Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘He didn’t tell anyone anything.’

  Dupin took out his notebook and made a note. ‘Madame Lajoux, I would actually like to ask you to do one thing: think about Pierre Louis Pennec’s last four days very, very carefully one more time. We’ve got to know what he did in those last four days. It would be extremely helpful.’

  ‘Monsieur Le Ber has already asked me about that. I’ve told him everything I know, Monsieur le Commissaire.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, is it true that the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime at least once?’

  ‘It’s complicated. There are no rules when it comes to murder cases. None at all, believe me.’

  ‘I see. I read it in a book once. A commissaire said it.’

  ‘Madame Lajoux, you shouldn’t take anything you read in a crime novel too seriously… I have another question for you: do you know the art teacher who runs the little museum?’

  Dupin had plucked up the courage to ask a few more questions after all. Francine Lajoux seemed to have become stronger during the course of the conversation – talking obviously helped her.

  ‘Of course, I know him well. A truly wonderful man. Pont-Aven has a lot to thank Monsieur Beauvois for. Monsieur Pennec had a lot of respect for him. This new brochure was very important to Monsieur Pennec.’

  ‘How far did they get with it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I think there was a first draft. With a photo of the restaurant, maybe two, one from back then and one from today. This was Pierre-Louis Pennec’s favourite room in the hotel. At the beginning of last year we renovated everything on the ground floor, the walls, the floor. We even got a brand new air-conditioning system. He never spared any expense where the hotel was concerned.’

  Dupin noticed now for the first time that the air in the restaurant was not in the least bit stuffy, despite the warmth of the day and the fact that the room had been locked up. The air-conditioning was clearly doing a very good job.

  Sighing, she continued, ‘Monsieur Pennec was always happy here. He was here every evening. Until closing time.’

  ‘What did you talk about this week over dinner? Did he say anything about his half-brother? Either this week or recently?’

  ‘No, nothing at all.’

  ‘Did he talk to you about his son from time to time?’

  ‘No. He almost never spoke about him. Just about the son’s wife sometimes, Catherine Pennec. He got worked up about her every now and again, I don’t think he liked her. But I shouldn’t be saying this.’

  It was clear Madame Lajoux was holding back.

  ‘What did he get worked up about?’ Dupin blinked.

  ‘I’m not sure. She wanted new furniture for the house, something along those lines. He always thought she was living beyond her means and trying to play the grande dame. But I really shouldn’t be saying things like this,’ she hesitated, ‘she’s certainly not a murderess, even if she’s not a nice person.’

  ‘Feel free to speak your mind.’

  She sighed again deeply. ‘Why did the murderer kill Monsieur Pennec here? Do you think he knew him and knew that he was here every evening? Was he watching him that evening and saw that he was alone?’

  Madame Lajoux seemed utterly exhausted again and a little shaky.

  ‘We don’t know yet. Madame Lajoux, it would be best if you went home now. It’s late. You must look after yourself. You should take a few days off, it would be the best thing you could do.’

  ‘That I would never do, Monsieur le Commissaire. Right now, Pierre-Louis Pennec needs me.’

  Dupin wanted to disagree, but thought about it for a moment and then said: ‘I understand. But you should at least relax a little this evening.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m exhausted.’ She turned to go.

  ‘Just one last question, Madame Lajoux. There was a man who had a conversation with Pierre-Louis Pennec in front of the hotel. On…’ Dupin flicked through his notebook, but couldn’t find the place, ‘in the last few days. Are you sure it wasn’t a guest? Or someone local?’

  ‘No, no. It wasn’t a guest. I know our guests. And it definitely wasn’t anyone local.’

  ‘You had never seen him before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘That other inspector has already written this all down. He was quite thin, not very tall. But I only saw them out of the corner of my eye. From above, on the staircase. I don’t know how long they spoke for, but they seemed to be having a heated discussion.’

  ‘Heated in what way?’

  ‘I can’t really say, that’s just how it seemed to me.’

  ‘This is very important.’

  ‘They were gesticulating. I… it was just a feeling I had. Does that help?’

  Dupin scratched his right temple. ‘Thank you very much. That… is very helpful. Good night, Madame Lajoux.’

  ‘I hope you catch the murderer soon. But you’ve got to rest too, Monsieur le Commissaire. And eat properly.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Madame Lajoux. I will. Bonne nuit.’ She vanished through the door.

  Dupin was alone again. He was reasonably certain Francine Lajoux had known nothing about Pennec’s poor health. Pennec hadn’t confided in her.

  The sound of muffled voices came through the window, which had been closed by the scene of crime team that morning and sealed from outside. Then there was silence again.

  Dupin had noticed how tired he was during the conversation, not to mention how hungry. He didn’t have a clear idea of what he should be looking for here at the bar. He hadn’t promised himself anything specific. Even as a young police officer he had been in the habit of looking at crime scenes a few times. He tried to imagine the way the crime played out in as much detail as possible, sometimes using the latest bit of information about the case and sometimes using nothing but his own imagination. Then he would sit and lose himself in the details. This was how he suddenly came to see significant things. Sometimes. But today, and he was sure of this, he wouldn’t see anything at all. He decided to call it a day and go to the Amiral for something to eat. It was almost ten o’clock and he didn’t have the strength for anything else. He was far from pleased.

  Dupin sat in his car and rolled down the front windows, breathing in the gentle evening air and glad to be leaving Pont-Aven behind him. He would be back in his little Concarneau very soon. If someone had told him three years ago that in the not too distant future he would be saying ‘my Concarneau’ he would have laughed at them. But that’s how it had turned out – he loved this little town. He knew of few places in the world where you could breathe so easily or, as silly as it might sound, feel so free. On days like this the horizon was practically endless, as boundless as paradise, everything peaceful and clear. As you drove down the hill along the sweeping avenue de la Gare, lined on both sides by the pretty, immaculate fishermen’s houses, you could look right out to the harbour, towards the big, open space, the broad, unspoiled areas that divided the people from the sea. Corcarneau was beautiful, truly beautiful, but the most beautiful thing about the town was the mood it put you in. And this mood – it was the sea itself.

  Dupin was well aware that the locals knew the sea in other moods too. Such vastly different moods that on an evening like this you couldn’t even picture it: the sea as a monster, cruelly destructive and all-consuming. The powerful harbour and fortress system fended off enemies – but most of all it kept the furious sea at bay. And yet the town and the Atlantic were too closely intertwined for anything to be able to stand between them when the sea flew into a rage. ‘In Concarneau,’ went one of the many maxims which the locals repeated over and over so that, at least in words, they could calm the rough seas of their lives, ‘the sea is victorious’. It had become clear to Dupin early on that what distinguished the people of the sea from people like him who were tourists and would always remain so, was respect. More specifically, fear.
Fear was their prevailing emotion towards the sea, not love. Everyone here knew somebody who had lost someone to the sea, one or more people whom the sea had taken.

  This evening however, down here by the harbour, the sea was friendly. The water surrounding the island of the old town was perfectly calm.

  Dupin parked his car in the first row of parking spaces, right next to the harbour.

  Lily greeted him with a cheerful gesture as Dupin settled down at one of the small tables in the corner of the bar. It was a gesture that showed she knew what a hard day the Commissaire must have had. She came unhurriedly over to his table.

  ‘Tough day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Huh. Entrecôte?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That was their entire conversation.

  Quite apart from the fact that it was long enough and was typical of the length of conversation Dupin had with the restaurant-owner, it was all Dupin could manage It was just coming up to eleven o’clock. He felt sick with hunger. It was true he loved Breton cuisine and the Amiral had all of the delicious Breton specialities, but nothing to Dupin’s mind, absolutely nothing, could beat entrecôte with chips (the real national dish of the Grande Nation – Dupin thought they should be very proud of it). There was nothing like it. Nothing even close after a day like that. And red wine to wash it down, a deep red Languedoc. Rich, velvety and smooth.

  Dupin didn’t have to wait long until everything was in front of him. Then he ate. And stopped thinking.

  The Second Day

  It was half past six in the morning. Dupin had been having confusing, unsettling dreams. Even though he had been in bed by half past twelve he hadn’t fallen asleep until at least three, and had only slept deeply for the last hour or so. The phone made a dreadful, ear-splitting racket. It was a new phone, the volume of which Dupin had desperately tried to adjust several times through the various menus and sub-menus but had failed miserably. He could see it was Labat. He really only picked up to stop the diabolical noise it was making.

  ‘Somebody removed the cordon from a window in the side passage and bashed in the windowpanes. The window is open.’ Labat hadn’t even asked if he was through to the right person.

  ‘What? Labat! What’s wrong?’ Dupin couldn’t understand what Labat was talking about.

  ‘Somebody broke into the crime scene last night.’

  ‘Into the Central?’

  ‘Into the bar where Pierre-Louis Pennec was murdered.’

  ‘And what did they do?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘No idea?’

  ‘Our colleagues from Pont-Aven just rang. All they’ve done is log it.’

  ‘Somebody forced their way into the crime scene through a window?’

  Labat hesitated over his answer. ‘Strictly speaking we don’t actually know that. Just that someone bashed in a window and that it’s now open. The window next to the cast-iron door, so it’s further back and towards the bar if I understand correctly.’

  ‘Is anything out of place in the restaurant or the bar?’

  ‘No, there’s no damage as far as I know. But that’s very much a provisional observation.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’ Dupin was feeling more and more awake.

  ‘The police on the scene didn’t see anything conspicuous, but of course they haven’t started any forensic examinations yet. They’ve informed Salou, which is definitely the most important thing right now.’

  ‘How did they find out about this? The restaurant is cordoned off.’

  ‘The chef.’

  ‘Edouard Lenaff?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Did someone come into the hotel through the bar and restaurant?’

  ‘No, definitely not. The door is intact and locked. You’d need to have had the key, and we’ve taken in all of them.’

  ‘I’m on my way, Labat. Where are you?’

  ‘At home. I’m leaving now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Before he did anything else, Dupin needed a coffee. It was still too early for the Amiral. He had bought himself a little espresso machine during his last year in Paris. He’d only used it three times since then; he just liked sitting in cafés too much. The machine had cost an eye-watering amount. Dupin hadn’t had a clue about espresso machines and the saleswoman with the dark green eyes had been persuasive, assuring him that this was the only sensible option. The beans were probably as old as the machine. It was a somewhat laborious process, but as the last drops dripped into the little cup he felt something approaching pride.

  Once he was dressed, Dupin took his coffee and stepped out onto the narrow balcony overlooking the sea. Almost all of the other rooms in this flat, which had come with the job, looked out to sea too. The flat was in a late nineteenth century building, one of the most beautiful in Concarneau. Not ostentatious, but very stylish and painted a radiant white. You could look directly out onto the ‘Flaubert Cliffs’ as they called them in Concarneau. Apparently Flaubert had always sat there when he was in town. There was just one narrow street separating Dupin’s building from the sea. On his right the coast led to the Sables blancs, a stunning, long, dazzlingly white sandy beach with expensive villas along it; and to the left was the entrance to the harbour with the little lighthouse and the buoys bobbing sleepily in the gentle groundswell. But the best thing was the view of the vast ocean. Dawn was just breaking above him, the sky and sea still indistinguishable on the horizon. The sun would be coming up any moment.

  The beans might have been old but the coffee was strong and didn’t taste too bad. Dupin brooded over everything that had happened so far. He was no longer sure whether he should rush over to Pont-Aven. The priority over there was Salou’s work; Labat had been right about that. And Salou was conscientious, he would definitely get there quickly, before Dupin would. There was something strange about all of this. Why would someone have broken into the restaurant? Had the murderer returned to the scene of the crime? The forensic evidence from the night of the murder – although there was precious little anyway – had already been collected, unless they had overlooked something yesterday. Whatever way you looked at it, the intruder had taken a huge risk. Breaking into a crime scene the day after a murder – it was madness. There must have been a very good reason for it. It could have been a diversionary tactic – but from what? And why?

  It now seemed clear that the case was not about some drama that had developed over a short or even a long time, culminating in murder and thereby drawing to a close. The drama was still playing out, even if they couldn’t see it yet. A drama that old Pennec himself might have sparked off with something he did after finding out about his life-threatening illness. Whatever the case, Dupin had to hurry, that much was clear. The pace of events was picking up.

  Dupin decided not to drive to Pont-Aven. He would go the police station, have his conversation with André Pennec as planned and wait for the results of the forensic work.

  André Pennec was already waiting at the station when Dupin entered the nondescript, rather ugly building near the train station a little after eight o’clock. Purpose-built, eighties, and not even very spacious, let alone comfortable. Dupin couldn’t stand the smell of the building either (a unique plastic smell that nobody else really seemed to notice), a smell that all the open windows in the world couldn’t alleviate.

  ‘He’s sitting in your office.’ Nolwenn was already on top of things.

  ‘Bonjour, Nolwenn.’

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘I’ll be right with him. Do we have any information yet on who the executor of Pennec’s will is? Is it Madame Denis?’

  ‘She’s expecting you.’

  Dupin had to laugh. Nolwenn looked rather bemused.

  ‘Half past ten at her office in Pont-Aven. Or does the break-in mean you want to go to the Central first?’

  ‘No. I just want to be informed whenever there’s any news, as soon a
s anyone has the smallest thing.’

  ‘It’s strange though. This case is getting more complicated all the time,’ she faltered for a moment, ‘and it’s complicated enough already. What do you think is going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

  ‘I have all the other information too; I’ll give it to Le Ber. Now you should –’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Dupin hesitated a moment, and after a token knock on his own door (even though it felt strange) he went inside.

  He practically jumped out of his skin. André Pennec was the image of Louis Pennec. It was astonishing. You couldn’t tell he had a different mother. The same build, the same facial features. Strange that nobody had mentioned this.

  He was sitting in the chair across from Dupin’s desk and made no move to stand up, looking Dupin directly in the eye. A light-coloured, very formal, stiff summer suit, his hair somewhat longer than his half-brother’s, painstakingly combed back with gel.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘I would have expected you to inform me personally.’

  At first Dupin didn’t know what André Pennec meant, but he pulled himself together again quickly.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I was concentrating on the initial stages of the investigation. That’s why Inspector Le Ber was given the task of informing you.’

  ‘That’s not good enough!’

  ‘As I said, I’m terribly sorry. And I’d like to express my sincerest condolences on the loss of your half-brother.’

  André Pennec looked coldly at Dupin.

  ‘Were you close, Monsieur Pennec? You and your half-brother?’

  ‘We were brothers. With all that family entails. What can I say? Every family has its stories. And being a half-brother is probably even more complex.’

  ‘What do you mean?’