Murder on Brittany Shores

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘The most tragic was that time with the niece of the institute Director, Le Berre-Ryckeboerec. Alice. Three years ago, with her husband. Just married. And,’ Muriel Lefort glanced at Solenn Nuz, ‘Jacques of course, ten years ago.’

  ‘Le Berre-Ryckeboerec’s niece?’ Dupin butted in.

  ‘Yes. That was dramatic. She was in the process of becoming a professional sailor. I trained her. A terrible loss. She was never found.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘How did the Director cope with that?’

  ‘She was his elder brother’s daughter, I don’t think that they were very close. He and his brother. But only he himself knows that.’

  Muriel Lefort was clearly at pains to be accurate.

  Dupin waited to see if the conversation would continue to develop.

  In vain.

  ‘Thank you all. That was an – interesting conversation.’

  There was no point. Dupin could not go on. He didn’t want to do go on. It was half past eleven now. And it had become four glasses of wine in the end. And, of the wine Riwal had poured out for him – despite a clear look declining it – he’d already drunk half.

  Besides, it was still going to be a long time before they were in bed – somewhere. The accommodation surely still needed to be prepared. And, above all, they would need to go through the storm now. A good hundred metres.

  To the others, even Riwal and Le Coz, the breaking up of the group had obviously appeared abrupt, they seemed unsure what to do. Only Anjela Barrault and Solenn Nuz stood up without hesitation.

  ‘Good night all,’ Dupin said and turned to Madame Lefort.

  ‘Thank you for making your apartment available to us.’

  ‘No problem. I’m glad to do it. It might be a bit cramped.’

  ‘We’ll manage.’

  Dupin was by no means as easy-going as his answer sounded. The idea of potentially having to sleep in the same room as Riwal and Le Coz was horrifying to him.

  Muriel Lefort tried to smile. Dupin couldn’t even manage the attempt any more.

  * * *

  Commissaire Dupin lay in bed. More specifically: he was lying on a barely fifty-centimetre wide, aluminium fold-out bed that he had pushed right next to the front door. He had covered himself with two large beach towels. Le Coz was sleeping in the only proper bed in the tiny bedroom under the roof, ‘ready for duty and dressed’ as he emphasised, somewhat coyly and also sopping wet. Riwal had retired to the sofa that stood directly in front of the panorama window.

  Dupin, with his fold-out bed, had sought to put some distance between himself and the sofa, insofar as that was possible. The gap wasn’t big. He wouldn’t hear any of the noises that Riwal might make in his sleep anyway, because the rain and storm were still pelting against the shutters outside the window, causing an infernal racket here too. Even as a child, on school trips to countryside camps near Chartres, Dupin had hated having to sleep in a room with other people. Whenever they went to the Jura to visit his father’s family, who lived in a tiny backwater, he had had to sleep in his cousins’ room. Three cousins (essentially very nice), all older, and him, split over two beds. That’s also why he had a hang up about this, that much was clear.

  He still had wet hair. Even his polo-shirt was wet, but he was in no mood to take it off, it had been unpleasant enough taking off his trousers and hanging them over a chair to dry. But what was really worrying was the state of his red notebook. He had been too tired to look carefully at the extent of the water damage. But it didn’t look good. It was even worse for the Petit Indicateur des Marées – it was absolutely sodden.

  They had been soaked to the bone, all of three of them, as well as Madame Lefort and Madame Menez, when they had ventured out of the Quatre Vents to battle the hundred metres to the houses. It had been crazy. They had walked in single file, one close behind the other, so that they were touching at every step. Muriel Lefort had walked in front because she knew the way best. The short path had taken them a full five minutes. After just a few seconds, the rain had been forced through even the thickest material by the gusts of wind. And it had not just been rain – after only a metre or two Dupin noticed that the water running down his face and into his mouth tasted salty. Sea spray was scattering like mist and mixing with the rain. The surf around them must have been metres high. Dupin had been glad not to be able to see that.

  It was half past midnight now and even though Dupin was absolutely exhausted, he was under no illusion that he’d be able to fall asleep quickly.

  The day was going through his head and it seemed like the longest day of his life. Mostly, he was, of course, thinking about what had happened to Le Menn. And the complete failure of the round-table in the Quatre Vents just now. A few times he saw the leaping dolphins, which now seemed like a surreal vignette. But something had crossed his mind. Something had occurred to him, a detail from the conversation just now, that had only come to seem significant little by little and that had resulted in an – as yet formless, unclear – thought. It was just an idea. One that was pure speculation. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Georges Dupin’s thoughts became more and more tangled and incoherent.

  The Third Day

  Commissaire Dupin reached instinctively for his gun, which he had placed underneath his pillow. He tried to get his bearings. There was semi-darkness. He didn’t even know which way to point his gun. Riwal, who was standing next to him in a T-shirt and underwear looking miserably tired, leapt to one side.

  ‘It’s only me, chief, it’s me. Hello, chief, it’s me!’ he shouted. First and foremost, Riwal wanted – in his own best interests – to make sure that Dupin had realised beyond doubt where he was and what was going on here.

  ‘It’s okay, Riwal.’

  Dupin had come to his senses. To some extent anyway.

  ‘Your phone is ringing.’

  At the word ‘phone’ he jumped up. A moment later, he was wide awake. He had been having another deep, juicy Caribbean dream until just moments before and was glad not to be able to remember it exactly.

  He had only fallen asleep in the early hours, having spent hours tossing and turning with increasing despair. He looked at his watch with something approaching panic: seven minutes past seven.

  ‘This cannot be happening.’

  He should have been up and about much earlier. There was no sign of Le Coz. The mattress on the absolutely worn out steel springs, which had seemed millimetres thick to Dupin, was dank. Just like the horribly thick pillows and the two garish green beach towels that had not kept him warm in the slightest. The whole room was dank. The worst thing was, it smelt that way too. They had not been able to open a window. It had, without doubt, been one of the most wretched nights of his life.

  His mobile was still ringing.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  Dupin recognised Goulch’s voice.

  ‘Lefort, Konan and Pajot have in fact been seen at the same place in the same area a few times in the last week. Around twenty-seven nautical miles south-west of the Glénan.’

  Goulch sounded, by his standards, worked up.

  ‘I was just in the fish halls in Concarneau, where the local fishermen bring their catch from five in the morning. I was asking around. About the Bénéteau. Two of the fishermen are sure they saw it. It’s an area where the seafloor suddenly and clearly drops away. The Gran Turismo 49 is pretty noticeable after all.’

  Dupin stood up, which caused considerable pain throughout his body.

  ‘Good work, Goulch.’

  ‘That would make the hypothesis about the treasure-hunting much more likely.’

  ‘Or else they were fishing. Because there were some schools of fish there.’

  Dupin said it without thinking.

  ‘The large schools are closer to the coast at this time of the year, where the water has already warmed up and where there is, therefore, more food.’

/>   ‘Good. How do we find out whether there really is something lying on the seabed?’

  ‘I’ve already ordered a special boat with the relevant equipment; it’s leaving right now.’

  ‘Good. Very good, Goulch.’

  ‘Another thing: the forensics team had to call off their operation yesterday, they changed course in the helicopter when it was clear that the storm was hitting the islands. But they’re already on their way today. They should be there by now.’

  ‘I – we had no reception. We were totally cut off from the world.’

  ‘That’s not an uncommon occurrence on the Glénan. The storm wasn’t that bad here on the mainland, but when I couldn’t get through to you any more, I thought that it might be a bit more severe out there. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dupin had not really been concentrating. For various reasons. Because he felt extraordinarily uneasy this morning. Because he hadn’t had a coffee yet – devastating. Because since he’d woken up he’d been thinking about all that might have happened while they had been cut off from the world. But especially because what had preoccupied him so much before he had fallen into his utterly unrefreshing sleep had just recurred to him.

  During the short phone call he had used one hand to put on his – still very wet – trousers. Then his socks and shoes – equally wet.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Riwal starting to squeeze into his clothes.

  ‘I need a coffee, Riwal.’

  He was already at the door. He needed to get out.

  ‘See you in the Quatre Vents in a few minutes. Check on Le Coz. It seems he’s still sleeping.’

  With these words Dupin opened the door and walked out.

  He had to screw up his eyes outside. He hadn’t reckoned with how much light would greet him. It was phenomenal. The sky had been swept completely clean, not a cloud to be seen for miles and miles. Wafer-thin clouds of dust hung in the air, almost more palpable than visible. It was one of those ‘silver mornings’ as they were called in Brittany, when sun, sky, sea and the whole world possessed a shimmering silver aura.

  He had stopped right outside the front door. He breathed deeply. Very deeply. The air was fresh, magnificent. He was shivering a little. Nothing, not a trace of the storm remained. As if everything had been a bad dream.

  * * *

  Solenn Nuz greeted him with a doubly warm, doubly cheering smile, as if she wanted to give him a sign that she knew what torture the night had been. She looked dazzling, well rested, in top form, she really was a beautiful woman. She was standing by the large coffee machine, the exact spot where Dupin was headed with a look of longing on his face.

  ‘Petit café?’

  ‘Double.’

  She set to work at the machine straight away. The heavenly sound was interrupted by Dupin’s phone. Reluctantly, he took a look at the number. Kadeg. Of course.

  ‘One moment.’

  Dupin made for the door and stepped outside.

  ‘Yes?!’

  ‘You couldn’t be reached all evening, Monsieur le Commissaire. Not even late at night.’

  This sounded accusatory to Dupin’s ears.

  ‘What is it, Kadeg?’

  ‘Du Marhallac’h claims he actually drew up plans for the extension to Pajot’s private house, so did in fact provide architectural services. This was above board apparently. Absolutely normal and legal. Pajot had some luxurious renovations made to his house six months ago, with a new pool, a terraced landscape and an extension. Du Marhallac’h really did make out two invoices for exactly the amounts that were transferred from Pajot’s accounts. I asked him to show me the plans that he drew up. He said he didn’t have them in his office. And he also didn’t see any reason to show them to me.’

  Even this early in the morning Kadeg had already moved into his diligent reporting style.

  ‘How was he acting?’

  ‘At first he was behaving very reasonably, by the end he was bad-tempered.’

  Sometimes Dupin was impressed by Kadeg after all – he had put it in a nutshell. It was just as Dupin had imagined it: that answers like this would come from Du Marhallac’h. That such behaviour was to be expected.

  ‘I’m about to speak to the building contractor who carried out the work. He knows who prepared which plans. Let’s see if this building work really existed.’

  ‘Please do, Kadeg.’

  This was important.

  ‘I was also in the mairie yesterday and checked what applications Lefort submitted. There isn’t a single one. Nothing. Officially, nothing was ever actually submitted.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure, Kadeg?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  Dupin was finding this more and more interesting.

  ‘Have you read the papers yet this morning? There are extensive reports about Le Menn’s disappearance now.’

  ‘That doesn’t bother me. I’m going to…’

  ‘Just quickly on Medimare too. All the content from the hard drives has now been seized. But there are an immense number of documents, even if you narrow them down. They are being examined one by one. Four experts are working on it. So far nothing stands out from the documents relating to the deals that Medimare did with Leussot’s research work or anyone else’s.’

  Dupin really did have to admit that Kadeg was doing good work on this case.

  ‘And – – – the Prefect tried to reach you yesterday evening, but then only spoke to Nolwenn and me. He was really worked up, he…’

  Dupin hung up. He’d really needed that. The same thing all over again – Kadeg was still Kadeg.

  Dupin reflected. There were important things to do. He went back into the bar. The double espresso was on the counter. Next to it was a plate with a small brioche nature that he hadn’t even ordered.

  ‘Wonderful.’

  His mood was improving.

  Solenn Nuz was nowhere to be seen. On the counter, near the passageway, there was already a pile of newspapers. Dupin recognised the lettering of the Ouest France right at the top. He decided to keep his distance.

  The brioche was fantastic. Melt-in-the-mouth, soft as butter, the way it was supposed to be and with the delicate hint of yeast in the milky flavour typical of a good brioche. But the most important thing was: the coffee was simply perfect.

  But Dupin didn’t linger. Two minutes later, he left the bar again.

  On the terrace he saw Riwal and Le Coz coming towards the Quatre Vents from the left. He turned right. As on previous days, he made for the tip of the island without thinking. This time at the lowest tide. He got out his phone.

  ‘Nolwenn?’

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire! I hope you haven’t had too awful a night.’

  Nolwenn’s sympathetic words almost made everything all right again. ‘Nolwenn, you’ve got to research something for me. I want to know everything about the death of Solenn Nuz’s husband, Jacques. Everything. Check in the police files. He went missing at sea ten years ago. He set out from the Glénan shortly before a storm reached the island,’ Dupin hesitated, his voice changed. He seemed to be speaking less to Nolwenn than to himself. ‘A storm like last night perhaps,’ he paused again, ‘a storm like three days ago, like Sunday night.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find. I’ll take care of it straight away. You – you should…’

  ‘I know. I really can’t manage it.’

  It didn’t take long, but there was a moment before Nolwenn answered.

  ‘I’ll explain to the Prefect that you regrettably still cannot get in touch. That you yourself regret it the most. I think the Prefect … he himself has an interest of course, in light being shed on this darkness soon.’

  Dupin loved Nolwenn. He loved her.

  ‘Speak to you later.’

  ‘Just one more thing, Monsieur le Commissaire. Your mother. This morning there were another four calls on the voicemail, all of which were rather indignant. She’s arriving tomorrow evening, I�
�m to tell you that again. And that she absolutely must speak to you immediately.’

  ‘I’ll call her.’

  Dupin hung up. This could not be happening. Tomorrow. He really did need to call her. He would have to cancel. But not now.

  Jacques Nuz’s accident. Four times, he had noted ‘Jacques Nuz, in an accident’ in his notebook. It had occurred to him last night on the fold-out bed. It wasn’t, as he had first thought, the reference to the death of Le Berre-Ryckeboerec’s niece that had put him on the alert in his utter fatigue. But in fact the death of Jacques Nuz, who had set out from the Glénan before a storm to get over to the mainland.

  As he walked he pulled the Clairefontaine out of his jacket pocket – it was still damp, but its varnished cover had kept the rain off surprisingly well – better than he had feared last night. He leafed through and found his last notes. Yes. It was written here. ‘Was in the mairie.’ So in Fouesnant then. He put it back into his damp jacket pocket. And dialled Riwal’s number.

  ‘Riwal, what did Le Coz say yesterday about where Solenn Nuz had been? In the mairie, I wrote down.’

  ‘That’s what he said. He’s sitting next to me. We’re drinking coffee, do you want to speak to him?’

  ‘Yes, pass me over to him.’

  There was a rustling, then Le Coz was on the line.

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘You asked Solenn Nuz yesterday where she’d been all day, didn’t you?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Le Coz was a very conscientious police officer.

  ‘She told you she was in the mairie in Fouesnant. Did she tell you what she was doing there?’

  ‘No. Only what I’ve told you. I didn’t probe any deeper because I thought it was only about the issue of where she had been between half twelve and four that day.’

  ‘That was correct, Le Coz. So she she didn’t say anything more about it.’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Can you try and find out from the mairie?’

  ‘Right away, Commissaire.’

  Dupin hung up.

  He had arrived at the tip of the island. Or more specifically: he had walked past the tip of Saint-Nicolas, over the seabed, which suddenly became stony and covered in blue mussels at this point and he had reached an absolutely tiny little island. Only forty metres away from Saint-Nicolas in fact and it was barely more than ten metres by ten. At low tide it was a small appendage to Saint-Nicolas. Dupin had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he only realised where he was now. He turned on his heel immediately.