieur le Commissaire. And here you are either someone who makes my life easier or someone who makes it harder. And I can assure you, you do not want to be someone who makes it harder.”

  She continued at a normal volume: “Come on.”

  Dupin wanted to protest.

  Commissaire Rose looked to the sky, murmured “Should work,” and turned to her colleague from earlier:

  “I need a satellite phone. You take over here while I’m gone. I’m accompanying Commissaire Dupin to the hospital. Get in touch every time there’s any news. No matter what it is. I want to know everything. Everything.”

  Dupin rubbed his right temple. Those last few sentences had sounded disconcertingly like the kind of thing he would have said.

  Commissaire Rose was walking toward the farther car. “Let’s go.” She had shoved her left hand into her jacket pocket, leaving only the thumb peeking out.

  Inspector Chadron brought over a phone that looked, with its enormous antenna in plastic casing, like a mobile from fifteen years ago, and held it out to him.

  “Speak to your journalist on the way and then go over it all again, in detail,” Commissaire Rose instructed him. Dupin got into the car after her. The salt marshes beneath the clear blue-black sky; the mounds of salt illuminated by the police cars’ headlights; the flashing cones of light as the police officers walked around—it made a surreal scene.

  A lot had happened since he had arrived. And nothing had come of that sole he’d wanted.

  * * *

  “I need a coffee. Double shot. And a phone. And you have to let my inspector in to see me.”

  “Ninety-seven over sixty-two. Your blood pressure is still very low. But your pulse is holding steady at around one forty. Symptoms of shock. And results of blood loss. Not a life-threatening condition, but we’ve got to—”

  “I’m not in shock. I have low blood pressure generally. Inherited it from my father. I just need caffeine and everything will be okay again. Is the wound bandaged in a way that allows me to move around freely?”

  “You shouldn’t be moving at all for now.”

  The young, clearly not very sympathetic doctor whom Dupin had just spoken to for the second time had examined him when they arrived, after an inconvenient wait of more than twenty minutes in the ambulance. Commissaire Rose had stayed outside to make some calls. At some point, another doctor had turned up who seemed to Dupin even younger and no less indifferent. She was given the vital information and brought him into a small room a few corridors away. It was a graze wound and it had nicked the muscle in a superficial way—harmless in itself, but he had lost a lot of blood. The doctor had given him a local anesthetic—he had vehemently refused a sedative—then thoroughly disinfected the wound, put in five stitches, and bandaged it up.

  It was now midnight. He had used the satellite phone on the way to the hospital, trying to get through to Lilou Breval, but he was put through to voicemail each time, on both the landline and her mobile. He hated satellite phones. The antenna had to point directly upward when it was extended, which meant that he had had to sit in an unnaturally cramped position at the beginning of the trip, and the commissaire drove eye-wateringly fast. She made sure to emphasize that she was driving carefully because of his injury. And you also had to dial any number of prefixes first (he always forgot which ones), and quite apart from which, the sky couldn’t be cloudy. Between frequent bouts of cursing about satellite phones and voicemail, he had eventually told Commissaire Rose everything he knew. Which amounted to nothing at all. She made no secret of the fact that she still didn’t trust Dupin as far as she could throw him. And she still seemed to believe he was holding back some information. His whole story sounded, to put it mildly, not all that plausible.

  Inspector Riwal, one of his two inspectors, had set out from Concarneau as soon as he’d heard what had happened. Dupin liked him a lot, even if he had odd moods every now and then. Riwal had made his arrival known to Dupin via an obliging nurse. The doctor had brusquely instructed the nurse, with reference to “clear and strict rules,” not to let the inspector in to see the “injured man” under any circumstances, especially not during the “medical history.”

  “After the shock and the blood loss you should drink plenty of fluids. Water or herbal tea are best. No coffee or alcohol.”

  Dupin’s feelings vacillated between despair and fits of rage.

  “But I’m telling you, everything is fine. Let the inspector in to see me. It’s about important police matters. I…”

  From the corridor outside the treatment room came an aggressive voice. “That’s enough! He’s my only witness. He has been treated, his injuries aren’t life-threatening, he’s conscious. I’m going to see him now.”

  The door flew open and Commissaire Rose walked in with a nurse frowning in resignation behind her. The commissaire stopped in the middle of the room. “We’ve searched the whole salt marsh area. And we didn’t find any barrels. No blue ones, yellow ones, or red ones. Not a single one. Not outdoors, not in the hut, not in the sheds. We didn’t find anything suspicious at all. The forensics team is looking for any traces that the larger barrels might have been left behind. And for footprints, tire marks, and so on. I tried that journalist of yours again, but couldn’t get through. She probably just went to bed hours ago.”

  Dupin was about to protest. He absolutely had to speak to Lilou. They needed to get hold of her as soon as possible. Commissaire Rose beat him to it, speaking as if he wasn’t in the room:

  “We still don’t have the faintest bloody idea what’s going on here. No matter how carelessly self-inflicted it might have been—a police officer came within an inch of being shot dead. In the middle of our salt marshes.” Suddenly she looked fiercely at him. “Surely you must know or suspect something! You don’t just go and risk serious disciplinary proceedings because some friend of yours found something suspicious somewhere. I don’t buy it!”

  It was impossible to tell whether Commissaire Rose had spoken angrily. But she spoke rapidly and very firmly.

  “There must be something major going on.” Dupin said this broodingly to himself, realizing that it wasn’t a proper answer.

  “Whatever it is, I’m not going to tolerate it. Not on my beat. An innocent person could have been caught up in it too.”

  Dupin was about to protest this time—very sharply—but at the last second he decided against it. And he was glad he had. He understood the commissaire. All too well.

  Besides, he felt rather awkward with his upper body bare, sitting dirty and sticky on a hospital bed, with a bandage on his left shoulder and the cuff from the blood pressure monitor still around his upper arm.

  “Do we know yet who owns the salt marsh?” Dupin had made an effort to strike a cooperative tone, and this seemed to have something of an effect.

  “Of course we fou
nd out ages ago who owns the salt marsh where your exciting adventure played out. My colleagues are trying to get through to the owners and speak to the head of one of the cooperatives in the salt marshes—the salt marshes right next door belong to him. The same goes for the director of the Centre du Sel. She knows every single paludier. And every pool.”

  Dupin had just noticed, and this was really neither here nor there, but the commissaire’s hair was in constant motion, even when she was standing still. And although it was difficult to imagine right now, deep laughter lines betrayed the fact that she could really laugh—and that, in theory, she must do it a lot.

  “You let the commissaire in to see him; I’m going in too.”

  There was more hubbub from the corridor. Dupin recognized Riwal’s voice. He had sounded very forceful.

  “I haven’t let anybody in to see the patient, that woman just stormed in earlier,” whimpered a crestfallen voice. A moment later, Riwal was standing in the room too. A plastic cup in his right hand.

  “I brought you a coffee, boss. Double shot. That’s what it said on the button anyway. There’s a vending machine in the waiting room.”

  Dupin wanted to hug his inspector, something he would never actually have done, of course. He was just that happy to see him. And the coffee cup. It was a ray of light.

  “Well done, Riwal.”

  Riwal came over and handed Dupin the cup with an almost ceremonial flourish.

  Commissaire Rose acknowledged Riwal with a movement of her head. It was minimal but it was friendly and collegial.

  “Inspector Riwal, Commissariat de Police Concarneau. This is a worrying incident.”

  Riwal had spoken with uncharacteristic calmness. It must have been the commissaire’s influence.

  “Absolutely. You can’t shed any light on it either, I take it?”

  “No. We just heard that our commissaire was involved in a shooting and had been wounded.”

  Dupin took a mouthful of the lukewarm coffee. It tasted horrible. And like plastic too. Not that it mattered. He was feeling better now. After arriving at the hospital, he had started to feel the strain of the previous few hours, a profound fatigue deep within his bones. Even though he was fighting it valiantly, he felt shattered—which he would never admit. He had been through shootings before, of course, in Paris, and a much crazier one at that—underneath a bridge outside the city, a large-scale car theft. And he had been shot once before during a hostage situation at the Gare du Nord, worse than today, in his forearm, but this was still tough.

  “Do you know Madame Breval’s home address, do you know where she lives?” Commissaire Rose put her right hand on her hip and her left back into the pocket of her jacket.

  “Yes, I know where Lilou Breval lives. At the gulf. Near Sarzeau.”

  He had visited her there once during the case of the murdered hotelier.

  Dupin drank the last mouthful of coffee, took off the blood pressure cuff, and stood up. At first he was dizzy, the world swaying around him, despite the coffee. He picked up the hospital-issue white doctor’s T-shirt that the nurse had left out for him. His shoulder made putting it on very difficult, and the anesthetic seemed to be wearing off. The T-shirt was at least two sizes too big and Dupin was aware that he must look ridiculous. Even his jeans looked terrible, covered in dirt and bloodstains, but it didn’t matter.

  “About an hour from here. Let’s go. Now that you’ve got something on.” Commissaire Rose couldn’t resist a smirk.

  “Riwal. Could you get me something to eat from the vending machine? Anything—cookies, a chocolate bar, it doesn’t matter what,” Dupin said.

  “All right, boss.”

  Dupin hadn’t had anything to eat since lunchtime. His blood sugar was very low.

  “And another coffee. Let’s meet at Commissaire Rose’s car.”

  Riwal was already out the door by the time Dupin finished speaking.

  “Do you know where Lilou Breval works? Which of the editorial offices?” As before, there was a forcefulness to Commissaire Rose’s questions and words.

  “Officially speaking, she’s with the editorial office in Vannes. But she mostly works from home, I think.”

  The Ouest-France was the largest daily paper in France—and together with Le Télégramme and Le Monde, constituted Dupin’s routine daily reading. In fact, the Ouest-France was the Atlantic newspaper par excellence; it was published along the entire coast from La Rochelle upward, throughout Brittany, the Pays de la Loire, and also in Normandy. And it was available via local editorial offices in every big city.

  “Perhaps one of her colleagues will know what story their friend is working on.” Commissaire Rose had deliberately said “friend” with meaningful emphasis.

  “I think that’s unlikely.”

  Lilou was not the kind of person to do research in a team.

  “You’ve got to sign here for me that you’re leaving the hospital at your own risk.” The indifferent doctor had been lingering in the background for the last few minutes, filling out various forms. “The standard treatment involves painkillers and then antibiotics for prophylaxis.” He held out two packets to Dupin. “The painkillers will make you feel slightly woozy. So no alcohol.”

  Dupin took both packets, stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans, and left the room moments later. Commissaire Rose followed suit.

  In no time, she had overtaken Dupin in the long corridor and was striding purposefully toward the exit. She had parked right in front of the emergency-room entrance.

  Dupin stood still for a moment and breathed the mild summer night air in and out a few times. The hospital was on a slight hill right outside the town and he had a perfect view of the medieval, atmospheric Guérande from here—the contrast with the hospital’s sterile, harsh lighting and functional new-build architecture could not have been more stark. Dupin found himself reminded of the Ville Close in Concarneau. There was something comforting about the way the colossal city walls and towers shone in the warm light.

  Commissaire Rose was already at her car. A large, new, dark blue Renault Laguna. Dupin walked around to the passenger door.

  “This was the only decent thing in the vending machine.” Riwal had materialized next to Commissaire Rose’s car and was holding out a packet of bonbons caramel à la fleur de sel and plastic cup to Dupin.

  Dupin took them both gratefully. Salted caramel candy was not what he would have expected in a hospital, but obviously the local affinity for the Salt Land was huge. And he had to admit he loved those caramel candies, that bittersweetness with the flakes of salt.

  “It’s no sole, but still,” he said.

  Riwal looked at Dupin; his brow was furrowed and almost concerned. Commissaire Rose was already in the driver’s seat, watching them impatiently. The air was doing Dupin good, as was the prospect of more caffeine.

  “Riwal, you try the editorial offices in Vannes. And her colleagues at home, to be on the safe side. You’ll still be able to get hold of newspaper staff.” Even delegating tasks was helping, Dupin noticed. Everything was feeling a bit more normal now. “Have them give you the names and numbers of colleagues Lilou Breval worked with. And the editor in chief. Call everyone straightaway. And contact Kadeg, he’s to come tomorrow morning and”—Dupin pondered for a moment—“he’ll have to drive past our office first. There’s a blue bag next to my desk. Tell him to bring it here.”

  Riwal knew the commissaire too well to ask questions when faced with these kinds of instructions. As Dupin briskly gave his orders, he climbed somewhat awkwardly—due to the shoulder injury and the coffee in his hand—into the car.

  Once he was seated, Commissaire Rose leaned right over to him, as far as she could go, and said: “We’re going to have the conversation with that journalist now, as soon as possible. You’re going to be present for that, and after that—after that, you’re out. Do you hear me? Then you’re a witness on my case. And nothing more. I am the only person investigating. I mean that in a friendly
and collaborative way, of course.”

  She spoke with perfect irony, sweetly, but she was not being sarcastic. It infuriated Dupin. But, objectively speaking, she did have everything on her side on this point, the police regulations and the law.

  The smart thing was to stay silent.

  In one fluid movement, Commissaire Rose started the engine and put her foot down hard on the gas.

  * * *

  It had taken them forty minutes, with flashing lights and sirens and speeding above every limit inside and outside residential areas, even on the smallest country roads. To Dupin’s relief, they hadn’t spoken much. The effects of the anesthetic were wearing off and the pain in his shoulder was getting worse. Dupin had taken one of the painkillers—he couldn’t afford any weakness. And he’d eaten five of the salted caramels, which had done him a lot of good.

  During the journey he had tried to get through to Lilou Breval numerous times; he was back on his mobile again—it finally had reception on this road. No luck. Commissaire Rose had looked strangely worried a few times, much more so than in the salt marshes earlier. Lilou Breval lived near Brillac, a few kilometers away from Sarzeau, right on the Gulf of Morbihan, one of the most enchanting parts of Brittany. Without any of the usual Breton exaggeration, Dupin truly thought it a wonder of nature. Mor bihan meant “small sea” in Breton: an inland sea linked to the “large sea”—the mor braz—by nothing more than a narrow passage through which the ocean surged in and out every day. It was dotted with hundreds of islands and islets—depending on the state of the tide—in the most fantastical shapes, just twenty of them inhabited. A calm sea, a few meters deep at high tide. At low tide, large parts of it were just centimeters deep or gone entirely. That’s when the sea revealed kilometers of sandy, silty, or stony seafloor, with big tidal creeks and smaller ones, long dazzlingly white sandbanks as well as oyster and mussel beds. At high tide it looked as though the countless flat, thickly forested islands were floating on the sea, as though someone had launched them onto the water as carefully as boats. Romantic little woods with romantic names: The Wood of Sighs, of Lovers, of Sorrow, of Longing. A charming mixture of every shade of green and the blue of the tides and the sky in just as many shades.