The Fleur De Sel Murders

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  “Who do you mean when you say ‘the local authority’? The mayor?”

  Maxime Daeron looked at Dupin in surprise. “The mayor? No. Much more powerful than that: Madame Bourgiot. She’s not just the director of the Centre, she’s also the local and regional delegate for the Salt Land. The mayor has handed everything to do with the Gwenn Rann over to her. She is … ambitious.”

  Nobody had mentioned that Madame Bourgiot was so powerful. It hadn’t been obvious either. Until now.

  “And do you know of any serious disputes between specific people in relation to that?”

  Maxime Daeron looked downcast. Dupin wasn’t sure whether that was because of the question or the situation as a whole.

  “No.”

  These were all relevant topics, extremely relevant topics, but Dupin suspected he wouldn’t find out anything more of substance in this conversation. Either because Daeron really didn’t know anything—or because he didn’t want to talk about it.

  “How are things in your salt marshes? Financially? How’s business?”

  The change of topic was abrupt. Dupin was fond of this approach.

  “I…”—Maxime Daeron seemed briefly annoyed—“fine. It’s going well. It’s not easy, but it’s going well. I’m managing.”

  “Le Sel made you an offer too, after all. What—”

  “I’m not going to sell.” He sounded adamant.

  “You’ve rejected it?”

  “I’m not going to sell.”

  “Did someone sabotage your harvest, Monsieur Daeron? Is someone harassing you?”

  Daeron’s downcast expression returned. “No.”

  “We spoke about it this morning, you brought it up as a possibility yourself.”

  “That was premature.”

  “Why did you call your brother?” Dupin blurted out, although he had been meaning to ask something else.

  Daeron looked confused. “He’s the co-owner of the salt marshes. I … We’re very close. I wanted to let him know. And so he wanted to be there this morning too.”

  “Business is very good for your brother, it seems?”

  “Saucisse Breizh.”

  “Saucisse Breizh—that’s your brother?” Dupin blurted this out too, with an eagerness he instantly found embarrassing.

  “My father founded it. It was a little local butcher’s shop. When he died, my brother took over. And made a huge success of the company.” There was pride in his voice as he said these last words.

  Saucisse Breizh was one of the largest companies in Brittany. Every child had heard of it. Sausage, cured sausage, ham, paté, rillettes. Dupin knew the whole range inside out. The most delicious things. They may have been made in great quantities, but everything was manufactured using old-fashioned methods. Saucisse Breizh was flourishing. Dupin’s stomach began to growl.

  “I was the black sheep,” said Maxime Daeron, the trace of a tense smile showing on his face. “Everyone else in my family is in pig-breeding. Butchery. Sausage-making.”

  Dupin rubbed the back of his head. “This house—does it belong to your brother?”

  “Oh yes. As does the property in La Roche-Bernard. Where we live.”

  Suddenly Daeron looked utterly exhausted. It was visible in his face and his posture. This had been a long conversation. But this was the first conversation on this case where Dupin had felt relatively back on form again.

  “It’s terrible. I can’t comprehend it. I—” Maxime Daeron broke off.

  “Thank you so much—for your frankness, Monsieur Daeron. I assume you’ve told me everything you know.”

  “Yes.” Daeron had an absent-minded look on his face.

  “Get in touch if anything else occurs to you. Whatever’s going on here, this is all a great tragedy.”

  Dupin shot to his feet. Daeron did the same.

  “I’ll find my own way out.”

  Dupin nodded to Daeron and turned to leave.

  He was just a few steps away from the house when his mobile rang.

  Commissaire Rose. It was unbelievable. Was she having him watched? Had she planted a bugging device or a GPS transmitter on him? Her phone calls were perfectly timed.

  * * *

  Dupin had walked back to the harbor slowly with his mobile to his ear. There had been quite a lot to report on both sides. Especially from Dupin’s side, of course. He had made every effort to pass on as many details as possible. Rose was much less surprised by Daeron’s confession than Dupin had thought she would be, and than he himself had been. She quickly sent someone over to the neighbor’s house again to check Daeron’s statements—and especially, more fundamentally and more importantly, the credibility of the old woman. An enormous amount depended on her statement. And she had ordered the fingerprints found in Lilou’s parents’ house to be compared with Maxime Daeron’s immediately.

  Daeron’s admission made him a suspect, of course. With impressive speed, Rose had reconstructed Daeron’s evening chronologically. And she embarrassed Dupin, who had painstakingly gone through everything in his notebook again as he walked along. Just as he was getting ready to conclude that Daeron may not have been able to commit the murder before but could obviously have easily done it after the phone calls with Chadron and his brother, Rose finished her observations with the matter-of-fact remark that this possibility was “in all likelihood” ruled out, since Maxime Daeron would have had to throw Lilou into the gulf before 1:40 A.M. Because if it had happened later, the water flowing out would have carried her into the Atlantic and not into the small sea. Which the murderer would certainly have preferred, but apparently they hadn’t been able to plan their crime based around high and low tides. They must have had to dispose of the body as quickly as possible, and the chances of success in the eddies and shallows of the passage weren’t bad. Still, the rhythms of high and low tide were unshakable—specifically at the point in time when the bodies of water in the passage started to flow in the opposite direction. 1:40 A.M. was the key—it must have happened before then. And it was very unlikely Daeron could have managed that. Dupin then insisted that it was not “totally out of the question.” He felt like a bit of a rookie, an amateur in Breton matters; Rose mildly noted that these were simply criminological factors that “never needed to be taken into account in Paris.” Dupin thought Rose could in all fairness have pointed out the “1:40 A.M. is key” issue earlier with Bourgiot’s alibi (who could absolutely have done it before quarter to one if her alibi—which had been backed up only by her husband—lapsed at eleven thirty).

  Rose summarized how things stood on her end succinctly. Nothing of interest had been turned up in Breval’s email inbox yet. The same went for the landlines. She seemed to have used her mobile almost all the time. The itemized phone records, which Dupin had high hopes for, were available. Riwal and two police officers from Rose’s team were working through them right now in reverse order, beginning with the most recent calls. The same went for the small number of texts there were. They were trying to identify the people involved. With a particular focus on the last few days. Every detail of Maxime Daeron’s statements about his phone calls with Lilou Breval was corroborated by the list. This reminded Dupin of something else he had wanted to ask Daeron but it had slipped his mind at some point: Why had Maxime Daeron called Lilou specifically last night and not before then? And why not leave it till today? Of course it might be a coincidence. But sometimes things that looked like coincidences were key. The short phone call last night with Maxime Daeron had been the last call on her phone—apart from the mysterious call this morning. That call to Dupin himself, which was still on his mind. On Wednesday of the previous week and the day before that, there hadn’t been many calls. There were two calls to Orange’s service hotline (astonishing: Dupin always needed to make a dozen calls before getting through to anyone at the service provider), to her neighbor and to her colleague from the Ouest-France on Tuesday. Two landline numbers and a mobile number that still couldn’t be identified. The only other
person Lilou had called—and this was interesting—was Jaffrezic. Three days ago. They had been connected for four minutes. Rose had wanted to see Jaffrezic again, but hadn’t been able to get through to him. Now there was another significant reason to do so. He had spoken to Lilou Breval on the phone three days ago, and for Dupin too, this sent Jaffrezic straight to the top of the list of “people to speak to” this evening. Rose had instructed that he be “found urgently,” no matter what. The second intriguing call, three minutes long, was a call to Madame Bourgiot, also on Monday, which was even odder because Madame Bourgiot hadn’t mentioned this call earlier. Which made Bourgiot—and for once Rose and Dupin were agreed on this—a candidate for the top of the list. Dupin almost didn’t care what order they had the conversations in this time, so they went with Rose’s suggestion. Jaffrezic would be first.

  When Dupin arrived at the quay he was almost dizzy, everything swaying again like this morning at the Pointe de Kerpenhir, as if the world was suddenly tipping backward and forward. This time he mainly put it down to the fact that it was almost six and he hadn’t eaten anything but salted caramels since this morning. When he had arrived on the island, he had spotted a café on the small tree-lined hill across from the quay, and even from far away it looked marvelous. He would try to get a good coffee there and a bite to eat.

  * * *

  Le San Francisco was a wonderful place, Dupin had not been mistaken about that. The name alone was wonderful. A terrace right above the harbor between stone pine trees, small palm trees, hydrangea, an evergreen oak. And a real kiwi vine! A wide, two-story stone building that looked a hundred years old and was not kept up in the least, the paint flaking elegantly from the shutters. There were comfy wooden chairs with beige linen upholstery. A breathtaking view of the gulf, part of the monks’ island visible across the way, slightly hilly like here, and farther east was the Île d’Arz. Narrow stripes of deep green—just a handful of tall pines and stone pines soaring majestically out of the dense copse of trees. And in between: the blue of the water lying still before him. A landscape out of a nineteenth-century painting.

  Dupin sat down at a tiny table in the front row. It was quiet. The perfect spot. The Île aux Moines was growing on him. This was Brittany in the summertime. The “douceur de vivre.”

  The coffee—served in small, plain glasses—was just right. Dupin had ordered his first while he was still standing, got it straightaway and drank it straightaway, and against his inclination, a little hastily; Rose was going to be in touch again very soon and she would definitely expect him to be on his way back, not in a café of all places. He had cast an eye on the menu, however. It looked delicious. And he needed to eat something. He was still dizzy. Surely it wouldn’t take too long for the kitchen to send it out. Just something small. Tartare de lieu jaune, one of his favorite kinds of fish (the list of his “favorite fish” had grown to about fifteen over his years in Brittany), tartine de rougets (red mullet was absolutely amongst them), “buttered” with foie gras, as well as homemade lamb terrine with figs from the island. It all sounded fantastic. The shrill ringing of a mobile phone intruded on Dupin’s culinary fantasies.

  Nolwenn.

  “Where are you, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

  He didn’t have any secrets from Nolwenn. “I’m sitting in Le San Francisco.”

  “Great. Get the lamb terrine with figs from the island, it’s the right time for it.” Without pausing she added, “I haven’t found any criminal activity relating to salt. No reports about any illegality in its production or storage,” she said, sounding bitterly disappointed, “or more generally in connection with any salt marshes. Nothing at all. I’ve done very thorough research. I’ve already told Inspector Riwal.”

  Dupin gestured to the waitress with his left hand as Nolwenn was speaking, and a moment later she was standing next to him, her right hand on her hip. She had a short, black braid and a narrow straw hat with a black ribbon that some people wore on the island. She smiled.

  “The lamb terrine. And another coffee, please.”

  The lamb terrine would only need to be plated, after all.

  “We’re not thinking up any new ideas this way, Monsieur le Commissaire. We’ve got nothing—not in the Guérande and not in the other French salt marshes. Nowhere in Europe. It’s strange.”

  “And nothing on these wide-necked barrels?”

  “No.”

  “They must have contained something, I’m sure of it.” Dupin had said this with emphasis.

  “Great. You’re on the lookout for signs. Sometimes, you really are like one of us!”

  Dupin wasn’t sure why these barrels were a “sign.” What’s more: Nolwenn had never said this before, that he was “one of us,” or at least that he “sometimes” was. Dupin wavered between a flash of pride and uncertainty: Did she feel he needed a boost? Did she think the case was in a hopeless enough state for that?

  “You have a sensitivity to the world of signs. And that’s the Breton people’s way, they move through the world as though it were an enchanted forest. Behind everything and everyone there lies a hidden meaning, a secret. Charles Le Goffic says ‘the visible world is nothing more than a web of symbols to a Breton.’ And never forget: nothing is more real than what you can’t see!”

  Whenever Nolwenn quoted Charles Le Goffic, a revered Breton poet, it meant things were getting serious. Dupin recognized these words from Nolwenn’s “Breton Lessons for Advanced Learners.” The difference between these lessons and the ones for “Beginners” was that there was less concern for specific knowledge and more concern for basic, philosophical knowledge. It was about a particular attitude toward the world and life—“une façon d’être au monde.” But clearly Dupin still didn’t fully understand Nolwenn’s words. The Breton relationship to reality was peculiar. Peculiar, but, as he had learned, convincing. It was not about what existed or what appeared at the average first glance—and this was true for a commissaire too, of course, or so he understood Nolwenn’s allegory—but about what lay “behind” it. But this very thing, contrary to what you might think, didn’t make reality less important; it wasn’t devalued, and Bretons weren’t daydreaming. On the contrary: it made reality—here again, exactly like for a commissaire—damned important. Reality was urgently needed. Nobody had anything else after all. It needed to be observed very carefully, every last detail, almost obsessively, and that went for detective work too. Because every little thing could be significant, especially anything that seemed insignificant.

  “So is there any update on the chemical analyses of the pools?”

  This was typical too. Nolwenn was straight back to real, practical matters.

  “Nothing unusual so far. But some tests take longer. When it involves organic material.”

  If he had understood correctly.

  “Let’s speak later, Nolwenn.”

  Dupin didn’t have much time. He hung up. The rustic lamb terrine with the aromatic figs from the island was already on the table in front of him. As was the espresso. It hadn’t taken long and looked as good as he had hoped. He would eat and have a think while he did so. Think in peace for once. Following that surprising, extremely pertinent conversation with Maxime Daeron.

  He cut off a piece of the fig, which was ripe but not too soft, picked up a piece of baguette, and used it to slice off a corner of the terrine. It tasted exquisite, the hearty meatiness combined with the fruity sweetness. He took a drink; he probably ought to have ordered water too, he hadn’t drunk much since yesterday, and unlike in Paris, water wasn’t automatically served in Brittany: “L’eau c’est pour les vaches,” water is for cows, was the Breton view.

  Dupin was a long way off having concrete suspicions in this case. The preliminary basis for ideas, certainly. But these were vague too, if he were honest. He needed to activate his gray cells and think clearly. And for that he needed coffee, his brain didn’t function without it, although many people thought he was just being eccentric. Dupin loved the short
medical reports in the papers, the latest-studies-prove reports—more specifically, when the “latest studies” unearthed positive new insights into his habits and preferences. He stopped reading the other reports immediately—a lot of frivolous stuff was written, that was well known. It had been researched and proven countless times: coffee stimulated the metabolism in the brain, the brain’s concentration, attention span, and memory capacity were significantly improved, the signs of fatigue eliminated. The scientific truth was this: caffeine was simply a miracle substance. The caffeine molecule has a similar chemical structure to the main substance in the brain’s metabolism whose main task is to protect brain cells from critical overexertion. They do this by slowing down the transmission of information from one nerve cell to another. This was exactly what it felt like when Dupin had not had enough caffeine, and he was very glad to have this scientific explanation for it. The caffeine molecule cunningly simulated this substance, but without causing the slowing down! The nerve cells didn’t get a signal for slower work; on the contrary: they kept working at top capacity! Not to mention the fact that regular coffee drinkers were much less likely to suffer from dementia, according to the studies—a particular relief to Dupin, because he struggled with his memory quite a lot. And the healing properties of caffeine had been documented in headaches, migraines, inflammation in the body, Type 2 diabetes, and fibrosis of the liver. There were very few other foods with such a phenomenal range of effects, apart from perhaps chocolate and red wine (Dupin loved gathering the reports about the “latest studies” on these ones too). It was purely medicinal.

  Dupin had just taken another bite of the terrine when his mobile rang.

  Commissaire Rose. Of course. With some reluctance, he answered.

  “Jaffrezic’s wife doesn’t know where her husband is either. And neither does anybody in the cooperative. He was there all day and only left around half past five. His wife says he sometimes goes fishing and always has the rods in his car. We’re checking if he’s at his usual fishing spot. On the large beaches beyond Le Croisic. Ground fishing. Perch, gilthead, pollack.” This sounded very professional and Dupin was impressed despite himself. “He’s not picking up his mobile. We’re trying it at regular intervals.”