The Fleur De Sel Murders

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  “You think it’s Madame Laurent,” Dupin said in a contemplative voice. “You think she’s not just involved in the algae project, she’s the murderer too.”

  “I…”

  Dupin’s mobile.

  He saw a number that looked unfamiliar.

  “It’s Directeur Daeron’s secretary again here,” she said uncertainly.

  “Yes, Madame?”

  “I’ve looked at the numbers Monsieur Daeron called this afternoon from his landline. There were just three of them. The long conversation that got him so shaken up was on his mobile, shall I let you have the numbers in any—”

  Rose’s radio interrupted the secretary.

  “Are you there? I’ve got something.” Chadron’s voice was almost shrill.

  “Has something happened?” The secretary sounded frightened. Dupin had forgotten to end the call. He hung up.

  It was clear Chadron was trying to contain her excitement. “I carried out your instruction from this afternoon and asked the traffic crime division for every recorded speeding incident from the stationary and mobile patrols between Wednesday evening and this afternoon. Two officers analyzed them.” She was speaking remarkably quickly, hardly breathing. “They compared that with the registration plates of the cars belonging to everyone we’re looking into.” A seemingly natural pause developed. Dupin still hadn’t fully grasped what Chadron was saying, coming as it did out of the blue like this. But it was dawning on him.

  “A mobile radar unit on the D28 near Crac’h caught a black Renault Laguna with the registration GH 568 PP–44 on Wednesday evening at eleven forty. The snapshot is poor, but the technicians think they’ll be able to improve the picture enough to make the person identifiable. The car was doing one hundred and forty-five kilometers an hour.” Chadron took a deep breath and then ended her message by adding: “Crac’h is seven kilometers from Kerpenhir. From Lilou Breval’s parents’ home.”

  It was a split second before Dupin realized the monstrous enormity of this news.

  That was it.

  They had her.

  Before he could reply, Rose had stepped on the brake with no warning—and without saying another word to Chadron. There was an almighty screeching and groaning. A terrible juddering. When she slammed on the brakes, Dupin was flung forward against his seatbelt and pangs of pain shot through his shoulder, which he hadn’t felt much all day. The whole incident took four or five seconds. Then the car stopped. A scene out of a film. Just a few meters from the quay. The gulf lay before them. That breathtaking panorama. A family with two small children and a father carrying a bright yellow rubber boat turned around and looked at the car in concern.

  “We’ve only got one shot. If it’s not already too late. Where do we go?” asked Rose.

  It wasn’t Madame Laurent. She hadn’t murdered Lilou Breval, anyway. And in all likelihood she hadn’t murdered Maxime Daeron either. Dupin remembered the big Renault—at the salt marshes yesterday, where the barrels had been found. It was the same car that Rose drove, only in jet black. He knew who owned it.

  This was a coup. A coup for Commissaire Rose, who again hadn’t told him what she was up to—had shut him out again. But that was beside the point now. This time they had caught them—Rose was close earlier with the canoe and the old woman. It was a simple but admittedly brilliant idea. They had had all instances of speeding from the last few days looked into. Brittany was riddled with mobile radar machines these days. A brilliant idea, because in this case it wasn’t just the investigators who had had to do a lot of driving. And what’s more: they had needed to drive very fast.

  “Where shall we go?” Rose said, tearing Dupin away from his thoughts. She was right: it was the one question they needed to think about right now. Everything else would come later.

  “Where could they be? Daeron and Cordier?”

  * * *

  Rose turned the car around. And started driving—without the sirens and flashing lights this time—slowly back through the village toward the motorway. They would have to turn right or left there. Toward the gulf—or toward the salt marshes.

  They didn’t say a word. Their thoughts were racing. The tension was palpable. They had just one shot. If that.

  “He wanted to be ‘alone’—his boat.” Dupin’s words broke the tense silence. “Wherever Paul Daeron’s boat is. Somewhere there. He said it was a ‘peaceful place.’ It’s his place. That’s where we need to go.”

  This was not the result of logical analysis. It was instinct, a mental deduction. A feeling. Rose looked at Dupin for a moment, perplexed.

  He got out his notebook and hurriedly leafed through it. He had noted it down, he was sure of it.

  He found it on a page covered in scribbles. “The Vilaine estuary. His boat is in the Vilaine estuary. He mentioned Vannes and La Roche-Bernard and he thought it was about fifteen minutes away.”

  Rose’s eyes flashed. “That would be almost exactly midway between Pen Lan and La Roche-Bernard. Where Paul Daeron and Madame Cordier live. Between the Salt Land and the gulf. Not far from here.”

  “Is there a harbor there?”

  “No,” Rose said softly, “that’s the long northern side of the Vilaine estuary. Lots of rocky patches, meadows, big cornfields, hedgerows, heather, a few dolmens. It’s all quite peaceful. Desolate. You need to know exactly where you want to go.” Suddenly her expression changed. “At the Pointe du Moustoir, almost right in the estuary, where it starts to get hilly, there’s a handful of buoys with boats attached. Far out into the river. There are also buoys on the two or three beaches off it.”

  Dupin didn’t know the area. Rose fell silent for a few moments. Then she stretched, turned her head to the left, to the right, and stepped on the gas. The car actually jolted forward.

  “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” She reached for the radio. “Chadron, can you hear me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Send units to the northern side of the Vilaine estuary right away. To the beaches where the boats are in summer. Tell them to look for a dark blue Citroën Crosser and the black Renault Laguna. And for Paul Daeron’s sailing boat. We’ll be there very soon. We’re driving to Pointe du Moustoir.”

  “Should I come? With Riwal and Kadeg?”

  “No. But let them know. Keep investigating where you are. We still don’t know everyone who was involved. I don’t want any more surprises. They might not even be there. We’re taking a chance.”

  This was important: they didn’t know everyone who was involved. Who they were, and how many of them there were. But one person was clear. In all likelihood, the murderer of Lilou Breval. There was no two ways about it. Céline Cordier had stated she was at the party in Pen Lan on Wednesday evening. From around ten until half past one in the morning. The entire time, never once leaving the party. She had unquestionably been seen there at ten o’clock and at quarter to one; they had witnesses. But in between those two times she had been recorded fifty-seven kilometers away from the party, driving at an extremely high speed. And that was at twenty to midnight. Just seven kilometers away from the scene of the crime—the scene where Lilou was murdered at around the right time. There was only one conclusion to be drawn. Dupin had no doubts about it. It was her.

  * * *

  Dupin had a scale map in his lap. Between Pen Lan and the end of the huge Vilaine estuary, there were seven little roads that led to the sea, all of them branching into even smaller paths. They had just left the Route Nationale and now drove past Billiers and straight down to the river. Taking a right for the Pointe du Moustoir. Just five kilometers away. The street forked yet again at the end. There would probably be a few unpaved paths. A few hamlets.

  He and Rose hadn’t exchanged a single word. And strangely, the mobile and radio had stayed silent.

  This was a risk. They were staking everything on this.

  The road ran between fields of corn. It was at most a meter wider than the car and it was doggedly straight. Dupin happen
ed to look at the speedometer: 150 kilometers an hour. They had just left a dense patch of forest. He put the map in the backseat without even trying to fold it.

  Commissaire Rose slowed down. Dupin sat up straight and instinctively grabbed his gun. They were coming to a turnoff. Rose turned right. An even narrower street. Gently sloping. A slight bend. All of a sudden they saw the bright greenish-silver river. Right now, between high and low tides, it was a real river—not a fjord—a river with broad strips of sand and silt on either bank. The road led right down to the river, with fields of corn still on the left-hand side. On the opposite side were the first of the boats, tethered to the typical colorful buoys.

  “The boats are on the southern bank here. This isn’t it.”

  Rose reached for the radio. “Chadron, can you hear me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Are there boats on the northern bank at Pointe du Moustoir too? We’ve come from Billiers.”

  “A little farther into the estuary, just below Kerdavid, there are three little dead ends that go down to the river.”

  Rose hung up the radio again and said, “Chadron is a sailor.”

  This street led away from the river. Small woods, shrubbery, and hilly ground blocked their view now. Rose slowed the car down noticeably. Dupin saw why. To the right was a turnoff for an unpaved path. That must be one of the three dead ends that Chadron had meant.

  Again it was a game of pure chance.

  “The middle one.” Rose stepped on the gas, only to brake abruptly again a hundred meters later and take a turnoff to the right onto a path that looked just like the first one, lined on either side with crooked oaks and dense, tall gorse bushes. The path wound its way down to the river. At least she was driving more slowly now.

  A moment later Rose stopped the car. They couldn’t go any farther. The path ended at some big hawthorn bushes, the river shimmering through them. Along with several boats. Boats on their side of the river.

  There was no sign of a Citroën Crosser or a Renault Laguna.

  They got out without saying anything. In one deft movement, Rose took off her jacket and threw it on the driver’s seat. Her SIG Sauer was clearly visible now. Dupin headed for the small footpath among the bushes and trees that led down to the water. Rose followed him.

  They reached the bank a few minutes later. There was a slight bend in the river at this point.

  There were fifteen boats here, Dupin estimated. Upstream and downstream, scattered at large intervals over a distance of at least a kilometer. Motorboats, a few real motor yachts and sailing boats.

  Upstream, about thirty or forty meters away, they saw a stream that meandered down the hillside, widening by a few meters before reaching the estuary. Somewhere beyond that must be the other path leading down from the street to the Vilaine. The third one.

  On the riverbank in front of them were five small hard plastic dinghies for ferrying people over to the ships. Not a soul in sight. It was perfectly silent. Not even the gently flowing water was audible.

  “It’s best if we split up. I’ll go downstream, you go upstream. Maybe it was the first path after all—or the third one.” Rose’s brow furrowed. “Or they’re not here at all.”

  She pulled a second radio out of her trouser pocket: “Here, this is for you.”

  Dupin took it and turned round. He moved off, not running but moving at a swift pace, his right hand on his gun. His focused gaze swept back and forth between the boats on the river and the dense shrubbery on the left.

  He was approaching the mouth of the stream that ended at the Vilaine. Suddenly he saw something dark and metallic shimmering in the shrubbery beyond the estuary. Indistinct. He walked to the waterline. It was easier to make out from here.

  Yes. Something dark blue. The roof of a car. That could be it. Without thinking about it, he undid his holster and took out his gun. He kept on walking as he did so, right into the stream, which was deeper than he had anticipated. He was wading through it.

  “Commissaire Rose, can you hear me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I think I’ve found the Crosser. The third path on the other side of the stream goes right down to the Vilaine. That’s where it is.”

  “I’ll be right with you.”

  Dupin had reached the other bank of the stream. He set off to the left, keeping close to the undergrowth, gun at the ready.

  It was definitely the dark blue Citroën Crosser that belonged to Paul Daeron. Dupin kept going, ducking down instinctively. To the left, a narrow footpath led down to the river, similar to the one where they had parked.

  There was nobody here either. Nothing unusual. Dupin turned onto the path. Behind the Crosser there was a second car, so close it was almost touching the bumper of the Citroën. A jet-black car. A Renault Laguna. Registration plate GH 568 PP–44.

  They had been right.

  Paul Daeron and Céline Cordier were here.

  Dupin approached, his gun still at the ready. Suddenly there came the sound of footsteps, muffled but unmistakable. Behind him. With an expert leap, he ducked into the bushes, turning in the air, gun at the ready.

  Rose. It was Rose. She was coming up the small path with her gun drawn and her face set. Dupin hadn’t counted on her getting to him so quickly. He could tell from her wet trousers that she had taken the direct route through the stream too. She didn’t seem to take any notice of the gun trained on her. Dupin didn’t lower it till she was practically standing in front of him.

  “Where could they be?”

  This wasn’t really a question.

  Rose looked briefly and carefully at one car after the other. There was nothing of interest there. She tried the doors. Both cars were locked.

  “There’s something over there.”

  In the long grass part of the way up the path, something flashed. Dupin happened to see it out of the corner of his eye. A few meters away. It was catching the light. He went over.

  It was a mobile. A basic, small mobile.

  Dupin picked it up. It was switched off.

  He turned it on and scrolled through the recent calls. He recognized the first number straightaway: Rose’s. Before that were ten other calls, the same number each time, also a mobile number. There was only one other call listed, from 7:24 yesterday. It all fit. Rose was standing next to him now.

  “Paul Daeron’s prepaid mobile.”

  What had gone on here?

  “Paul Daeron called me from here. That was the phone call earlier. Cordier must have disturbed him. And it must have ended in a struggle.”

  They searched the stony ground for clues. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of a struggle.

  “Let’s take a look at the boats as well as we can from shore. I’ve requested a police boat. The closest harbor is in Pen Lan so it’ll take a while. We’ve got to find out where Paul Daeron’s boat is and what kind of boat it is. We can’t get hold of his wife right now.”

  “We should split up again.” Dupin could feel how tense he was.

  “Farther up there toward the street, there was a small footpath off on the left. Parallel to the Vilaine. There should be a better view from up there.”

  “I’ll walk along the river.” Dupin had already set off. “Upstream.”

  As before, he kept close to the undergrowth. A wild hedgerow, denser and denser bushes, and some knotty oaks stretched almost all the way down as far as the riverbed. It was about another three hundred meters to the very first boats. There was a bend in the river, gentle at first but then a sharp curve.

  Suddenly Dupin saw a small green dinghy a little farther upstream, not far from the bank. And as far as he could make out, there was a person there too. It was impossible to say whether it was a man or a woman. He couldn’t understand why he was only seeing the boat now.

  “Commissaire Rose?”

  She came on immediately. Dupin had lowered his voice, so much so that she could barely hear him. “I’m listening.”


  “I see a green dinghy near the first boats. On our side of the bank. It’s blocked by trees in a few places.”

  “How many people?”

  “One, as far as I can tell.”

  The boat was getting closer and closer to the bank.

  “Has the person seen you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll see if I can follow the boat from here.”

  Dupin walked some way along the exposed patch of muddy, sandy riverbed, although he ran the risk of being spotted. He had to follow the boat. He couldn’t lose sight of it. He was getting closer and closer to the shore.

  Nothing. He couldn’t see it anymore. It had vanished somewhere along the bank, behind trees and shrubs. His radio came on. It was Rose.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I’ve got a good view from up here. I don’t see a dinghy. But I’ve just been told what kind of boat Daeron owns. A sailboat. Twelve point eight meters. A Bénéteau. I can just about make out the second boat up ahead. It’s a large sailboat, that could be it.”

  Dupin had stopped and was looking down the river. He could make out a tall mast. Almost thirteen meters was an impressive length. He counted another seven boats in front of it. Three sailboats; they looked smaller. One sailboat was almost directly in front of him, also a Bénéteau. But definitely not 12.8 meters long.

  Dupin walked on, closer to the undergrowth on the bank.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a hissing sound. A high-pitched, metallic hiss. A clear sound. The last time he’d heard it was forty-eight hours ago. In the salt marshes two evenings before. A gunshot.

  A second one followed immediately. A silencer, just like the day before yesterday. His instinct told him it came from up ahead and to the left. But from quite far away. Dupin fired straight in the direction he suspected the shooter was. Three times. Then he threw himself into the bushes. In an instant, he was squatting down and no longer visible, although his assailant would still know his whereabouts. Dupin held the radio in his left hand and whispered into it. His voice sounded strained.

  “I’m being shot at. The shooter is between around fifty and a hundred meters ahead of me, upstream, a little farther away from the bank, I think.”