Dupin was briefly overcome by a vague suspicion which he quickly pushed aside. He was busy going over the conversations he’d had today in his head. And the dolphins came into his mind again too.
They were going past Guiriden’s long sandbar. To Dupin it was perhaps the most astonishing thing about the entirety of the Glénan. A few rocks at high tide, a little bit of land and green all around them, perhaps twenty metres by twenty and then – at low tide – suddenly two or three hundred metres of dazzlingly bright sandbar. Unbelievably white sand, falling gently away, even forming Caribbean-like lagoons. It was fantastic. Just like Henri had described it to him last year, on what have been his only trip to the Glénan before yesterday. Dupin had let himself be talked into a day on Henri’s brand new boat – an Antares 7.80 – which he had regretted enormously, as beautiful as it had been on Penfret. This was no normal sand here! It was coral sand! It was not a Breton exaggeration, as Dupin had initially suspected. This really was genuine coral sand. And there was only one instance of it in Europe and that was on the Glénan. Nolwenn had explained it vividly to him a few times before too. The sand on the archipelago consisted of chalky coral skeletons ground down over the course of millions of years. Snow white, fine, yet solid, not fly-away like powder. ‘This bears no relation to sand – little, crystalline pieces of coral,’ he recalled Nolwenn’s words. Of course, Breton sand in general was no ordinary sand, not some run-of-the-mill sand from some normal sandstone; it was mainly flawless granite sand. Sand that had broken away from the elemental granite ridges that made up Brittany, geologically-speaking. But if the coral thing sounded spectacular enough already, the real highlight of it was the explanation. The sand, or rather the corals, hadn’t been washed up somehow, no – they had once grown extensively right here: large, splendid corals. Right here – when Brittany was still in the tropics. This was not a joke or a metaphor or an analogy. It was reality. Dupin remembered the first time that Nolwenn had proudly said this: ‘For a long time we were an exotic, tropical landscape – in the heart of the tropics.’ He had found it almost too strange to laugh, which Nolwenn had noticed with an indignant look and countered with a geography lecture that was all the more serious for it. The position of the earth’s axis, Dupin had learnt, had shifted dramatically and with it, the climactic zones. So these really were tropical beaches here! Or at least they had once been. Bretons had, Dupin found, a special relationship with time, with the past, even the far-distant past. Which above all meant: it didn’t exist for Bretons, the past. It had not passed. Nothing was past. Everything that there had been was also present and would stay that way forever. This didn’t reduce the significance of the present at all, on the contrary: it made it even greater. It had taken Dupin some time to understand that. But at some point he had discovered that there was a truth in this that was very moving. And if you wanted to get by at the ‘End of the World’, you couldn’t forget it.
In the chamber the Luc’hed was going at a slower speed. Soon the quay at Saint-Nicolas came into view, the ugly triangular houses, the sailing school’s farmhouse, the diving school, the Quatre Vents. The captain moored expertly at the quay and soon Dupin was already on his way to ‘operation headquarters’.
‘What have we got, Riwal?’
The inspector was sitting at the same table they had sat at yesterday. He was so absorbed in his notebook that he hadn’t seen Dupin coming. Lots of A4 pages were stuck into it. He straightened up with a jerk and looked a little sheepishly at the large plate on the table in front of him, with the meagre remains of a lobster piled on it. Next to it stood two bottles of water and several glasses. And an empty wine glass.
‘You’ve got to drink a lot of water in this weather. I’ve conducted interviews with Madame Nuz and Madame Barrault. And with Madame Menez.’ He added, slightly more quietly, ‘I’ve just had something to eat.’
‘Excellent, Riwal. I’m going to do that soon too.’
The solid ground beneath his feet was making Dupin feel, by his standards, practically euphoric.
Riwal burst out with the news.
‘The doctor from Sainte-Marine, who apparently was also in the Quatre Vents briefly the evening before last, has been reported missing: Devan Le Menn…’
‘Le Menn is missing? Le Menn?’
Dupin’s mild fit of good cheer was evaporating.
‘His wife informed the police half an hour ago.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘He left his house around half seven this morning, he had a few errands to do. Amongst other things, he wanted to go to the bank in Quimper, he often does that on Tuesday morning if there are no urgent house calls. He was meant to meet his wife at twelve o’clock. He’s always on time. His wife seemed anxious.’
‘He’s not even two hours late yet. There’s no reason,’ Dupin hesitated, ‘to assume that something bad has happened yet.’
‘I have a bad feeling about this.’
‘Maybe there was a medical emergency, one of his patients. Something acute – and he hasn’t found the time to get in touch yet. He’s a doctor.’
Dupin himself didn’t believe this. He felt, if he were honest, the same way Riwal did. Although there really were, of course, quite a few possible explanations and Le Menn could turn up again any moment. However: disappearing at this point in time was too much of a coincidence.
‘Actually, what about the missing man from the Moutons, the angler?’
Dupin had completely forgotten him the evening before and this morning too, it was only as they were going past the desolate Moutons on the boat that he had crossed his mind again.
‘No news. We’ve checked whether there were any links to the Glénan, whether he came here sometimes or whether there are links to the three dead men – no, no and no. Apparently, he always moored between the mainland and the Moutons. Usually near the coast. His wife doesn’t remember him coming out as far as this in recent years. And she also didn’t know anything about a relationship with Lefort or either of the other two.’
‘That is strange.’
Riwal looked quizzically at the Commissaire.
‘This coincidence is quite strange, I mean. The timing. The proximity to the crime scene.’
‘But we’re not aware of any connections yet. And we’ve had a severe storm. It’s not uncommon for people to go missing during storms.’
Riwal was right. Dupin had been here for nearly four years, but it still gave him the creeps: the ‘lost or drowned at sea’ statistic for Finistère far outstripped the murder statistic. Every coast-dwelling Breton had heard such ‘fateful stories’ first-hand from people they knew.
‘How big are these Moutons exactly?’
‘Very small, a main island about two hundred metres long, a little island about thirty metres long. Lots of rocks.’
Dupin didn’t pick up where Riwal had left off. He was thinking. Riwal interpreted the short pause incorrectly.
‘If you’re wondering whether there are sheep there – no. The sailors call the white ridges of the surf “sheep”, moutons – and they, on the other hand, are always there.’
That hadn’t been what Dupin was pondering.
‘Going back to Le Menn. I want a large-scale manhunt. Maybe we’ll find his car. He must have parked it somewhere.’
Something was going on.
Riwal took a deep breath. ‘That leads us right to the heart of the case.’
He had spoken very off-handedly, as though absent-mindedly. Nolwenn called him the druid at moments like this. If Riwal’s ‘mystical’ side was essentially an amusing contrast to his appearance, his cheeky facial expression and his virtual youth (early thirties), it fitted with his new, decidedly stylish short hair even less. They had been speculating in the commissariat about whether this was the wedding haircut already. In two weeks’ time, Riwal was going to marry the strikingly pretty daughter of one of the wonderful fishmongers in Concarneau’s market halls. She worked for her father at the stall. Riwal was obsessed with
langoustines, the medium-sized ones from Guilvinec, the ‘best in the world’. For a while he had bought them nearly every lunch break. At some point people in the office had figured it out and had certainly done so by the time Riwal was buying so many langoustines that he had to hand them out liberally in the Commissariat.
‘We have to talk to Le Menn’s wife. I want to know everything about his links to Lefort, Konan and Pajot, down to the very last detail. Who can drive out to her immediately?’
‘Our two colleagues from Concarneau, Le Coz and Bellec, are on the islands too and right now they are speaking to the last of the sailing and diving course participants who were in the Quatre Vents two evenings ago.’
‘Take Bellec off that. This is more important now.’
Bellec did not waste any time. He came at things head-on.
Dupin was extremely uneasy. If Le Menn’s disappearance was related to this case – what did that mean? What was going on here? Had there been another victim – or was the culprit on the run? Whatever had happened on this tiny speck of land – it had to do, Dupin felt, with its residents and regular guests. He would find the solution there. They had to look very carefully.
‘What about Kadeg and the institute?’
‘Nothing of interest so far. Kadeg last called half an hour ago. They have found the first documents and data relating to Medimare. But getting usable information out of them is no doubt not that simple. The press has got wind of the operation by the way, Télégramme and Ouest France are featuring it on their websites already. The radio station too. The director is acting like Rumpelstiltskin the whole time.’
‘I especially want you to take a look at the business documents involving Leussot’s research. You should also speak to the researchers Leussot dealt with.’
‘I’ll let Kadeg know.’
‘What about the headquarters of Medimare in Paris? Is there anything on that yet?’
‘Nothing relevant there yet either. Apart from the chief executive, the company officially only has scientific staff and a secretary, our colleagues are speaking to them right now.’
‘We need to examine everything, the account balances and transactions. The director’s too, and his private accounts. As soon as possible.’
‘Nolwenn will sort it. La tigresse.’
Dupin smiled. Yes, Nolwenn would sort it. Even though there would be yet more trouble.
‘I also want information about the mayor of Forêt-Fouesnant’s accounts.’
‘Do we have suspicious circumstances there? Without grounds, even Nolwenn won’t manage that.’
‘But hopefully we will have the bank statements for all of the three dead men’s bank details soon?’
‘Nolwenn is on it.’
‘I want to know whether there were transfers from business or private accounts belonging to the three to anyone here on the islands. No matter who. No matter how much.’
Dupin got out the Clairefontaine and saw that three-quarters of the notebook was already full.
‘Okay, let’s look more closely at: Leussot, the mayor, Le Menn, the director of the institute,’ Dupin leafed furiously, ‘also Tanguy. And Madame Menez, Muriel Lefort and Solenn Nuz.’
‘Madame Lefort and Madame Nuz?’
‘Yes, everyone.’
‘Then don’t forget the two Nuz daughters. And the father-in-law.’
‘True. And I want to know what plans Lefort ever actually officially submitted for developing the Glénan – if he did ever even submitted any? What is there at the council in terms of papers? Statements, appeals, we should check the files carefully. Also whether there were proposals for projects on the Glénan submitted by other people in the last ten years.’
‘I could take that on, chief.’
‘I want to keep you here.’
Dupin knew that sounded a bit odd.
‘I want the two of us to have in-depth conversations with everyone out here again. What were the three men’s relationships like exactly? I still need to know a lot more detail about who stuck by whom here, and and how. I’d like to have a precise picture of this world out here.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Dupin stood up.
‘Just a few more things, Monsieur le Commissaire. We haven’t been able to find out where Pajot was two evenings ago, nobody saw him. I suspect he was on his boat. By the way we now know when the three of them probably arrived on the Glénan. On Sunday around five o’clock in the evening, the Bénéteau attracted jealous glances, two boat-owners remember it. AndI finally spoke to Lucas Lefort’s current girlfriend this morning. It was a bit complicated to get hold of her. She works in Brest in a luxury ‘spa’. Salt therapy and things. Funny Daerlen, a Dutchwoman. She had already heard about everything obviously, she was astonishingly composed. They had only known each other two months. In fact, she had wanted to spend the weekend with Lucas Lefort, but he cancelled when the weather was so good. Just the day before, Thursday. So the three seem to have set out quite spontaneously.’
‘Funny Daerlen?’
‘Yes.’
‘No joke?’
‘No.’
So Muriel Lefort’s assessment of this ‘liaison’ seemed absolutely correct. Mademoiselle Daerlen hadn’t been a big part of her brother’s life. Still. Coincidences were possible.
‘She didn’t know of any conflicts Lucas had had recently. But it was probably just not the sort of relationship where that kind of thing is discussed. They last saw each other on Tuesday evening, in his house at the Sables Blancs. He seemed on top form then, she says. He told her about buying a loft in London.’
‘London?’
‘In South Kensington, Chelsea. It’s where the wealthy are buying property out of fear of the crisis. The French now too. – – – Disgusting.’
That was a harsh word, in Riwal’s view. Somehow well-planned ‘emigration’ didn’t fit with the picture that Dupin had gathered of Lucas Lefort. He didn’t seem to have been particularly systematic. Not very rational in his actions.
‘The mayor’s wife comes from London. She has a house in South Kensington.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We happened to find that out at Du Marhallac’h’s questioning yesterday evening.’ Although he still said this in an off-hand way, Riwal’s voice then hardened: ‘If you have a residence in England, you don’t have to pay tax on a cent of your income here in France. Four hundred thousand French people “live” in London at this stage. France’s sixth largest city! Many of them make their money here and then squirrel it away there. Seriously disgusting.’
Even though Dupin could understand Riwal’s fury, he forced himself to return to the subject.
‘What connection could there be?’
‘None yet.’
‘Not so far anyway. Anything else of interest from – Funny, Riwal?’
‘No.’
‘I think I should speak to Madame Barrault.’
‘You wanted to eat something though, Monsieur le Commissaire.’
True. He desperately needed to eat something. And he needed a coffee.
‘I’ll just get myself a sandwich. – Riwal?’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire?’
‘Did you know that this place is just swarming with dolphins? We saw some just now.’
Dupin hadn’t planned to talk about them. Especially not so excitedly.
‘Yes, they like the Glénan. Shall I get you that sandwich, chief?’
‘No need. I’ll go myself. Maybe I’ll see Solenn Nuz.’
Dupin took a few steps towards the bar, turned around and came back again. Riwal was already standing.
‘Riwal, we’ll keep Le Menn’s disappearance to ourselves for the time being, for as long as possible.’
‘Good. If I have news, I’ll get in touch straight away.’
* * *
The bar was empty. All the customers were sitting outside in the splendid sunshine. The older daughter, Louann, was behind the counter, busy with some glasses, a
nd smiled as Dupin came in.
‘My mother isn’t here.’
Dupin was amazed afresh every time – and almost shocked – at how similar the three women were.
‘Coffee and a sandwich, please.’
‘Cheese, ham? Or rillettes? We have mackerel, crab, spider crab and scallop rillettes.’
‘Scallop.’
‘Great.’
‘The coffee first.’
She smiled again and set to work. In the wonderful hissing of the coffee machine, Dupin’s mobile rang. It was Goulch.
‘We’ve retrieved the boat, Monsieur le Commissiare. It was easier than we thought. It is now in one of the dry docks in Concarneau,’ Goulch’s voice spiralled upwards a little: ‘The Bénéteau had a series of expensive special technological features built into it, a little high-tech arsenal – a sonar that goes far beyond normal sonars, a detector for metal on the seafloor and a laser underwater camera.’
Dupin started.
‘What?’
He was certain he knew what this meant, but somehow it had wrong-footed him.
‘One moment,’ he said.
Dupin left the bar and went back to the table where they had just been sitting. Riwal had already disappeared.
‘Do you think it was fitted out for treasure hunting?’
‘There is definitely special equipment for examining the seafloor – not just the immediate surface of the ground, the sonic waves from this sonar penetrate even two- or three-metre thick layers of sand. They’re expensive gadgets. Professional quality.’
‘Anything else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘On the boat. Other evidence or things to note?’
‘Not so far. Everything is wet of course, in the stowage space too.’
‘Maps, map materials?’
‘It all works on digital maps. The navigation,’ Goulch stopped himself. ‘You mean maps that could have specific places in the sea marked on them?’
‘Yes.’
‘We haven’t found any as of yet. Lots of things definitely went missing too, got washed out of the boat in the accident. During the storm and the hours on the seafloor.’
Murder on Brittany Shores Page 19