He got out his notebook again, flicked through, found what he was looking for and dialled Riwal’s number again.
‘Chief?’
‘Give me Le Coz again.’
‘Will do.’
The same rustling sound again.
‘Did Madame Barrault tell you what she did between lunch and the time I met her on the quay?’
‘No. Just that she was at home. Alone. So that couldn’t be verified anyway.’
‘Thanks.’
Dupin hung up. That had not been a productive telephone call. He was right between the two islands. He was moving very carefully. This was crazy when you thought about it, it could make a person from the 6th Arrondissement dizzy: he was walking over the seabed. Fish usually swam here. Like the ones from his cotriade yesterday.
Dupin’s mobile rang. It was a Paris number. He briefly feared it was his mother, but he recognised Claire’s number. He agonised for a moment. Then he answered it. And knew immediately that it had been a mistake. He would have to tell her that he didn’t have time to speak now – and that was exactly what he needed to avoid. The biggest problem between them had been that he had so little time for Claire and for the two of them.
‘Bonjour, Georges. Is this not a good time?’
‘I. No. Bonjour, Claire.’
‘Thanks for your message. I’ve had some insanely hectic days there, I was in the operating theatre all the time. Two of my colleagues were ill.’
‘No problem.’
There was an embarrassing pause. Claire assumed that Dupin would say something. Finally she spoke again.
‘And what are you up to? Where are you?’
She obviously hadn’t heard about the case. Claire didn’t often watch the news.
‘I’m on an archipelago, eighteen kilometres off the coast. I’m standing on the seabed between two islands, it’s low tide right now. There are blue mussels everywhere here, the ones you love so much. I’m walking over them.’
He had said all of these things because he had no idea how to resolve this situation. He even briefly considered whether he should tell her about the dolphins.
‘That sounds wonderful. Are you on a trip?’
‘I,’ there was nothing for it, he couldn’t avoid saying it, ‘I’m on a case.’
‘On a case on an archipelago?’
‘Exactly right.’
It took Claire a moment to understand what he was trying to say.
‘So you don’t have any time to talk now.’
‘No! I … No. You’re right. But I’ll call you as soon as the case is solved. Then we’ll have plenty of time.’
‘Oh right, yes,’ another pause. ‘I understand.’
That had always been the worst sentence.
‘I want to see you.’
He had let that slip out. And it must have really surprised Claire. They had agreed to think it over together. Whether they wanted to see each other.
‘What?’
‘I’m absolutely certain. I want to see you.’
Dupin had taken the bull by the horns. This was his only chance. But above all: this was right. It was the absolute truth.
‘Good.’
That had been a real ‘good’. He was familiar with it. From their happy times. The best times he’d ever had.
‘Then let’s see each other.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m glad. That we’ve talked. That was a – good phone call.’
Dupin was truly exhilarated.
‘So – call me when the case is closed.’
‘I will, Claire. Straight away.’
She had hung up.
That had been rather incredible, Dupin thought. He needed to be careful, he had nearly slipped on some algae.
But he didn’t have time to keep feeling pleased, his phone was ringing yet again.
It was Goulch.
‘Yes.’
Dupin sounded more bad-tempered than he actually was. He would simply have liked to let the effects of the conversation with Claire linger.
‘The forensic scientist has found two bullet holes. Shots were fired in the abandoned house on Brilimec. At least two shots.’
‘Shots?’
‘Yes, they found the bullets in the brickwork. They match the calibre exactly. About one metre to the left of the footprints that we saw. The two bullet holes are close together and were probably fired from the point where we suspected somebody had been standing.’
‘So somebody deliberately missed.’
‘Excuse me?’
The shooter could have been standing at most two or three metres away in the small room, Dupin thought, even if he had been standing in the passageway from the first to the second room. From that distance, nobody missed a shot by a metre twice. Le Menn? Or was Le Menn the one who had been shot at?
‘They were intimidating shots.’
Goulch did not answer straight away. So when the penny dropped it was truly audible.
‘Exactly!’
‘Any other trace evidence?’
‘The padlock and the door are being examined more closely.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, for the moment.’
‘Thanks, Goulch.’
A minute later Dupin was standing in front of the Quatre Vents again.
Riwal and Le Coz were sitting at the table they had all sat at yesterday evening. Solenn Nuz was still nowhere to be seen, but her elder daughter was there. Way over on the right, Pascal Nuz was sitting in his regular spot, absorbed in a newspaper. Leussot was right next to him and he made a cheerful signal of greeting to the Commissaire. Small groups were already sitting at two of the tables, divers or sailors. And the ‘press’ was here again too. The remarkable partnership from the Télégramme and Ouest France were sitting in the corner right next to the entrance, two steaming grands crèmes sitting in front of them. They both looked glum. Although they really ought to have known. They had plenty of experience with his – in Dupin’s view – very clear information policy: not a word before the case was solved. There was nothing to be got out of him before then. Unless he could see a specific advantage for his investigation – which he didn’t see here.
Dupin didn’t feel like having a conversation now either, ignoring them completely and walking straight toward the coffee machine, next to which Louann Nuz had just placed a fresh coffee. Clearly an order for one of the tables.
‘Another coffee, please.’
‘No problem. Good morning, Monsieur le Commissaire.’
‘Good morning.’
With a few practised movements of her hands, Louann brewed the fragrant coffee and placed it in front of him.
‘Thanks! Is your mother here?’
‘She’s just getting something from the house. She should be back any moment.’
Dupin wondered whether he should say that he wanted to speak to her. He decided against it.
Dupin took the coffee and went over to Riwal and Le Coz.
‘Let’s keep working outside.’
‘We were planning that too, chief. But everything is still soaking there.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Sitting inside was a stupid idea. For all sorts of reasons, not just because of the press.
Outside, they shook the rainwater off the chairs as best they could and sat down.
‘I spoke to the mairie in Fouesnant on the phone a minute ago,’ Le Coz said quietly.
‘Is it already open?’
Dupin was genuinely surprised.
‘It’s nearly half eight now and it’s open from half seven. It’s an office. I spoke to the employee responsible. Madame Nuz put in an application some months ago to be allowed to redesign the annexe on the Quatre Vents. She was there twice in recent weeks to clarify details. She just wanted to take another look at her file yesterday. Every organisation, every person, every company who submits applications gets their own file. A kind of folder. Everything goes in there, even intermediate notifications. The
whole process.’
‘Why did she want it? What does it have to do with the intended new construction?’
‘I don’t know. Madame Nuz didn’t tell the employee why she needed it.’
‘And everyone has access to their file at all times?’
‘Yes. That’s very much normal procedure.’
Dupin lapsed into silence. The suspicion that was taking up more and more space in his head was still very incomplete.
‘I need a helicopter.’
Riwal and Le Coz looked at him in surprise.
‘I need to go to the mainland. To Fouesnant. I want to visit the mairie.’
It was a while before there was any reaction.
‘I’ll request it.’
Le Coz stood up and walked a few metres to one side.
Riwal looked expectantly at Dupin.
‘I want to inspect the file.’
‘Are you looking for something specific? I mean, do you know what you are looking for?’
‘No.’
It was true. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but his instinct told him that this was exactly where he needed to look.
‘The helicopter is on its way,’ Le Coz reported. ‘It was on Brilimec with the forensic team just now. So they’ll just have to wait.’
Dupin was reminded of René Reglas and couldn’t help grinning. As he did so, something occurred to him that he wanted to do. He took his mobile out of his jacket pocket and dialled Reglas’ number. It took a while for the call to be answered.
‘Ah, Monsieur le Commissaire. I would have thought it appropriate if we had been in touch directly and in person about the…’
‘Can you say anything more specific about the footprints in the house yet?’
‘I…’
‘Large feet, small feet? Women, men?’
‘It’s extremely difficult to say, you’ve seen it yourself, none of the prints are clear. And the ground is firm and stony in front of the house. But even if there had been some, the storm destroyed all of the prints outside. Even on the beaches, Goulch showed us the places. We couldn’t find anything there any more. Nothing at all. I can’t commit to anything for the time being.’
Dupin hated the ‘can’t commit to anything’.
‘I just want to know what you think. An initial guess.’
‘They are neither significantly small nor significantly large imprints.’
Excellent. It wasn’t a giant or a dwarf.
‘A woman?’
‘I can’t say. I think there were shoe sizes between 38 and 44.’
That didn’t really help either.
‘We’re finishing off the work right now. And are flying back immediately. Then we’ll take the two bullets and…’
An ear-splitting sound started. Dupin knew it well by now. Rotor blades.
‘It’s starting … can you still hear me, Commissaire?’
Dupin hung up.
He turned to Riwal and Le Coz.
The helicopter will be here any minute. I need to get going.’
* * *
‘You’re welcome to sit down. Please.’
The employee of the mairie in Fouesnant, not just thin but almost scrawny, was extremely solicitous, in an exaggeratedly submissive, yet also authoritative way – a dangerous mix, Dupin knew. She had moulded the severity of her features into a smile with some force. Early sixties, he guessed.
With a brief nod of agreement, Dupin took the folder that she was holding out to him in her firm grip. He sat at one of the decades-old, dark yellow veneered tables scattered around in a ridiculously haphazard way. Dupin had chosen a solitary table in the corner – as a sign he didn’t want to be disturbed.
It had taken them less than a quarter of an hour to drive here from the small airport in Quimper. Riwal had announced the Commissaire was coming and the deputy mayor – Du Marhallac’h was ‘indisposed’ – had practically welcomed him in state and accompanied him to the first floor. Followed by curious looks from the staff.
The folder practically looked like it was about to burst open. ‘Jacques Nuz and Solenn Pleuvant, later Nuz,’ it said on the typewritten index card. ‘Jacques Nuz’ had been crossed out by hand with a short, sharp, horizontal line. The ‘and’ had been left as it was, which looked strange.
The documents were in chronological order. The file seemed to have been administrated painstakingly well. The most recent documents nearest the top.
Dupin found the current application, the one Le Coz had spoken about. Twenty-four pages long. A form filled out by hand. Two construction sketches attached. Elevation, floor plan. By an architect called Pierre Larmont. From Quimper. A ‘reconstruction of the existing annexe in wood in masonry construction’. The application was full of technical terms that Dupin didn’t understand, but it was all thoroughly plausible and corresponded with the information that he had. He placed it to one side. Shorter applications followed – six- or eight-page long forms and the relevant decisions – from the last few years. ‘New connection to the professional technical medium-format static-solar board of the Glénan’, ‘new construction of a demand-appropriate, independent soakaway system for gastronomic purposes’. Everything logical and self-evident.
Dupin came to the first applications that Solenn had submitted in conjunction with her husband. Opening the Quatre Vents had clearly entailed an impressive number of individual- and sub-applications for the then young couple and their great dreams. The ‘internal structural redesign of the restaurant Les Quatre Vents (bar/cafe), formerly Le Sac de Noeuds’, ‘the renaming of the restaurant (bar/cafe) Sac de Noeuds as Quatre Vents…’ Unbelievable. Besides applications for the diving school ‘international association for the friends and patrons of the underwater sports of the island group Les Glénan’. And of these too: a considerable number. Dupin went through them quickly. They corresponded with his basic understanding too. Everything seemed to be in good order.
Dupin stood up, somewhat frustrated. Only now did he become aware that the office worker was still standing in the doorway. She was looking at him expressionlessly.
‘Madame, was it you who handed the folder over to Madame Nuz?’
‘Oh yes, I manage and administer the files for the entire archive.’
‘Do you know why Madame Nuz needed these documents by any chance?’
‘That’s obviously a question I don’t ask. Because I don’t need to ask it. Every citizen can have a look in their file at any time. And people make use of that.’
She expressed this as if she considered it the central achievement of a free citizen. Dupin would have gladly said something like ‘So tens of thousands gave their lives in the Revolution for the right to free access to their file?’ He was reminded of the Revolution whenever he was dealing with administration and management.
‘Did you happen to see which document Madame Nuz needed? I’m asking you to recall carefully. And to give me an answer.’
Dupin had adopted his clear, commanding tone.
‘I have no occasion of any kind to spy on people,’ the woman retorted, before added in a more subdued yet still acid tone:
‘She will have needed statements from earlier applications for filling out a series of forms that are still outstanding with regard to the new construction she applied for – there are still two due. Although they are just copies, we never give them out. You have to come here – these are important things.’
It made sense and would explain why Madame Nuz had come here. And the hot lead would instantly have cooled, the idea that he had had: illogical.
Dupin stood up and was on the point of turning away without a word when something crossed his mind that he hadn’t paid any attention to before.
‘Copies? You’re saying these are copies?’
‘Oh yes, what do you think? We can’t in all conscience just hand over the originals. The originals are in our archive. All litigable documents!’
The horror was not feigned.
‘I would l
ike to see the originals.’
‘That’s not possible without authorisation. I’ll need to ask the mayor. That’s what the regulations say. We have to be very strict on that. No exceptions.’
Dupin felt the colour of his face changing and he involuntarily planted his enormous body in front of her, standing up to his full height. The way he looked left no room for doubt that he was going to explode within moments. Before Dupin could even lose his temper, she gasped out in a thin, aggressive voice:
‘I’ll get the file.’
She vanished with astonishing speed.
Dupin sat down again.
Had he made a mistake? He had hoped to find something surprising that would shed light on the case.
‘Here you go.’
She had slapped the folder down in front of him, rather than placing it.
‘I hope you are aware of the fact that you are now dealing with originals, the damage or loss of which would have serious consequences.’
She was tough. As much as Dupin would have liked to get into a war of words, he left it. He needed to concentrate.
He went through the documents in the same order as before. Backwards chronologically. Looked at them again meticulously one by one. After a few documents, he switched to making two systematic piles, one with the originals and one with the copies. This way he could compare and see if there was anything striking or anomalous. He didn’t find any discrepancies. Why would someone have wanted to change something in the copies anyway?
He didn’t find anything, not a thing. By now he had got to the applications for the diving centre, so he was back to the beginning. Left pile, right pile. One more document. He put it to the left. Dupin stopped short. Where was the copy? There was a document missing from the pile on the right. It only existed with the originals. He searched frantically for the heading. ‘Construction of duly compatible hotel company on Saint-Nicolas in accordance with Regulation ‘16.BB.12/Finist.7’, a particularly thick application on thin, faded paper. Date: ‘28.5.2002’. He leafed through it. ‘Capacity/number of intended rooms in hotel company: 88’. That must have been part of the initial great plans that Lefort had had back then. Clearly. ‘A hotel company’. And not a small one. Dupin leafed further through, ‘Integral functionality of a water sports centre and marina for the purposes of tourist use/integration of existing institutions’. That was the big thing at stake. Dupin’s gaze fell on the last page. ‘Primary applicant: Jacques Nuz’, then a difficult to read signature. And: ‘Additional applicants for the purposes of § GHF 17.3: Lucas Lefort, Yannig Konan, Charles Malraux – that must have been the other participant from the ‘mainland’ – Kilian Tanguy, Devan Le Menn’.
Murder on Brittany Shores Page 28