The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 10
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
This did need to be cleared up, but the policeman was making Dupin’s blood boil. First wanting to declare Madame Bandol of unsound mind and now even suspecting her—it made him extremely annoyed.
“Whether Madame Bandol came from here or there doesn’t affect her statement on the corpse in any way.”
“It drastically reduces the overall credibility of her statements even further—and certainly raises more questions.”
“I think—”
The monotonous beeping of Dupin’s mobile sounded. Nolwenn. He took a few steps to one side without saying anything.
“It’s instantly recognizable, Monsieur le Commissaire! Shelter House!”
Dupin was slow on the uptake.
“We went through it, do you remember? It’s similar to the Abris du Marin.”
Nolwenn’s longer explanation didn’t help.
“The hostels and homes that Jacques de Thézac established in various Breton ports at the beginning of the twentieth century, to provide stranded sailors with a home, food, accommodation, and work. To rescue them from the clutches of alcohol.”
Dupin knew what the Abris du Marin were. One of the old hostels was right next to Henri’s Café du Port in Sainte-Marine, a beautiful building. Dieu—Honneur—Patrie was written in large letters above it and Dupin was deeply moved every time he saw it.
“And?”
“The tattoo! It’s the symbol of the Shelter Houses. The north Scottish counterparts of the Abris du Marin. Very well known, as is the symbol! There’s just an H missing on the tattoo—the arm looks badly injured. Good thing the man was already dead before the fall.”
“Tell me more, Nolwenn.”
This was so difficult to take in. Nolwenn could only just have received the photo. She had recognized it straightaway. And now—now they suddenly had their first real lead. And it possibly pointed to Scotland.
“It’s a Celtic sister association—there are close links between the Shelter Houses and the Abris du Marin.” That had been one of the big topics in Nolwenn’s Brittany lessons recently: “Intercelticism,” the connection between the regions of Europe where the millions of remaining Celts lived nowadays and who were finally bonding again. Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, the Isle of Man, and Brittany, they were known as the “six Celtic nations.” Millions of representatives of a three-thousand-year-old, enormous, proud, ancient civilization! Which, at its largest in the third century B.C., had taken up almost all of Europe (Brittany had been Celtic even in 800 B.C.). It stretched from the British Isles via Gaul, down the entire Atlantic coast as far as Spain and Portugal, and in the east, to the modern-day countries of the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia, Croatia, and Poland.
“We ought to contact them immediately, Nolwenn.”
“I was just on the phone to the headquarters in Thurso. They have hostels in Portree on Skye, in Oban, Drumbeg, Hope, and Armadale. Lots of sailors who live in the Shelter Houses have a tattoo like that.”
Nolwenn was fantastic.
“Are they all registered?”
“Yes. The current residents and the former ones too. Most of them come back every once in a while. Things are very personal, that’s the principle of it. I asked them to make inquiries everywhere as to whether someone is missing. I’ve also sent the photo of the dead man over to them already. The employee in Thurso didn’t know him, but that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Brilliant.”
Perhaps they’d be in luck. It was a real opportunity.
“I’ve got to go, Monsieur le Commissaire. The funeral. Poor Aunt Elwen. Otherwise she’ll be in the ground before I get there. I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything. The woman in Thurso has my mobile number.”
Dupin could see it now: Nolwenn at the grave, the shovel with soil in her right hand, the mobile in her left, that’s how it would be.
She hung up a moment later. Dupin stood there for some time, lost in thought. Then he turned with a start. Another car was approaching the parking lot. This time it really was Riwal. The inspector brought the car to a stop with a violent jolt. Dupin walked over to it. He was glad that Riwal was back.
Erwann Braz was clearly unsure whether to follow Dupin. At first, he walked a few paces in Riwal’s direction, but then for some reason he stopped and tried to catch Dupin’s eye. Unsuccessfully.
Riwal’s pride was clear to see—he seemed to have grown a little.
“The remedy for scurvy?”
“I … sorry?”
“It says in all the history books that James Lind discovered it at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In reality it was François Martin, a Breton pharmacist from Vitré, and it was in 1601! He was on an expedition to East India when a dreadful storm sprang up, the boats were drifting about, unable to maneuver. All of the sailors got scurvy, apart from the ones on his boat. He had given the seamen oranges and lemons to eat.”
“Congratulations, Riwal!” Dupin had phrased this too openly—a mistake, the story was not over yet.
“They were rescued by Dutchmen and the Dutch king asked the pharmacist if he could keep the secret for the Dutch navy. Out of gratitude for his rescue, he agreed.”
Dupin was getting impatient. “Riwal, a number of the first important clues have just emerged.”
Riwal’s facial expression changed instantly.
“Clues that could lead us to the identity of the dead man at the Monts d’Arrée,” Dupin said, and told him about Nolwenn’s discoveries.
“We need—” His mobile rang again. Nolwenn once more. Dupin imagined she was already in the car.
She launched right into it:
“Seamus Smith!” She had uttered the name like it was a sensation.
“A regular guest at the Shelter House for decades. In Oban. Sixty-two. Scottish. They recognized him in the photo straightaway. He—”
“We’ve got the identity of the dead man? We know who he is?”
Things were happening thick and fast now, and this was Nolwenn’s favorite speed.
“He moved back into the hostel last November. He set out very early yesterday, but didn’t tell anyone what his plans were. Much less that he wanted to take a trip. Apparently he didn’t take any luggage either. They noticed he hadn’t come back this morning. Which never really happens. He doesn’t have any family left. They were already considering reporting him missing. Nobody can understand how he got his hands on a plane ticket; he didn’t have a cent.”
“How … did this happen so quickly?”
“There was no witchcraft, Monsieur le Commissaire. My Scottish friend is very good.” Dupin could hear genuine respect in her voice. “She’s on the phone to Oban again right now. They’re trying to track down the director of the hostel, she wasn’t in just now. My friend has only spoken to the assistant so far.”
Their dead man was a Scotsman. Dupin had only been in Scotland twice, and that was a long time ago. In Edinburgh. He had really liked the city. He didn’t know Oban; only the wonderful whisky.
“What else do we know? Was he a fisherman?”
“Yes. But he hadn’t been at sea for many years now. Too much alcohol. Probably a screwed-up kind of existence on the whole. No luck. Casual jobs in fish markets, mainly at mussel and oyster farms. Only ever temporary jobs. We don’t know any more at the moment.”
“Oyster farms?”
“They have them on the west coast of Scotland too. Right up into the north! But now I really must go. My friend is going to call Riwal, I’ve given her his number. I might not have any reception at the cemetery. Has Riwal arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Have you congratulated him?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Nolwenn hung up.
* * *
Dupin put the phone in his pocket and placed both of his hands on the back of his head.
They had their dead man. One of their dead men. They knew his identity.
Although, it made everything even more mysterious for now. Why on earth did an aging day laborer from a Scottish backwater, who lived in a hostel for stranded sailors, leave Oban out of the blue one morning, only to then be murdered a few hours later fifteen hundred kilometers away in the Breton wilderness?
Dupin had—as he usually did while on the phone—been walking around without noticing. With no purpose in mind, no destination; it was almost like sleepwalking. When he hung up, he occasionally didn’t know where he was.
He had walked from the parking lot as far as the cliffs. Way out. Large, pale granite blocks rounded into whales’ backs over millennia, in the midst of thick, scraggly heather, a deep purple. The rocks were covered in lichen—neon yellow, bright orange, and bilious green areas in endless shapes—oval, oblong, round. Like ominous, enigmatic signs, ancient symbols.
Dupin took off his jacket. He was wearing one of his navy-blue polo shirts. It was really warm today, the sun hinting effortlessly at summer. A gentle, velvety breeze was blowing. One of those great Atlantic days, as Dupin called them, when the radiant, clear blue of the sky was everywhere. The sea seemed to want to show off its endless palette of blue shades too. Directly below him lay the turquoise bay. Far out there on the horizon there was a deep, rich blue to admire, while the horizon itself was a delicate, pale blue line. To the left was the Belon estuary; the Aven’s estuary to the right. You could see the bay, and on a small headland beyond it was Port Manech with its cozy harbor, the lagoon-like beach, the two tall palm trees at the front, and the small red-and-white-striped lighthouse.
The view was extraordinary. It was one of those days when a baffling optical phenomenon occurred. The air above the ocean acted as binoculars. Riwal had explained it to him once. At great length. But it was true. Faraway islands that you could usually only see the contours of suddenly seemed very close. You could make out several trees, sandy beaches, houses. So close you could almost just casually swim over.
Two large sailing boats were coming out of the Aven one after the other, and a green fishing boat was coming out of the Belon. Dupin’s gaze roamed farther out over the sea. Suddenly it snagged on something. Something dark was moving in the water. Not a boat. He briefly closed his eyes. Then stared at the spot again … gone! It was gone. He opened his eyes wide, standing there motionless. Was that Kiki? The direct relative of the great white shark? Perhaps it was just a rock that had been briefly exposed by the swell. In any case, there was nothing visible there now.
Dupin shook himself.
The new updates were significant. They had a lot to do. There were tasks to be delegated. Specific measures to implement, investigative steps. They needed to learn as much as possible about Smith as quickly as possible. But for a moment the commissaire was overcome by a strange feeling. Not the usual unease, tenseness, his typical restlessness. He was oddly relieved. Relieved that he could finally do something.
He was keeping an eye out for Riwal. Braz and his inspector seemed to have stayed in the parking lot.
Dupin walked back along the bumpy path he had taken earlier.
“Hello, boss.”
Dupin almost jumped. Riwal. But not from the direction Dupin was expecting. He was not far away and had called out unnecessarily loudly.
“Here, boss.”
Dupin turned and saw Riwal, Erwann Braz, and also Magalie Melen heading for the cliffs along a different path from the one he had just been standing on. Dupin turned round.
“We saw you’d walked to the cliffs.” Riwal knew that Dupin couldn’t stand being followed when he was on the phone. “I thought you—”
“There have been important developments,” Dupin announced firmly.
They had no time to lose.
They would have a discussion here on the cliffs.
Erwann Braz stopped in the middle of the path, unfazed. Riwal and Magalie Melen looked for a place to stand in the heather.
Dupin explained the extraordinary news in just a few words. And also his theory that the missing body from Port Belon was presumably the murderer from the Monts d’Arrée. That it would therefore all be one case.
It was clear all three were astonished.
Dupin had pulled out his little Clairefontaine notebook. “Smith must have flown. To Brest or Quimper, maybe. We need all the information on that, especially whether he traveled by himself.”
“I’ll take that on.” Riwal seemed to be full of energy, the triumph of passing the exam. “I’ll deal with Smith.”
“I want to know everything about him. Someone needs to speak to every resident of this hostel in Oban. To everyone he knew.”
Riwal nodded. He knew about the commissaire’s obsessions; he would want to know every little detail straightaway, no matter how insignificant it seemed.
“The police in Oban will be investigating now too. We need to make sure that they know our questions and ask them. You’re to establish contact with someone there as soon as possible, Riwal.”
“I’ll do that right away, boss.”
“And then I want us to make his identity public. And for the police to request the assistance—”
“I’ll take care of that,” Magalie Melen said quickly.
“Braz—you put in a call to the Monts d’Arrée. To the gendarmerie in Sizun. And inform both of our colleagues. Ask them whether they know anything about a Scotsman in the area.”
“Will do,” the policeman confirmed.
“Melen, send a sketch artist to Madame Bandol. They’re to produce a photofit image of the man she saw for us. There are a few new details. As soon as you have it, send it out too.”
Dupin had kept an eye on Braz as he was speaking.
“Who actually told us that Madame Bandol didn’t walk down by the Belon yesterday?”
Braz looked at the commissaire in astonishment.
“Matthieu Tordeux. One of the oyster farmers. He owns Super de Belon. A very successful business.”
“What was the man doing there when he supposedly saw her?” You could always turn the tables, thought Dupin. “He was obviously not far from the crime scene at the relevant time. What was he doing there?”
“I—I,” Braz stammered. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”
“You ought to. How did you come to hear about it?”
“Well, we did speak to everyone in the area about whether they noticed anything unusual yesterday.”
“And you didn’t think it was unusual that he was there himself?”
This was really a question that arose straightaway.
Braz squirmed. “I will speak to him immediately.”
Dupin turned pointedly to Magalie Melen. “Tell me about oyster farming in Port Belon. Who does what with oysters here?”
“Oysters?”
“Oysters.”
“There are four companies. The old Château de Belon, Madame Laroche and her family, she’s a descendant of the Breton founder of oyster farming. Then there’s Baptiste Kolenc, the owner of the second manor house, another old hand, he has been running the business Armoricaine de Belon for decades and he’s a friend of Madame Bandol.” The one who knew her secret, as Dupin was aware. “Then there’s Matthieu Tordeux’s farm. If you go down the ramp at the quay and then left along the high stone wall: the small white building there. And there’s a trader, Madame Premel, who also does refinement, affinage. Her farm is on the other side, toward the estuary.”
“That’s the entire oyster scene here?”
Dupin had been making notes.
It was relatively easy to get an overview of the oyster industry here in the world-famous oyster village.
“Only part of the oyster industry takes place in Port Belon, of course. In total there are around thirty companies on the Belon, most of them have their headquarters in Riec or right next to the production line at the river, they—”
Dupin’s phone beeped.
Magalie Melen broke off and looked inquiringly at the commissaire. He glanced at the screen and picked up.
“Where are you, Kadeg?”
“I … there is … there is still an issue after all, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Kadeg seemed even more subdued than this morning. Even more pitiful. This didn’t sound good.
“One moment,” Dupin said, and turned around. “Everyone is to get in touch as soon as they have anything.”
Then he set off. Back toward the cliffs. “Go ahead, Kadeg.”
“I’ve … there’s sand on an undeveloped piece of land belonging to my wife near Lorient. From various beaches. Including from Kerfany-les-Pins and Trenez beaches.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had to offer the building firms samples. We needed to convince them.”
Dupin could see why Kadeg was feeling pure fear. What he was saying amounted to no less than the fact that he really had stolen sand. Irrefutable in the legal sense too. It was enough to make Dupin tear his hair out.
“You assured me earlier that you hadn’t done anything illegal. You—” Dupin broke off. This was absurd, he had been naive, he ought to have known better.
“How much, Kadeg, how much sand?”
“A reasonable amount. I—”
“You’ve lost your mind!”
Kadeg couldn’t control himself any longer. “They are unscrupulous crooks. They are destroying the beaches, entire biotopes that Brittany…”
Dupin had never seen Kadeg as a committed ecologist or patron saint of Brittany before. This must have been his wife’s influence. But right as Kadeg might have been about the issue—that wasn’t what mattered.
“Kadeg! Do you realize what you’ve done?”
Getting him out of there would be really complicated now. But they had more important things to do! After Nolwenn’s intervention, Dupin had hoped it would be over.
“I’ll say you knew nothing about the … sand samples, of course.”
“Nonsense. Then you’ll be in a real mess.”
“I can’t drag you into it any further.”
Dupin was almost impressed. This was not Kadeg’s usual style.
“You’re an idiot, Kadeg. Is that clear? A complete idiot.”
Kadeg was really just the terrier he always was. He had sunk his teeth right in.
