The Fleur de Sel Murders: A Brittany Mystery (Brittany Mystery Series)

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  “So far we’ve not found any trace evidence on the boat from anyone but Maxime Daeron. Or anywhere else in the room, for that matter. Just some traces on the door, on the door handle. We were able to check them easily. They came from the housekeeper who found Daeron.”

  “She has already been interviewed thoroughly. She has an airtight alibi and nothing important to say,” Rose added.

  “And the gun?” Dupin was particularly interested in this.

  “P 239 Scorpion, one of the newer SIG Sauer 9mm guns, eight shots per magazine. RUAG bullets. With a short, compact silencer. Whether it’s the same gun as the night before last, we’ll have to see. The caliber and bullets are very common, they don’t mean anything. And the gun is extremely new. A fashionable gun.” That afterthought was full of professional condescension.

  While Rose had been outside, Dupin had taken a good look at everything. He had paced slowly up and down the room. This “careful looking” was one of his few genuine guiding principles (if someone asked him and he thought hard, there were actually a few more, he realized to his astonishment—and there he was, the man who always denied having a method). Nothing unusual had caught his eye.

  There was nothing else for him to see or do here. And the final results from the examination would take some time to come through.

  “I’m getting out of here,” he said quietly. Rose was only half listening, if she was listening at all, that is. She had her mobile back up to her ear. Dupin had noticed in the last few days there was an advantage to the unusual “joint investigation setup”: here on Rose’s “turf,” she was inevitably saddled with the official paperwork.

  Already at the door, he was in the garden within moments and there he saw the bench, the chairs, the table where he and Daeron had sat yesterday. He stopped. This was a terribly tragic story, whatever lay behind it.

  Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, Inspector Chadron and Rose appeared next to him.

  “We need the phone records, landline and mobile. Internet activity, emails. I want to know everything.” Rose rattled expertly through these orders. “Get the house turned upside down, Chadron. We’ll need more backup from Auray and Vannes. And do the house in La Roche-Bernard too. His little business. He had his office in La Roche-Bernard if I understand correctly. Check if he left any clues behind. A farewell letter, a note. I want all the neighbors questioned, on whether they noticed anything out of the ordinary last night. Question everyone who comes in and out of this house. The gardener, the pool-cleaning people. Find out who his friends were, talk to them. We’ve got to reconstruct Maxime Daeron’s whole day. The last few days. Whom did he speak to and when.” She turned to Dupin now. “I’ve informed Maxime Daeron’s wife. We ought to speak to her as soon as possible. The housekeeper called Paul Daeron and he set off immediately.”

  Dupin wanted to say something, but Rose was quicker. “And your Inspector Riwal is to ask where everyone in the White Land spent their evening yesterday.”

  “Inspector Kadeg says,” Chadron spoke neutrally as usual, “that the chemist has given the green light for the examination of the pool, but only if the person wears a protective suit. There are certain contaminants he can only rule out bit by bit, especially organic ones.”

  “Your inspector is planning to inspect the pool?”

  Dupin had forgotten to mention this. On the ferry from Port-Blanc and during the short walk here, they had exchanged information on a few things—especially about their “separately” conducted conversations with Jaffrezic, whom Rose seemed to trust less and less—but not this.

  “I—”

  “Things are getting drastic. We should each carry out, and order to be carried out, everything we deem important. Everything. Every one of us.”

  Dupin couldn’t tell if she was being serious. Or cuttingly sarcastic.

  “Your inspector should definitely inspect the pool. We’ve got some protective suits. Chadron, let him know.”

  Without waiting for a response from Dupin, Chadron walked away and took out her phone.

  “Let go of me, I’m his brother. This is my house. I want to go to him.” Paul Daeron had clearly come through the garden, passing the house on the right. A police officer was trying to stop him.

  “It’s okay,” Rose said, and then turned to Paul Daeron: “Come with me. The pathologist and the forensic team are still working.”

  “Thank you,” Paul Daeron said softly, a mute horror etched across his face.

  Rose walked toward the door to the extension with Paul Daeron following behind.

  * * *

  Paul Daeron stood next to his brother’s body for a few minutes, rigid and silent. The corpse was almost at eye level. He pressed his lips together. A few times he covered his eyes with his right hand, his index finger on his forehead, his eyelids shut tight for moments at a time. Then he turned away and left the workshop on unsteady legs. Rose and Dupin were watching him discreetly. Paul Daeron looked devastated. But they didn’t know who in this whole saga might be good at acting.

  “You’re bound to have questions,” Paul Daeron said, once Rose and Dupin had followed him outdoors. Without waiting for an answer, he made for the set of furniture on the terrace.

  “It’s horrific.” This sounded eerie. Angry and utterly despairing, dumbfounded. “The death of Lilou Breval was awful for my brother. We spoke on the phone a few times yesterday. I knew about the relationship,” he said slowly, speaking in a soft monotone. “I can’t say how serious it truly was for my brother, how deep the emotions went. But the murder—her death—affected him deeply. My brother was not good at matters of the heart. Never has been. He wasn’t good at marriage either.”

  Dupin was stunned at how much Paul Daeron was telling them all of a sudden. He had been tight-lipped the day before. But in extreme situations people often acted differently. Daeron had sat down at the large wooden table while Dupin and Rose sat on the opposite side. They were surrounded on all sides by mimosas, a large crooked cactus to the right, which Dupin had taken a dislike to yesterday. He had never been fond of cacti.

  “You suspect,” Dupin said gently, “that the loss of Lilou was the reason for your brother’s suicide?”

  The answer came without hesitation. “I couldn’t say. Perhaps. I’ve been thinking about it in the car. I would never have thought it. I mean, that he would be capable of suicide. What do you think, what are your suspicions? Was he—was my brother caught up in something?”

  “What could he have been caught up in?” Dupin was still speaking in a friendly way.

  Daeron looked confused. “I don’t know.”

  “We can’t say anything yet, Monsieur Daeron,” Rose said with unmistakable emphasis, “but we will find out. No matter how complex it gets or how long it takes. We will find out.”

  “Are you aware of your brother having any other … extramarital relationships?”

  Dupin had to admit his question sounded somewhat strange in this situation.

  He looked at them with sadness in his eyes. “I promised him I’d keep all his secrets, but…” He broke off for a moment, then continued more quietly, “There were one or two other women. Over the last few years. Not before then. He wasn’t a womanizer, not the type to have affairs all the time.” He raised his head and looked at them. “Ségolène Laurent. He had an affair with her before Lilou Breval; it didn’t go on very long, I don’t think. Nobody knows about that one either. Also…”

  Both commissaires were briefly perplexed, then both interrupted Paul Daeron at the same time.

  “Madame Laurent?”

  “Yes. But as I mentioned—it didn’t last long.”

  “When did it end?”

  Dupin had been quicker.

  “I couldn’t say. It must have ended a while before the affair with Lilou Breval began. Just over a year ago, maybe.”

  “How did it end?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Monsieur le Commissaire. My brother—he plunged headlong into things, he’d be enthusiasti
c, obsessed, not on a whim or in a fickle way. He always took it seriously. But then somehow nothing would come of these things. It was the same in his love life. Nothing ever came of anything. I never understood why.” Daeron’s voice had lost the last of its strength. “He always tried so hard. Wanted it so much. He wanted to find his place in life.”

  “Do you know of any disagreements with Madame Laurent?” Rose intervened.

  “No. But there could have been some.”

  “What did you know about the affair with Lilou Breval?”

  “Just that it existed.”

  “He didn’t tell you anything else? Anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “What other affairs did you know about?”

  “There was also an artist, but that was three years ago. In La Roche-Bernard. A painter. That’s the only other one I know about.”

  Dupin had taken out his notepad. “Was he still in touch with the painter?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  This was shocking news. Madame Laurent, the powerful, go-getting head of the conglomerate, and Maxime Daeron, the independent paludier.

  “And his wife? Your brother told Commissaire Dupin yesterday that she didn’t know anything about Lilou Breval—what about the others?”

  “I don’t know how much she really knew. I’m not sure. She’s an intelligent woman. She’s been away so much since she got that amazing job. I know that Maxime loved Annie, I think he’s always loved her. I … I don’t know.”

  Dupin took over again. “It sounds very complicated, your brother’s life. His marriage.”

  “Annie is away for half the month. They … they wanted children, but it didn’t work out. Then she pursued her career in tourism. She’s a wonderful woman,” Paul Daeron said mechanically.

  “Was there any conflict between Lilou and your brother? Before their relationship ended, I mean.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Do you know of any other disputes, conflicts, or disagreements involving your brother? In his private life, work life, or in the salt marshes?”

  “I don’t know anything about that either.”

  “Or was there anyone who wished your brother ill? Have you reflected again about the incident in your brother’s salt marsh? Whether it might have been sabotage after all, and who might be behind something like that? You can see how serious this is.”

  Paul Daeron looked at Dupin in obvious confusion. “You’re insinuating there’s a possibility that—that it wasn’t suicide at all?” His deep agitation was written across his face.

  “We’re not insinuating anything. But we have only just begun investigating.”

  “He avoided conflict. I don’t think my brother was caught up in anything … criminal.” Daeron’s tone of voice was difficult to interpret.

  “I don’t know much about the day-to-day running of his business. He didn’t say much about it, he didn’t like to do that.” There was something inscrutable in Daeron’s eyes. “But I understood that. I wanted him to be able to do everything the way he wanted to do it. I gave him the money he needed to do it. Nothing more. He started out by himself, with almost no capital, with a loan, but that was nowhere near enough, he nearly went out of business, so I helped him. The salt industry is tough, but he loved it. He had big ideas, good ideas, I could tell the ideas were always good.” Daeron hesitated as if he wanted to say something else, but left it at that.

  “And was he beginning to lose interest in salt?”

  Rose had phrased this just as if it had been Dupin’s own deduction. But Paul Daeron raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “I … I don’t think so. No.”

  “Monsieur Daeron, do you know about the large blind pool right next to your brother’s salt marsh? Have you heard of it—did your brother ever mention it, or anything to do with it?” Dupin spoke sharply. This time Paul Daeron looked downright speechless.

  “No, I don’t know of any blind pool. I don’t have anything to do with the salt myself, you know, only when it comes to formal things. As a co-owner.”

  “When did you and your brother last speak?” Rose asked.

  “Yesterday evening, around half past seven. I’d left Vannes and was on the way to my boat. It’s in the Vilaine estuary, a quarter of an hour from La Roche-Bernard. A peaceful place. I told him he should come too. But he didn’t want to. He was here on the island. He … he wanted”—his voice broke again—“he said he wanted to be alone.”

  “But he didn’t say anything that might have worried you?”

  “He seemed shattered, I told you that already. But—the idea that he might…” Daeron didn’t finish his sentence.

  “And what did you do on your boat?”

  “I had arranged to meet a business associate of mine. We wanted to discuss something. But then he had to cancel. At the last minute. He didn’t call till eight. I was on the boat by then.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I drank a glass of wine on the boat. I was there for about an hour and then I went home.”

  “Who was this business associate?” Rose leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other.

  “Thierry Du, a vegetable farmer. He supplies our herbs.”

  “When did you get home?”

  Daeron clearly wasn’t put out by Rose’s meticulous questioning. Perhaps he was just too exhausted.

  “Twenty past nine. I had a bite to eat with my wife and my daughter.”

  “Your family can attest to this?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sorry to disturb you,” said Inspector Chadron, who had appeared and was standing half-hidden behind a cactus. “Maxime Daeron’s wife, Annie Daeron, has just arrived. She’d like to speak to you, Madame la Commissaire.”

  “I’m coming—thank you very much, Monsieur Daeron. This has been a huge shock for you, we know that.” Rose stood up before she’d finished speaking. As did Dupin.

  “Yes. It has been.”

  Paul Daeron remained seated. His scarcely audible words hung faintly in the air.

  * * *

  They had gone inside the house. Into the spacious but unpretentious living room. At first, the conversation had been very difficult. Dupin had been worried that Annie Daeron might collapse on a few occasions. She was absolutely distraught. She was shivering dreadfully, her breathing irregular, and crying nonstop. He wondered how she had even managed to make it here in the car by herself from La Roche-Bernard.

  Annie Daeron was an attractive woman; dark slacks, a pale beige blouse, chin-length jet-black hair. She had sobbed out several questions in despair. He and Rose hadn’t had much to say in response.

  “We’re only just starting to collect information, Madame Daeron. We want to know a few things from you that would be very important to us—but this is not the right time. It might be better if we spoke later.” There was real sympathy in Rose’s words, but also a police order.

  “I … no. I can manage.” She was summoning every ounce of her strength to compose herself, but her voice remained shaky.

  “Was he that unhappy?” she sobbed again.

  “Madame Daeron, you can’t think like that. If it was suicide, it wasn’t your fault! Under any circumstances!” Rose responded firmly.

  “We lost each other at some point. I know that.”

  “You mustn’t torture yourself like this. We need to concentrate on finding out what happened. When did you last see your husband?”

  “The night before last.”

  “Not yesterday?”

  “No. I left at six o’clock yesterday morning. I’m sure he was still sleeping. He has his own bedroom. And last night I didn’t get back till one o’clock. I didn’t know if he was there.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “He’s had his own bedroom for years. At first he only used it when he was working long hours and I had already gone to sleep. So he wouldn’t disturb me. I thought…” Her voice faded away.

  �
�You knew about the affair with Lilou Breval,” Dupin said in a deliberately respectful tone. Annie Daeron didn’t react, staring out the window as though uncertain, her head half lowered.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “He didn’t say it directly. But he talked about her. I knew. And he was aware that I knew.”

  “You also knew that he drove to see her on Wednesday evening?”

  “I thought he had.”

  “How did he seem to you that evening, before he left? During dinner?”

  Annie Daeron looked Dupin directly in the eye for the first time. “It was always hard to say what he was feeling. He had huge self-control. I … I”—her voice was failing again—“he … I didn’t tell the inspector the truth yesterday. I…” She composed herself. “Maxime asked me to say we had eaten together. We didn’t. He wasn’t at home at all, before he … drove to see her. He—”

  “Excuse me?” Rose cut in sharply.

  “I’m sorry … I … He asked me to do it. He didn’t want…” She didn’t finish her sentence.

  “So you…” Rose was clearly thinking feverishly. Dupin had to process what he had just heard too. This time he was quicker.

  “When did he ask you to do that?”

  “After the police called during the night. He came to me and said there had been a shooting in one of his salt marshes—that he didn’t have anything to do with it, but that he didn’t have an alibi either. I didn’t question it, he said I had to do it for him.” She looked solemnly first at Rose and then Dupin. “I know it was wrong. I thought, if I stick by him…”

  “Where did you think he was?”

  “I knew where he’d been, of course. I’m sure he was at the journalist’s house. All evening.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  Worry spread across Annie Daeron’s face.

  “How long was he at home for?”

  This time she didn’t seem to understand Dupin’s question.

  “When he came to see you in your room, how long did he stay?”

  “Not long. Three minutes. Maybe five. He said he needed to get some air. And left.”

  “Why did you do it, why did you give him an alibi?” Rose’s question resonated with rage.