‘She said we should just switch off the light and close the door behind us. And she sends you her best wishes.’
Dupin smiled in spite of himself.
‘Let’s make it quick, it’s already late.’
He hadn’t even finished the sentence when an idea came to him.
‘Riwal, the helicopter is here on Saint-Nicolas, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire. I gave it instructions to wait here. I assumed you’d be okay with that. Goulch has already gone off in the boat.’
‘Excellent.’
Dupin thought it would be better to go outside quickly.
‘I’ll be right back.’
He left the bar and closed the door carefully behind him. He fished out his mobile.
‘Amiral, bonsoir.’
‘Bonsoir, is Paul there?’
‘Just a moment.’
It really did take just one moment for Paul Girard, owner of the Amiral, to come on the line. Dupin liked him a lot – something like friendship had arisen between them over the years, because Dupin began each day with a coffee in the Amiral and usually also ended it there too. They didn’t talk much, but an unspoken understanding had grown between the two of them.
‘Georges here.’
‘We heard about what happened. Mon Dieu.’
Dupin knew that he needn’t say another word about the case. Which was wonderful.
‘I’ll call in tonight, but it’s going to be late.’
The Amiral closed at half twelve at the latest. But Girard knew that during a case it sometimes got very late.
‘I’ll let the cook know. The usual.’
‘The usual’ meant: a large entrecôte, chips, a rich red Languedoc, Château Les Fenals.
‘Wonderful.’
‘See you soon.’
Dupin already felt a good bit better. Psychologically. He had solid ground beneath his feet again.
He went back into the Quatre Vents. Riwal and Kadeg stared at him quizzically.
‘Excellent, gentlemen. We’ll start early tomorrow morning. I say we have a meeting here at eight. We will need both boats in the coming days, Goulch and his crew – and the Luc’hed. Also, the helicopters should be available at all times. We have to be able to react quickly to everything, it cannot make a difference that we’re out here in the middle of nowhere.’
There was something cheerful to Dupin’s tone now, which he himself found amusing.
‘Then let’s meet tomorrow morning at the airport in Quimper at half seven?’
‘Absolutely, Kadeg.’
The prospect of sitting with an entrecôte in the Amiral so soon was giving Dupin renewed energy.
‘Have we learnt anything new about Konan or Pajot yet? Under no circumstances can we make the mistake of concentrating too much on Lefort, that would be negligent.’
He wasn’t sure whether he himself believed what he was saying.
‘We also need to focus on the issue of what connections there were between the three of them – what they got up to together, had planned, whatever. Whether someone had it in for all three of them. The same goes for each of the pair combinations: Lefort – Pajot, Pajot – Konan, Lefort – Konan. That the murder attempt might have been meant for just one person is,’ Dupin broke off for a moment and wrinkled his forehead, ‘the least likely. But cannot be disregarded of course.’
‘Of the customers we’ve spoken to this evening, nobody knew Monsieur Pajot personally, not even any of the regulars. Monsieur Du Marhallac’h knew the names, the others didn’t even know that much – even Solenn Nuz didn’t,’ Riwal reported. He also spoke about Solenn Nuz as though she were the ultimate authority on all things.
Now Kadeg butted in too, looking eager.
‘We showed them the photo of Pajot, but nobody has seen him on the islands, anywhere. A little mysterious.’
‘Perhaps he’ll have been on his boat. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary after all. The boat was big enough to spend evenings on comfortably.’
Kadeg looked offended in his typically childish way. Dupin had really only said this to make a point to Kadeg, but suddenly thought it seemed very logical.
Riwal took over again:
‘All of the regulars knew Konan, indeed he was frequently here with Lefort. But none of them know any details about him, just a few general things that we already know. Everyone knew that he was a keen angler. Madame Barrault, the diving instructor, knows his boat and says she met him and Lefort at sea a few times. Near the Moutons. At the spots where there are mackerel. Nobody knew him well enough to have heard about potential conflicts. Everyone just thought of him as “Lefort’s friend”.’
‘Kadeg, I want you to pay a visit to Konan’s wife first thing tomorrow morning. The Prefect has phoned her personally. Her marriage was possibly at an end.’
Kadeg obviously considered this a suitable task.
‘Will do. I spoke on the phone to Pajot’s secretary in Paris at around 10pm. She was dumbfounded. We’re going to speak again tomorrow morning. He had no siblings and neither of his parents is still alive. But she wanted to ask around again, about whether someone else knows something. She said he was a rather “distant person”. She didn’t know much about his private life.’
‘The sensational news is out in the world, soon we’ll know whether there is any more family. If there are, they’ll call you and complain that they weren’t informed.’
It sounded more cynical than Dupin had intended.
‘Let’s call it a day.’
Riwal looked visibly relieved. Even Kadeg didn’t seem unhappy.
‘Did anyone mention something about a treasure hunt to you?’
They both looked at Dupin in bafflement.
‘Something about a sunken ship, a discovery, salvage?’
‘I – no.’
‘Nor me.’
Both inspectors seemed too tired to ask. And Dupin wasn’t in the mood for more explanations either.
‘Let’s head.’
That had been an order.
* * *
The helicopter had lifted off at exactly 11.15pm.
The three police officers from the Commissariat de Concarneau were sitting, strapped tightly into their seats – Dupin particularly tightly – each one lost in his own thoughts about the events of this strangely dramatic day. Something people on the coast said about the Glénan popped into Dupin’s head: time expanded on the islands. As soon as you were there, under this world’s spell. More could happen here than anywhere else; in a minute, an hour, a day. Incredible as it sounded, that’s exactly how he felt too.
The helicopter threw a strange shadow on the silver sea, like something out of a surrealist film. Several times, Dupin thought he saw the shadow of a bird of prey in a nosedive, so clear suddenly, that he was starting to get the creeps.
They would reach the mainland soon, the lights of Sainte-Marine and Bénodet were already glittering before them. It was strange, it seemed as though their shimmering marked an elemental border: the peculiar kingdom of the Glénan and the Atlantic here, and the normal world, reality, there. Dupin was glad, but also a little melancholy. And he didn’t fully understand why he felt either emotion. With the monotonous noise of the rotors, which were muffled astonishingly well by the headphones, he almost nodded off a few times. Yet the attempt to make progress with some of his thoughts kept him awake. Besides, he would never have taken a nap in front of his inspectors! Except in front of Riwal.
They would have solid ground beneath their feet any moment now. He would climb into his Citroën, drive far too fast and be in Concarneau thirty minutes later. In his Amiral. He would park on the large square right at the quay – and everything would be okay for the time being. For a brief moment. After he’d walked into the bar, it would take less than five minutes for the entrecôte to be in front of him and he would already have drunk his first glass of Languedoc.
The Second Day
It was half past six. Still dark
, the moon had long since gone down. In the westernmost part of the ‘united’ European standard time zone – even this was seen as a minor invasion by Bretons – it only got light at seven o’clock at the beginning of May. Commissaire Georges Dupin was sitting in the Le Bulgare and drinking his second coffee, having just ordered his third from the energetic waitress. His little notebook lay open in front of him. Things were loud and robust. The day had long been in full, unsentimental flow, there was nothing leisurely here early in the morning. The far from idyllic cafe was right on the Route Nationale, on the fourth of the closely laid out rond-points on the approach to Quimper. From here, it was just five minutes to the little airport. Dupin did not come here often, but he was fond of it and it had been his saviour today.
As early as it was, Dupin had already got quite a lot done. He had got up at twenty past five – after only getting to bed at a little after half one and then lying awake practically all night, tossing and turning every few minutes. At one point he’d felt like he had a fever. He had gone over the events of the day again and again, the facts, the little that they knew. Might there not be clues that they hadn’t seen? A lead. He had been very sure that it would have been better to get some rest, to sleep. That it was completely preposterous to rack his brains in that state.
He would have got up even earlier if he had known how to get his hands on caffeine. The Amiral only opened at quarter to seven, which he had discussed very seriously with Girard on a number of occasions. Dupin’s disgracefully expensive espresso machine from Paris had suddenly given up the ghost, which he had only realised during the last emergency – because the Amiral was always closed on the second of January.
At a quarter to six, Dupin had called Riwal because he wanted the mayor of Fouesnant’s number. Dupin could not remember his exact thought processes now, but at some point in the night he had been determined to talk to him.
And then, finally, Dupin had indeed called the Prefect, at five past six. He would need to get in touch quite regularly from now on. Besides, he had realised that the Prefect himself was relevant to this case, although only peripherally: he had been friends with Konan. For the first five minutes, Dupin had let the usual tirade wash over him – why had he not got in touch the day before and then now suddenly did so in the middle of the night, that this was not a proper way to work … Dupin had not actuallylistened for a second. He had agreed, absolutely passively, to leave all press statements to the Prefect and especially to report at least three times a day on this ‘wholly exceptionally important case, which urgently required as quick a resolution as possible’. The Prefect had outlined all the potential ‘disastrous scenarios’ in store for Dupin, himself, the Finistère police, the whole département if they couldn’t manage a quick and complete resolution to the case. Dupin had waited for the choleric fury to subside and then begun to ask questions of his own. Always ‘in the interests of a quick resolution’. At first Locmariaquer had, with some astonishment – Dupin could not tell if it was genuine or not – asked to what it extent it was significant, what Konan’s businesses were and whether he had enemies. But then the Prefect noticeably relented, so that for some stretches the phone call had turned into a genuine investigative talk with a ‘witness’. In the end, Dupin left his superior thunderstruck with an overly friendly and formal ‘Thanks for your help’ and hung up. The Prefect had apparently felt more and more uneasy as the conversation went on. From a certain point onwards it had suited him to make it clear that Konan had not been a close personal friend in the strictest sense, but rather an ‘acquaintance – a significant figure in Brittany and beyond’, with whom he was on good terms for unavoidable professional as well as social reasons. Astonishingly, Dupin believed him. A few times the Prefect had even let a critical distance from Konan develop. He had mentioned that Konan had had ‘problems’ with the Inland Revenue from time to time and that his web of investments seemed a little unclear. He had known nothing about a specific, acute or simmering conflict with anyone in particular. He had seen Yannig Konan for the last time three weeks ago, at a party given by the ‘Friends of Breton Beer-brewers Club’, of which there were more and more in recent years – both regional beer producers and their friends. (Dupin himself was one of them now, although he would not admit it and was always making the case for his beloved 1664.) The Prefect was certain that Konan’s wife knew little about her husband’s current life. Up until a few years ago, the Locmariaquers had invited the Konans to dinner once a year. Until the marital crisis had become official. What the Prefect had also confirmed was this: Pajot really was a close friend of Konan. Locmariaquer knew of regular evenings the two spent together in Paris. He had only seen Pajot a handful of times at some receptions.
In any case, Dupin had already learnt a thing or two this morning.
At either end of the Bulgare’s counter – it was five or six metres long – two televisions were on at the same time, each on different stations. ‘TV Breizh’ was on one of them – the Breton channel. Of course, it was about the murders. A photo of Dupin was shown for a few seconds, ‘the young, yet experienced Parisian Commissaire from the Commissariat de Police Concarneau, who has solved a series of sensational cases in recent years, is leading the investigation.’ Thank God the people in the cafe were too preoccupied with the beginning of their day to take any notice of the Commissaire. It must still have been possible to read about the ‘tragic accident’ in the papers today – the news about the murder had arrived after the editorial deadline. There were multiple copies of Ouest France and Télégramme lying on the counter, not very far away from him. Dupin did not feel like reading the articles.
Dupin finished his third coffee and contemplated ordering a fourth, he had a feeling his brain still wasn’t functioning quite right. And he needed a croissant for his stomach. He had just made eye contact with the waitress when his mobile shrilled.
‘Who’s this?’
He had sounded unintentionally rude.
For a moment, nothing happened.
‘Hello?’ Dupin was annoyed.
‘Check out the activities of Pajot and Konan’s company, Medimare, and the Institut Marine de Concarneau.’
The voice sounded artificially disguised, muffled and low, far away. Deliberately montonous.
‘Who’s there? Hello? Hello, who’s speaking?’
‘This is about Medimare. Yannig Konan and Grégoire Pajot’s company.’
This was no joke.
‘What exactly is this about? Talk to me.’
No answer. Dupin waited. Nothing more, the caller had hung up. Suddenly, Dupin was wide awake. He froze, momentarily motionless.
Before he had even had time to think any more, his mobile rang again.
‘Where are you, Monsieur le Commissaire?’
‘I – – – Nolwenn?’
‘Yes?’
It took Dupin a moment to pull himself together.
‘What does Medimare mean to you?’
‘Hmmm – nothing at all.’
So the company couldn’t be well known.
‘I’ve just received an anonymous call.’
‘Oh?’
Dupin was glad to be able to tell Nolwenn about it, so it became more real.
‘I got a call a minute ago, asking me to examine the activities of Pajot and Konan’s company Medimare and the Institut Marine de Concarneau with a fine-tooth comb. He…’ something occurred to Dupin, ‘where did he get my number from?’
‘Before I left yesterday, I myself transferred your personal extension to your mobile, that’s what we always do at night during a case. He probably called your number in the Commissariat. It’s easy to get.’
‘Please check, Nolwenn.’
Dupin was still feeling the after-effects of this strange call.
‘We’ll know that very soon. But surely it was a withheld number.’
That was true, nobody would be so stupid.
‘I don’t know the name Medimare but that’s definitely one of the c
ompanies I was talking about yesterday. I’ll take a look at that straight away. What do you make of this call, Monsieur le Commissaire? It sounds extremely vague.’
‘No idea. But we have to find out everything about this company at once.’
The caller had told him very little. Still, it was a clue. If there was something fishy going on with the companies the two of them owned and they had made enemies from it, there might have been a motive – and people who had one. And sometimes an anonymous person did give a tip. But sometimes these calls meant nothing at all, they were sick jokes by people not involved. Or they turned out to be well-aimed diversions.
‘And the voice didn’t seem familiar to you?’
‘No. It was disguised. Although not very professionally.’
‘Was it a man’s voice?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the Institut Marine, don’t you?’
‘Yes of course. I mean, I know as much as the next person.
Dupin’s apartment – given to him by the city – was around hundred metres away from the institute. If he stood on his narrow balcony and looked out to sea, it was directly to his right. The institute had a branch on the other side of the harbour by now, the ‘rive gauche’. An institute for marine biology – in all honesty, that’s as much as Dupin knew.
‘It’s the oldest research post for marine biology in the world. Which is no coincidence of course. Breton!’
Of course.
‘Well regarded, a large number of renowned scientists work there. The head is Professor Yves Le Berre-Ryckeboerec.’
‘Berk-Rib…?’
‘Professor Yves Le Berre-Ryckeboerec.’
This was the ultimate escalation for Dupin: complicated Breton names clustering together in double-barrels. He noted ‘Director, Institute’ in his notebook.
‘Is he based in the main building? Where the Marinarium is?’
There was a not very large but lovingly equipped Marinarium, no comparison with the Océanopolis in Brest, but Dupin liked it, even though it didn’t have any penguins. He’d visited an exhibition there only three or four weeks ago. The purpose of the exhibition was immediately obvious: ‘Fish on my plate, what’s your name?’ It was about the numerous types of fish in the area that you found at local fishmongers and on the restaurant menus. It demonstrated what they looked like before they ended up on the plate – alive, in their proper maritime habitat. There had been an incredible, colourful range, Dupin hadn’t been able to get his head round it.
Murder on Brittany Shores Page 14