Murder on Brittany Shores

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  Dupin knew that at the outset of Lefort’s tourist plans, other people had been involved in the project. Initially, if he understood correctly, several young, enthusiastic people had thought they were pursuing a dream together. Then it had turned out that they were dreaming very different dreams – and a fight had erupted which had turned them into enemies for life.

  Thus far everything corresponded with what was known. But the application raised questions. Dupin was not sure whether this was what he had been looking for and, if so, what it meant. One thing was remarkable in any case: the document was missing from the accessible folder. If it had not gone missing by chance, then it had been removed, which indicated real effort. And why had Jacques Nuz been the chief applicant? Nobody had ever said anything about that. Everyone had always spoken of Lefort’s plans. And, finally, the application had indeed been submitted. The statements on it had been contradictory the whole time. Even Kadeg hadn’t found anything about it. But Kadeg had only been looking for applications in Lefort’s name. As had everyone else presumably. Dupin leafed backwards. On the first page he found a handwritten comment. Furnished with an official stamp of the 29th of June 2002: ‘Applicant missing according to police’. What did that mean – had its processing been suspended? That would explain why the application had never become ‘official’ anyway. Why everyone thought it had never existed.

  Dupin stood up. He saw that the office dragon had guarded the door this time too and was enjoying watching him suspiciously.

  ‘If an application has several applicants, are the documents then only filed in the chief applicant’s file?’

  ‘Previously, yes. But we amended it two years ago, now there are copies under each applicant.’

  ‘I need the files. I’m taking them with me.’

  Dupin knew that for the office dragon, this was the worst sentence that a human being on this earth could utter.

  ‘Monsieur!’

  She was obviously having great difficulty keeping up with her own outrage linguistically.

  ‘Those – those are our originals! Even taking the copies away is forbidden.’

  She puffed herself up even more.

  ‘This is completely out of the question. You – you need to make an application for this.’

  Dupin made no move to answer. He walked straight past her. She moved abruptly and for a moment, Dupin was braced for her to try and snatch the folder from him. Instead, she turned around snappily on the spot like this was a military exercise and marched after him. Through the door. Along the corridor. Down the stairs. Wordlessly. She only piped again once they had reached the ground floor.

  ‘I’m warning you, Monsieur, that you are committing a criminal offence. I’ll demand this of you one last time: put down the documents. They are the property of the French state.’

  Then she began to call for help.

  ‘Hello? Monsieur Lemant? I need you! Hello?’

  A friendly woman at reception was staring anxiously at the strange drama.

  Dupin was walking with determination, taking his time. A moment later he was outside and signalling to the driver to start up the engine immediately. Within two minutes they were already driving down the motorway towards Quimper, back to the airport. Dupin had put his phone on vibrate in the office. It had vibrated several times in the last hour. He checked the numbers. The Prefect … five times in total. Along with Kadeg, Riwal, Goulch, Nolwenn. The forensic star, Reglas.

  Nolwenn was engaged. He tried her three times.

  Then he dialled Reglas’ number.

  ‘You’ve got our helicopter. We’re still marooned on Brilimec,’ Dupin heard instead of a greeting.

  ‘I really hope you didn’t try to call me because of that.’

  ‘I wanted to inform you of something – incredibly surprising.’

  Reglas paused. Dupin knew his tendency towards the theatrical.

  ‘Reglas, I’ll…’

  ‘The gun in question is probably an FP-45 Liberator. From the Second World War. A primitive but effective gun, which the Americans…’

  ‘Reglas!’

  ‘… it was then used by the French resistance.’

  Dupin started. That was interesting.

  ‘And that is indisputable?’

  ‘As good as. The ammunition is very distinctive. Even though I could only examine it with the provisional means that we have on site, the…’

  ‘So this weapon would be quite rare to come across?’

  ‘On the contrary. There are still many specimens. Although the majority of them do not work any more.’

  ‘What do you mean by “many specimens”?’

  ‘At the time, the Résistance were gradually building up sizeable arsenals right here in Brittany. In quite a few houses one of these weapons remains in the attic or in the cellar to this day … Many kept them for sentimental reasons too and took care of them.’

  All of this was very plausible.

  ‘Get in touch when you know more, Reglas.’

  Dupin hung up. He tried Nolwenn again. It was still engaged. Then Kadeg.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Kadeg, did you have them show you the original of Lefort’s file in the mairie or just the folder of copies?’

  ‘The original of course. I summoned the acting mayor especially.’

  ‘Good. What other news do you have?’

  Dupin was speaking quickly, but clearly and with focus. Kadeg adjusted to his speed.

  ‘The building contractor states that he planned the terrace himself. Du Marhallac’h did butt in occasionally with ideas and concepts, but never drew up a concrete plan.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  That would be enough. Even if Du Marhallac’h claimed Pajot had paid him the fee for oral consultations – he had nothing to show for it. That was sufficient for reasonable suspicion – of corruption.

  ‘Hand it over to the Prefecture, they should get the state prosecutor involved. Immediately. – Oh yes, inform the Prefect personally.’

  Although it had nothing to do with the case and Dupin was sure of that by now, the Prefect would nevertheless be a bit busy.

  ‘And the Director of the institute?’

  The driver had taken a particularly tight rond-point at high speed and Dupin was pressed against the door.

  ‘Directeur Le Berre-Ryckeboerec?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That won’t be easy. Our people still haven’t found anything clear. Nothing that breaks the law. But since the institute, although largely funded by third parties, is essentially a state institution and partially even a European institution, there are regulations to be strictly adhered to regarding the sale of research. Studies, results, licenses and patents must come onto the market in a verifiable way. But it’s probably complicated because it’s not clear which regulations apply to which of the institute’s platforms for which activities in each case. We need to look carefully at that. It will take a while.’

  ‘And his accounts? The private ones?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Nolwenn a few times on the phone. It would be easier if we found something here. It was a miracle that we got the search warrant at all.’

  ‘Get in touch as soon as there’s news. One more thing: call Riwal and tell him someone is to go to Muriel Lefort and ask whether she is in possession of a gun from the Résistance, belonging to her parents – she, or perhaps her brother…’

  ‘Will do…’

  It was clear that there was something Kadeg still wanted to say. Dupin knew what it was too: he would want Dupin to bring him up to speed on things.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Kadeg. And I’ll tell you then.’

  Dupin had hung up. He wanted to speak to Nolwenn. He tried again. And at last he got through.

  ‘I have some information, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  They had arrived at the airport. Dupin got out, his mobile to his ear.

  ‘I looked at the file on Jacques Nuz’s accident in great detail. The story begins just
like the story on Sunday. It’s astonishing. The Glénan, a stunning day in early summer. Then a storm picks up. Jacques Nuz has urgent things to do on the mainland and wants to get across before the storm. According Solenn Nuz’s statement, he leaves the island at half two. So says the report. The next morning she registers him missing with the police in Fouesnant. A search operation is launched immediately by boat and helicopter. He is never seen again, his body never discovered, just pieces of the boat two days later. Quite far in the east. Nobody knows anything about the accident itself.’

  ‘The next morning?’

  ‘Think about it, mobile phones weren’t widespread here at the time.’

  Dupin was still standing next to the car. Just a few metres away from the helicopter. The pilot was already sitting in the cockpit. Dupin made a vague gesture that was intended to mean: just a moment.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Here it comes: two other boats also leave Saint-Nicolas with Jacques Nuz, one immediately after him and one some minutes later again. And do you want to guess who owned those boats?’

  That was a rhetorical question.

  ‘Lucas Lefort and Devan Le Menn! And it gets even better, do you know who was on board with Lefort?’

  ‘Yannig Konan.’

  It had been more of a murmur than an answer from Dupin. He shuddered.

  ‘That’s right. Of course Lefort and Konan were questioned about Jacques Nuz’s whereabouts. The statements are documented in the files. Nuz wanted to go to Fouesnant where he and Solenn still had a small apartment. Lefort and Konan wanted to go to Sainte-Marine. It’s the same course at first.’

  ‘And Le Menn?’

  ‘He also testified he didn’t see anything. Neither Nuz’s boat nor Lefort’s.’

  ‘And other boats? Were there any others out, are there any more witnesses?’

  ‘Nobody else is listed. Any sensible person would either have set out in good time – or else stayed put.’

  ‘And there are no indications of any kind as to what happened? Did Nuz come aground on a rock? Capsize? What kind of boat did he have?’

  ‘The pieces that were found didn’t allow for any conclusions, although they were examined thoroughly. The reports are all enclosed. It was a Jeanneau, almost forty years old, but in good condition according to statements from Solenn Nuz and some others. Nothing pointed towards the possibility of the boat having a defect.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Dupin’s mind was racing.

  ‘You always need to remember: these accidents aren’t uncommon here, Monsieur le Commissaire – and only in the very rarest cases are there clues as to the course of events.’

  The helicopter pilot made a gesture of his own now, which Dupin understood as a request to get in. Reglas and his team were waiting. Dupin didn’t care much about that, but he was in a hurry himself now, to get back to the islands. To a – very important conversation. What he had just heard was in fact highly interesting. But he still didn’t understand the story, even though he was sure that it was the key. The key to everything.

  * * *

  Solenn Nuz’s small stone house was – when viewed from the quay – at the back of the island, where the piece of land, scattered wildly over the sea, was at its widest. It was at the island’s western beach, the most beautiful beach, the one that had the most Caribbean-like atmosphere. The building had been built so low that it looked as if it wanted to offer the storms the least resistance possible and was surrounded by an impressive number of flowerbeds, big and small. Salad, potatoes, all kinds of vegetables, even artichokes were growing there, the great Breton speciality in vegetables apart from leeks. Dupin ate them in all forms and by now his favourite way was the utterly Breton way: with a chive-and-egg vinaigrette. Two large herb gardens adjoined the flowerbeds. Somehow it didn’t suit the islands, that there was soil here at all, proper ground, not just sand, dunes, grasses, stones and rocks.

  Dupin had walked into the Quatre Vents first, without thinking. Louann Nuz had informed him that her mother was at home.

  He was now standing directly in front of her house. Everything looked very simple. He liked it. He looked for a doorbell but couldn’t find one. The massive wooden door with the iron edges and hinges stood half open. He stretched a little, so that he didn’t to have to go inside just to knock.

  ‘Hello? Madame Nuz?

  No answer. Dupin knocked and called a little louder.

  ‘It’s Commissaire Dupin.’

  Again, no reaction.

  Dupin was just considering what to do when Pascal Nuz appeared beside him as if out of nowhere.

  ‘She’s in the sea. Fishing for mussels.’

  Dupin almost jumped. Her father-in-law must have been outside in the garden.

  ‘I would like to speak to her.’

  The sentence sounded very obvious, Dupin realised.

  ‘You’ll find her on the big beach.’ With his right hand, Pascal Nuz made a vague gesture towards the west.

  ‘I’ll look for her. Thanks very much, Monsieur.’

  Dupin found an elaborate zigzag path through the flowerbeds, walked around the house and quickly found himself on the flat dunes right before the big beach.

  It was the lowest tide, the beach extended far down into the sea, a flat, even surface, perfect again after every high tide. The uppermost, finest layer of sand had already been dried by the sun and recovered its flawless, dazzling whiteness. It was still thin – here and there the wet sand underneath shimmered like parchment. His eyes peeled, Dupin spotted Solenn Nuz in the north-west. You could just see her silhouette. She was the only person for miles around, in a landscape that belonged to the sea for a large part of the day (Dupin understood why her father-in-law had said ‘in the sea’). She was walking slowly towards the end of the low tide at the northern tip of the island. Dupin set off. It was further than he’d thought.

  Solenn Nuz only noticed him once he had already come quite close. He hadn’t called out. Suddenly she turned towards him. There was a dark green, woven-looking, plastic basket hanging over each of her shoulders. In her right hand she was holding a small shovel with a long handle.

  She smiled when she saw the Commissaire, the calm, beautiful smile that he knew. She only spoke once he was standing directly in front of her.

  ‘It’s the season. Palourdes, praires, coques. And ormeaux. – The palourdes are in the sand, the ormeaux on the rocks, in the cracks where the algae are,’ she pointed in the direction of Bananec where the impressive rocky landscapes began at low tide.

  ‘The palourdes hide ten centimetres deep in the sand. You need to know that and recognise where to find them,’ she spoke calmly to herself, as on previous days, ‘I learnt it from my mother. There are very few clues. Do you want to see how to find them?’

  ‘Show me.’

  Dupin spoke just as calmly.

  ‘You have to look for small holes in the sand, in a figure of eight, those are the female palourdes. And then for two even smaller holes of equal size two to three centimetres away, those are the larger, male ones.’

  Solenn Nuz’s gaze hadmet Dupin’s for a moment. Now her head was lowered again, her gaze fixed expertly on the seabed.

  ‘And then you put your hand carefully in the sand and feel for the mussels. And take them out.’

  Dupin was walking next to her.

  ‘Do you like palourdes? Or ormeaux – the mother of pearl mussels?’

  ‘Very much.’

  Dupin in fact loved both kinds of mussels, there were delicious palourdes in the Amiral – grilled with herb butter and white breadcrumbs. And he had to admit that, to this day, it still made him as happy as a child when he found an ormeau, an intact mother of pearl mussel that shimmered with every colour of the rainbow. He always stowed them away and he had already accumulated an impressive collection in his desk drawer.

  ‘There are crêpes with palourdes tonight, maybe with ormeaux too. Pan-fried. We’ll see.’

  ‘What happened to the app
lication that your husband had submitted at the mairie?’

  The question had come without warning. But Solenn Nuz didn’t look in the least bit surprised. Not at all. She answered without hesitation, in the same tone in which she’d just spoken of mussel-fishing.

  ‘For a while we thought we had a shared idea. Lucas, Yannig, Kilian Tanguy and us. And also Devan Le Menn. Muriel Lefort knew her brother better, from the beginning she was not on board. We didn’t listen to her, we thought she was old-fashioned. After a period of hammering out a plan together, it became clear to us that Lucas had something else in mind entirely. We wanted to leave the Glénan the way they were, modernise and expand the diving school and the sailing club a bit, build a hotel and restaurant, but no crowds, no luxury. For Lucas that was just the beginning, a tactic. We started arguing more and more. Then one day there was a big fight. Yannig never said much about any of it – but he was on Lucas’ side. And he had the money. Charles Malraux was on our side. Devan tried to keep out of it somehow.’

  Suddenly she bent down.

  ‘Can you see, here – the two tiny holes?’

  Dupin stooped down low. He might have missed them. But there they were.

  Solenn Nuz let her hand glide into the sand in a fluid, gentle movement and drew it back out moments later with a magnificent palourde grise on it. She placed it in the basket to her right and only now did Dupin notice that there were already a large number of mussels inside.

  ‘Why was your husband the chief applicant?’