Murder on Brittany Shores

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘When did these team conferences begin?’

  ‘One ran from half two till four and one from five till half six. Madame Menez is still on Penfret.’

  Dupin was making detailed notes.

  ‘When did she set out for Cigogne, I mean, when exactly after lunch?’

  ‘According to her statement she was in her house for a little while after lunch. And so left around quarter past two.’

  ‘Can someone confirm that?’

  ‘Not yet. We should check.’

  It was driving Dupin crazy that none of this information was helping him to make any progress.

  ‘Please do, Bellec.’

  Le Coz hung up.

  ‘Should we be verifying other statements too, Commissaire?’

  Dupin reflected. Le Coz and Bellec had done some good work in such a short time, as meagre as the fruits of their labour seemed at the moment.

  ‘No need. Thank you.’

  They were none the wiser. Everyone would have had the opportunity to make the trip to Brilimec. It would have to be a big, big coincidence for there to be witnesses. And it would probably be impossible to narrow down the relevant time further.

  ‘I spoke to Le Menn’s wife again just now. After we found out that he went to the Glénan. I wondered whether she associated anything with Brilimec.’

  Le Coz had torn Dupin away from his thoughts. That had been a good idea.

  ‘But there was nothing. Nothing at all.’

  Dupin stood up abruptly.

  ‘None of this feels right to me.’

  Riwal chipped in for the first time.

  ‘Goulch has taken charge of the forensics on Brilimec. He went back to the islands again too. Maybe they will find trace evidence in the house after all.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Dupin realised that his thoughts were taking on a life of their own. He walked a few metres to one side. He definitely had a few theories by now, some more specific than others, but overall the picture that emerged was still much too blurry. He couldn’t find the truly central element.

  Dupin looked at his watch. It was coming up to eight o’clock now. He had been up since five. And the day would not be over for a long time yet.

  From this side of the Quatre Vents there was a clear view to the west, which actually meant you could watch the sun go down. But not this evening. The band of cloud had come menacingly close, piling up into a gigantic cloud front, a monster, probably no more than ten kilometres away. Pitch-black. Only now did Dupin notice that the wind hadn’t just picked up, at this point it was continuously sweeping powerful squalls over the islands. But he knew: even that didn’t mean anything yet in Brittany, he’d been through it all before, he was no rookie any more. Dupin looked at the sea. There were already white horses. And proper waves. That had been quick. On the way back to Saint-Nicolas from Brilimec he still hadn’t noticed anything. But apart from the first small stretch, they had been going through the chamber and he had been staring at his mobile the entire time.

  He took a few deep breaths.

  ‘You said that Kilian Tanguy is still here in the Quatre Vents?’

  ‘Yes. Out the front on the terrace.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘As I said, he’s got guests. Underwater archaeologists.’

  ‘So much the better.’

  Dupin almost didn’t recognise Kilian Tanguy in jeans and a colourful sweatshirt, instead of the neoprene suit, with a dry face and dry head. It was only the shape of his head that gave him away: it was like an egg. He had a bald head apart from a narrow, closely cropped hairline above the ears, which was still an untouched black; plus a fleshy nose and eyes full of fun. He was sitting with six men, all about the same age.

  ‘Bonjour Messieurs, Commissaire Georges Dupin from the Commissariat de Police Concarneau. I would like to speak to Monsieur Tanguy, but since I’ve heard that you’re all underwater archaeologists, I’d like to put some questions to all of you.’

  Dupin spoke firmly and low, which rarely failed to have the desired effect.

  ‘You’re the police officer from Paris, aren’t you?’

  A well-built man with a baby face looked inquisitively at him. As did the rest of the table.

  Dupin was sick of answering this question.

  ‘Did you know that Paris was called after the legendary sunken city Ys?’ the man went on eagerly. ‘Par-Ys! After the Breton Atlantis which was infinitely magnificent and rich and worshipped the ocean as their only God in extravagant ceremonies. The kingdom of Gradlon, his daughter Dahut, who was fiancée of the sea and his magical horse Morvark, which is the symbol of a free Brittany to this day. Ys was off Douarnenez! There are many very serious archaeological indications.’

  Dupin had never heard of this, just as he had never heard that Paris was ultimately Breton, apparently. Luckily, Kilian Tanguy chipped in at this moment.

  ‘I think that would be fine by all of us, Monsieur le Commissaire. You actually have a group of illustrious underwater archaeologists from the University of Brest in front of you, friendly associates of our small group in the club. How can we help the police?’

  There was something mischievous in his voice. Something pleasantly mischievous.

  ‘Do you know anything about treasure hunts going on at the moment here on the coast? Have you heard rumours?’

  The divers looked at each other, unruffled. Kilian Tanguy answered again.

  ‘You think a story about treasure hunting is behind the three murders?’

  He clearly sounded proud at this.

  ‘We are investigating various avenues. And that is one of them. Nothing more.’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything about a sensational find. Not even rumours.’

  Tanguy added in a much more serious way:

  ‘But you must know, Monsieur le Commissaire, that we, as we say, dive for wood, not for precious metals! Underwater archaeology has absolutely different aims. Scientific aims. For example, we look for settlement sites from the Mesolithic era. As early as four thousand years before Christ, a Dolmen was erected here on Brunec and graves were dug on Saint-Nicolas and Bananec too. We know next to nothing about this culture. So much has now lain beneath the surface of the water for such a long time.’

  His facial expression almost betrayed a kind of outrage now.

  ‘The sea has risen a hundred metres in the last ten thousand years! A hundred metres! A few thousand years ago, the British were still, God save us, coming to France with dry feet! – And if we take an interest in sunken ships, which we definitely do, then only in order to be able to study the historical boat architecture and techniques of their respective nautical epochs.’

  A mild, tongue-in-cheek smile stole across his face.

  ‘Last year two sunken ships were found, one from the seventeenth century, one from the twentieth. In the one from the seventeenth century there were silver coins. The other one was unremarkable. Maybe thirty kilometres to the south of here.’

  Tanguy had uttered these last sentences with marked cheeriness.

  ‘And there’s no ship,’ asked Dupin, ‘that, due to some documents or other, people know in theory must be in the vicinity but hasn’t yet been found?’

  Every gaze fixed on Dupin in astonishment. Tanguy took charge of answering again.

  ‘There are about two dozen of them – and that’s within a radius of fifty nautical miles alone. And in at least a dozen cases the documents suggest cargoes of substantial value. Two of the ships are highly likely to have had large amounts of gold on board.’

  ‘You’re pretty sure you know of two ships with gold cargo near here?’ Dupin was astonished.

  ‘Don’t go getting the wrong idea, it’s more complicated than you think. Like a needle in a haystack. – In a wild, dangerous haystack.’

  ‘So none of you heard that one of the three dead mean was on a specific treasure hunt? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

 
Dupin would have been interested to know whether one of the other divers would have had anything else to say. Apparently not.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Tanguy.’

  Dupin had had enough of the stories now (as fascinating as they were). And if he were honest, all conversations on this topic ended inconclusively, as they had all day long. But it was clear: if the three had been on the trail of something big, they would have given their all to make sure nobody found out anything about it. And, if someone had learnt something and this was the motive behind the whole case, then that would be the perpetrator. And he definitely wouldn’t say a thing.

  Besides, Dupin was also unfocussed, he couldn’t stop thinking about the issue of what had happened to Le Menn on the island. He didn’t have a good feeling about it.

  ‘I’d really like…’

  Dupin was suddenly interrupted by a noise. A sudden, strong squall had caught some of the Quatre Vents tables and chairs, knocking them over. The gust of wind had brought a smattering of fat raindrops with it. Considerable activity broke out. The previously quiet underwater archaeologists leapt up. One was in the process of rushing to the aid of a young couple whose table had fallen over, along with everything that had been on it. Tanguy and another man were protecting the things that were on their own table and hurrying to the bar with them. Everyone was moving swiftly, with precision and yet without any rush.

  ‘It’s all kicking off.’

  Dupin turned around. Solenn Nuz was standing in the doorway to the bar.

  She was looking around with utter indifference. Louann Nuz appeared behind her, then darted past her like a cat to take care of the tables.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this all day. The storm really did take its time.’

  Solenn Nuz delivered these sentences with perfect calmness.

  Dupin was still standing as though rooted to the spot, as if the group of archaeologists was still sitting in front of him. Solenn Nuz looked at the sky:

  ‘This is going to be a big one.’

  She went back into the bar.

  The apocalyptic-looking bank of cloud was speeding over the islands. In the south and west it was already pitch-black – only far away in the east could you see a strip of light. Everything had happened so suddenly. Like an ambush. It was truly pouring with rain now and the temperature had dropped noticeably in the last few minutes.

  Dupin shook himself out of his stupor. Louann Nuz was the last person still outside, everyone else had already fled inside the Quatre Vents. Dupin didn’t hesitate and followed her into the bar. He closed the door firmly behind him.

  * * *

  ‘There’s a big cotriade.’

  Dupin was standing at the bar. Solenn Nuz was on the other side of the counter, pouring various wines into a whole row of glasses in front of her with impressive speed. One of the underwater archaeologists was standing very close to him on his right hand side, the oldest one in Tanguy’s group. He was waiting for their order. To his left were Riwal and Le Coz. Solenn’s father-in-law was sitting at the end of the bar.

  Dupin was still dazed, moments ago the atmosphere had been that of summer evening terraces, now he felt like he was in an isolated research station, cut off from the outside world. There was a fire burning in the large stone fireplace – on his previous visits Dupin hadn’t even noticed it existed, although it took up a whole corner of the room. The raging storm and the pelting rain outside could clearly be heard, but amazingly only as a muffled background noise, that was almost pleasant. It felt very cosy – even though Dupin was in anything but a cosy mood – but at the same time he found it menacingly cramped here, an odd mixture.

  ‘There’s traditionally a cotriade when storms come, Monsieur le Commissaire. It lifts the spirits. Would you like some?’

  Dupin was focused on something else entirely – he urgently needed to make some calls. There were a number of things he definitely wanted to follow up. Besides, he couldn’t conceal the fact that, in the back of his mind, he was bothered by the question of how Solenn Nuz could have been so sure that a storm was coming that she had got to work on the undoubtedly elaborate preparations for the cotriade hours ago – meanwhile he himself would have sworn he could make out the unmistakeable signs of a solid high pressure zone. But what was much worse was this: in a storm they’d need to call off the sea-search for Le Menn. And even worse: what about the forensics? And Reglas and his team? Even they wouldn’t be able to work now. Dupin wondered where they’d got to – and also Goulch and his crew. Had they found a makeshift shelter on Brilimec? What about the helicopter? If Le Menn were on the run, he would be miles away by tomorrow – if he was in danger, everything would probably be too late now.

  Solenn Nuz interpreted Dupin’s silence incorrectly.

  ‘Ah yes. Of course.’

  She smiled gently.

  ‘You’re new of course – cotriade is our classic Breton fish stew.’

  Dupin was familiar with cotriade, he had eaten it, at a rough estimate, once a month for the last four years. That made about thirty-five, forty cotriades, he guessed. It was among his favourite dishes. But he was too distracted to protest.

  ‘In the south they copied it as bouillabaisse! Some rouille in there and in an instant, they elevate it to the national dish!’ said one of the underwater archaeologists. The thin little man, who Dupin estimated to be in his late fifties, had an almost comically screechy voice, which didn’t match the outrage that his face was expressing as he chipped in.

  ‘The cotriade is the original! At least eight types of fish, plus shellfish and mussels! Leeks, Breton potatoes, Breton butter. Fresh herbs! Bay leaf! Fleur de sel! – In Marseille they only use six types of fish.’

  It sounded like genuine contempt.

  ‘It was invented by the fishermen’s wives – in the evenings they used the fish and the fish pieces that their husbands hadn’t been able to sell in the market that morning for it. You put some pieces of baguette fried in butter in a flat bowl, pour the broth over, add the pieces of fish, shellfish and mussels – and then, the crucial part, you top the whole thing off with a strong sauce. A secret recipe in every house! You…’

  Dupin interrupted him.

  ‘I urgently need to speak to my colleagues – excuse me.’

  Solenn Nuz winked at Dupin and smiled knowingly.

  Dupin made a signal to Riwal and Le Coz and they followed him. Dupin had taken a few steps towards the door when it occurred to him that it was not a good idea to go outside. They would have to stay indoors. But, although barely half of the tables were occupied, it was far too loud to talk on the phone, let alone be discreet. Even in the kitchen they wouldn’t be alone.

  ‘Let’s go into the annexe, I’m sure Madame Nuz won’t have a problem with that,’ said Riwal. ‘I’ll ask her quickly.’

  It was a good idea. Dupin headed for the passageway immediately, Riwal back to the counter, to Solenn Nuz.

  Before he opened the door, Dupin looked around quickly to Riwal, who nodded. Dupin had to push down hard on the iron door handle before walking inside.

  He almost shrank away in terror. The storm was making an ear-splitting din in the wooden annexe. Soon, Riwal and Le Coz were standing behind him. The room’s lighting was much dimmer than next door.

  ‘Madame Nuz says we would be very welcome to use the room, but she can’t recommend it. We wouldn’t be able to hear ourselves.’

  ‘This is absolutely absurd. We will need to make a number of calls.’

  Dupin’s mood was darkening with every passing second. After all, they had no time to waste.

  He headed for the furthest corner of the annexe, in the hope that it would be better there. He pressed himself against the massive stone wall of the old building. His hope was in vain. The raging storm and whipping rain could not only be heard throughout the annexe as though you were standing in the open air, but it seemed as though the wooden structure acted as a resonance box, increasing the sound even more. Stubbornly, Dupin got out his
mobile. He dialled Nolwenn’s number. No luck. And again. Again, no luck. He held the mobile up to his face. Nothing. No bars. Nothing at all. Not even the smallest one. There was no reception. Because of the storm.

  Dupin hadn’t thought of that. This was utterly unbearable.

  ‘We’ll need to use Solenn Nuz’s landline then,’ he said.

  Nobody said a word for a few seconds. Riwal stepped in.

  ‘There’s no landline out here, Commissaire.’

  ‘What?’

  This came out so meekly and softly that nobody heard Dupin’s reaction. He was thunderstruck.

  ‘This cannot be happening. They’ve got to have a landline.’

  ‘There’s never been one here, chief. It would be an enormous expense – for a handful of people.’

  Dupin gave up. This was a catastrophe. For many reasons. What would happen if they found Le Menn, somewhere on land and he had something something crucial to say. Or if Kadeg found out something relevant during the interrogation of the mayor. Even more importantly: if there were new results from the examination of the confiscated hard drives. He was at a critical point in the investigation, he needed to be contactable and in turn be able to get through to anyone he wanted to get through to any time.

  ‘Then we’ll need to go back to the mainland. There’s no way round it.’

  Riwal tried to calm the Commissaire down.

  ‘There’s no way we can do that. In a storm like this, we cannot leave the island.’

  ‘What? This is not on.’

  ‘There’s only one thing we can do, as difficult as it may be: wait. We need to wait. Everyone on their respective islands. Us here, Bellec on Cigogne, the others on Brilimec.’

  ‘How long for?’

  Again, it was clear that Riwal was considering how to break the news to him as gently as possible.

  ‘It doesn’t look like it will be over quickly.’ He tried hard to infuse the next sentence with confidence, ‘but you never know. Breton weather is hard to predict.’