Murder on Brittany Shores (40 page)

There was something solemn in these words. A kind of pact. No, that wasn't it, it was without saying anything out loud that they had established a kind of pact. Which made Dupin strangely happy.

He hung up. And kept walking. Straight onwards, closer towards Bananec. With determined steps. He dialled the number. It took less than a second for the Prefect to pick up. Dupin held the phone a little bit away from his ear, he knew what was in store for him. The Prefect was bellowing so loudly in one of his well-known fits of temper that Dupin would have understood his words perfectly even several metres away from the phone. He held the handset at a safe distance and let the initial fury subside, during which he picked up something along the lines of ‘another immediate transfer' amongst other things. Then he kept waiting until he detected a minuscule pause and broke in with impressive speed:

‘The case is solved.'

The sentence didn't need to be any longer. It had a dramatic effect. For a brief moment nothing happened, then it was deadly silent.

‘Ah. You mean the case is closed? You've got the murderer?'

The Prefect sounded confused.

‘We have the perpetrator.'

Again it took the Prefect a little while to answer. He had to regather his nerve.

‘Everything is cleared up?'

‘Everything is cleared up.'

‘I can stand in front of the press and announce the success of the investigation?'

‘You can stand in front of the press and announce the success of the investigation.'

Everything always boiled down to this last point anyway. As soon as the Prefect could announce that his investigation had led to a swift success, he was satisfied. Dupin had experienced this often enough by now.

‘I'll call a press conference for this afternoon,' he seemed uncertain, ‘for early this afternoon. Can I do that, Dupin?'

‘Yes, you can.'

‘And who was it?'

It did mildly interest him after all.

‘It's a very sad story, Monsieur le Préfet. Ten years ago, your friend Yannig Konan and Lucas Lefort let Jacques Nuz, the son of Pascal Nuz and husband of Solenn Nuz, drown in a storm. Wilfully. They…'

‘I want to know who the murderer is.'

So his interest didn't extend all that far then.

‘Pascal Nuz. His father. He avenged the murder of his son. He learnt three months ago that it was in fact murder. Ten years later. But the pain seems to have remained unchanged.'

‘How old is this Monsieur Nuz?'

‘Eighty-seven.'

‘He planned and carried out multiple murders at the age of eighty-seven? By himself?'

Dupin didn't hesitate in his answer.

‘We have his full confession. And it corresponds with all of the known facts.'

‘He has filed a confession? Wonderful. So the press conference is settled. And that doctor who disappeared?'

‘Pascal Nuz forced him to go overboard way out from the Glénan. He'll have drowned.'

‘Why did he do that?'

‘Le Menn stood idly by while Konan and Lefort let Jacques Nuz drown. To understand that…'

‘You will explain that to me in detail. Of course I need all the details. But not now.'

Of course.

‘And another thing, Dupin!'

‘Yes?'

‘It's not correct to speak of Monsieur Konan as my friend. Bear that in mind. Not everyone whom I know is my friend.'

It was disgusting. Dupin didn't reply.

‘So it wasn't about hunting for treasure then.'

Dupin wasn't sure whether that was meant as a simple observation or a smug comment.

‘No. We do know that two of the three dead were treasure-hunters in any case and that they had been going to a particular spot noticeably often in the last few months and that underwater archaeologists suspect there are still numerous sunken ships in the area around the Glénan – but it wasn't about that in this case, you're right there.'

‘A particular spot, you say?'

The enquiry had come swiftly. Dupin couldn't help grinning.

‘Unfortunately we couldn't identify it exactly. But everything is sorted now.'

The Prefect was silent, you could practically hear his mind at work. But he reconsidered.

‘And what about Monsieur le Directeur Le Berre-Ryckeboerec? And the mayor of Fouesnant, Du Marhallac'h? He's actually regarded as a reasonable man, he…'

‘Corruption, the evidence is overwhelming. Kadeg has taken this on.'

Dupin wouldn't yield a millimetre. Ever.

‘Is that so? The evidence is clear? Does Kadeg think so too?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Do you believe the state prosecutor will not see it differently under any circumstances?'

‘No way.'

The Prefect seemed to be reflecting for a moment.

‘If that's the case, he's a black sheep and will hopefully receive severe punishment.'

‘And the Director of the institute,' Dupin knew that this was a weak spot, but he saw no reason to reveal the vulnerability, ‘manipulated the regulations on the sale of the institute's research results, licenses and patents in a demonstrably large number of cases, thus causing economic damage to the institute.'

Dupin also knew that they had no proof of any kind for it. He didn't care right now.

‘We are investigating whether undue advantage existed and, if so, in what form. I'm sure that we will find something.'

‘A very unpleasant chap. I had a number of dealings with him in the last two days. With him and his lawyers. They really would have…' the Prefect's voice had got a bit louder again at these sentences, sometimes a second outburst then occurred. But not this time.

‘What I wanted to say was this: from now on you'll inform me of the state of play more regularly if you're on an investigation. Especially with these kinds of cases. Do you understand?'

Dupin didn't reply. He had almost reached the end of Bananec. A lengthy strip of land grown over with grasses, whose paradise beaches, just like on the western end of Saint-Nicolas, led to another, small island attached here during low tide. Dupin walked on. The Prefect seemed to have interpreted his silence as obedient acceptance of his dressing-down and to have thus achieved his goal.

‘But that's not the subject at hand – correct,
mon
Commissaire? It's about the solved case now. And we've done it well!'

That was the red button to Dupin. Bright red. When the Prefect addressed him as ‘
mon
Commissaire' at the end of a case and switched into the plural.

‘Tell me, when can you be here, Commissaire? Because of the press conference. I could hold it without you of course if it doesn't suit, but we should at least – have a thorough discussion, so that I know the details. I ought to…'

‘Hello? Hello, Monsieur le Préfet?'

The connection had already become unstable at the end of Saint-Nicolas, there had been hissing now and again and a few times he hadn't been able to hear the Prefect for a few seconds.

‘Dupin? -lo?'

‘Yes, Monsieur le Préfet?'

‘I – any more. I need to – information – absolutely the –.'

Dupin had taken another step. Successfully. The connection had dropped completely.

A few more metres and Dupin was standing on the flat accumulation of sand off Bananec, which had never even been designated an ‘islet'. It was another four hundred metres to Guiriden's sandbank which he had gone past yesterday, about the same distance again from there to Penfret.

Dupin looked around. It was an incredible panorama. He was standing on the remains of sand that the rising tide was relentlessly conquering. Standing in absolutely nothing. In the ocean. If he did a full turn, he could see the whole archipelago, no island hidden by another here. Today they all seemed inconceivably close. Almost crowded, lined up in a meticulous circle. As if they had rearranged themselves. The air was was tremendously clear.

Dupin could make out a boat that was clearly coming from Saint-Nicolas and seemedto be heading towards him. At first he'd thought it was making for the passage between Bananec and Guiriden, but it was making course towards him too plainly for that. It was a pointed, narrow boat. He recognised it now. It was the
Bir.
He saw Goulch on his raised captain's booth. The two young police officers in the bow. Dupin reached for his phone before realising that there was actually no reception here. Goulch signalled to him with both hands. After a brief moment of confusion, Dupin understood. Goulch wanted to take him on board and get him to the mainland.

Dupin had in fact intended to go into the
Quatre Vents
again. To see Solenn Nuz one more time. But maybe that wasn't a good idea. Perhaps it wasn't the appropriate time. He would need to speak to her again very soon anyway. Purely because of the formalities, because of the report. And the official statements. Dupin had sworn to himself yesterday never to set foot on a boat again. To travel only by helicopter from now on. But the advantage of the boat would be that he would be back quickly. And the
Bir
could drop him off exactly where he wanted, he wouldn't waste any time. And his interest in getting there, which was almost verging on a longing, was great. It was quarter past one. It would just about work out.

The dinghy had already been launched, one of the two young police officers was on board in his oversized tailored uniform.

Four or five metres from his almost-island, the little boat came to a stop. The police officer looked at him expectantly and politely. Dupin understood. This time he sat down for a moment, took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers – and strode without hesitation through the Atlantic. Two minutes later Commissaire Dupin was on board the
Bir.

Goulch nodded to the Commissaire, Dupin didn't know exactly what it meant, but it seemed to mean a lot. A profound understanding. Dupin nodded back with the same subtle, meaningful head movement.

Dupin was finding everything tough. This case. The ‘solution'. Even his own decision. The decision to leave it the way it had been presented to him. But which didn't correspond to the truth, Dupin was sure of it. Was that right? He thought about the old man. He thought about Solenn Nuz. About Nolwenn's words. That the Glénan were her kingdom. A magical kingdom. And about the fact that Solenn Nuz had had a dream, together with her husband. To live in this place. In
their
place. This dream had been brutally taken from her. For ever. What did Solenn Nuz deserve? She would be alone her entire life. One way or another.

Dupin was sure that he would be making things too easy for himself if he were to dismiss the question of what was ‘right' as the ‘wrong question'. After all it was a fundamental question, but perhaps it wasn't the only one? Or, there were two true answers. Perhaps he, Georges Dupin, was caught up in an impossible dilemma. They did exist.

Dupin realised how terribly tired he was. How utterly exhausted. So much so that even going by boat on the open sea on rough waters at top speed didn't bother him. He ought to stop brooding. In his state, that led nowhere. This case, he knew, would still be with him for a very, very long time to come.

The islands had been sharply outlined behind them just now, almost touchable and now, just a short while later, they were nebulous silhouettes, getting more and more blurred with every metre that the
Bir
covered as it sped away. He strained his eyes, scouring the horizon. Already, he could not have said whether they weren't just clouds over the sea that he was seeing – dust, hazy reflections of light on the brightly glittering sea on this silvery day. The Glénan had dissolved into infinite nothingness again. They had disappeared.

*   *   *

It was quarter past two when Dupin walked into the
Amiral.
He had walked down the long stone quay, where the
Bir
had left him ashore to the end with the large parking places, the picturesque old town and, on the other side of the street, the restaurant.

Girard was standing behind the counter, busy with an impressive knife and a paper-thin
tarte aux pommes,
the last of the lunch customers having long since moved onto dessert. He had seen the Commissaire immediately and called over one of the
garçons,
handing him the knife.

To his not inconsiderable relief, Dupin saw that his regular table was free. The table to the left at the back, right in the corner of the brasserie, from where you could see everything. The people in the restaurant, the people outside on the squares, but above all: the three harbours. The new yacht harbour to the right, the local fishermen's harbour on the left and the large open-sea harbour behind it. And between the harbours, the old fortress that had defied everything for five hundred years, never conquered by anyone, a large sundial fixed to the wall facing the
Amiral.
Underneath the sundial gleamed the words: ‘
Le temps passe comme l'ombre
' – ‘Time passes like shadow.' Sometimes it doesn't, Dupin thought, sometimes it stands still forever.

It was invincible, indestructible, this fortress. Everything about it conveyed that it would stand there forever. Dupin was glad to be close to it today. To have something so unshakeable to hold onto.

‘Exhausted? Are you done?'

Girard was standing next to him.

‘I'm done.'

‘Was it bad?'

‘The worst.'

Girard looked at him with a warm, undramatic gaze.

‘I saw – real dolphins.'

Dupin couldn't help smiling. He had more or less whispered this absurd sentence, but knew that Girard, even if he had heard it, wouldn't say anything about it.

‘
Entrecôte frites?
Red? The usual?'

‘Absolutely.' Something else occurred to him: ‘And before I forget: I have a visitor tomorrow evening. I could do with a table for two. Around eight or so.'