The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 15
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
“Right now you’d pay a million for a business like mine.”
“Do you own other businesses? Or shares in businesses? In Port Belon, for example?”
“No.”
“And the name ‘Seamus Smith’ probably doesn’t mean anything to you either?”
“No.”
“That’s it for the moment, Monsieur Cueff. Just one more thing: where were you when Ryan Mackenzie’s call came through?”
“At home.”
“A landline call?”
“I barely use the landline. A mobile call.”
“Were you home alone?”
“I was working in the office. Yes.”
“Nobody saw you?”
“Not till that evening.” The displeasure in Cueff’s voice grew again and he didn’t try to hide it. “When my wife and son came in around half past eight.”
“Thanks very much. We’ll be in touch again soon.”
No response from Cueff. Dupin didn’t wait long. He hung up.
It was just a few more meters to Tordeux’s farm.
The same outsized sign as at the quay hung resplendent over the entrance to the building: Super de Belon.
Dupin dialed Riwal’s number and he answered on the first ring.
“Boss?”
Dupin launched in with no preamble. “This man from Cancale, Nicolas Cueff. Speak to the police in Cancale. We need information about him and his business activities. Anything we can get access to. And I want someone to go over right now and talk to him in detail. They should have him tell them everything in meticulous detail, every aspect of the conversation with Mackenzie. Go over his alibi with him again. And most importantly: the policeman who is with Mackenzie’s wife is to ask her specifically whether she knew about her husband’s plans to invest in Cueff’s oyster farm. And in particular, about how he had apparently just taken up this idea again and called Cueff because of it last week—it would certainly have meant quite a large financial investment.”
“All right, boss.”
“Riwal, is Nolwenn back?” It made Dupin nervous when Nolwenn wasn’t in the office during a case. Her presence didn’t just mean great help and support, but also moral and psychological stability, and also a kind of superstition that everything would turn out well.
“The funeral meal ought to be over soon.”
“Thank god,” Dupin blurted out. “See you soon.”
* * *
The river had risen again slightly, the channel widening. Right next to Tordeux’s building was a long oyster pool. Next to that was a bright red tractor, the shovel facing upward, just above the ground. Two men in the apparently obligatory yellow oilskin pants were busy loading large red sacks full of oysters onto the shovel. Dupin strode up to them, wading through deep mud again. His shoes would not dry out again today.
“Monsieur Tordeux?”
They clearly hadn’t heard Dupin coming, both men turning round with a start at the same time.
“Inside,” said one of the two men with a vague gesture. A moment later they were fully focused on the sacks again.
Dupin turned on his heel without saying a word. The door—which was more like a gate—was standing wide open.
“Monsieur Tordeux?”
Not waiting for an answer, Dupin went inside. A sparse room stretched out in front of him. The walls had been roughly plastered and whitewashed in days gone by, becoming brown and gray. The room was crammed with junk and mountains of oyster sacks in untidy piles. In the far right-hand corner, which you could only get to by walking in a zigzag, he spotted a crude set of wooden steps that looked like the result of DIY carpentry. There was a single small window, the light was mainly coming through the open door.
“Up here.”
Monsieur Tordeux had taken his time with his response.
Dupin worked his way over to the stairs. The steps were twice as high as normal steps, so it was practically mountain-climbing.
Everything was different upstairs. The contrast was enormous. You were suddenly standing in an exquisite designer room. Luxuriously furnished. Windows on three sides—the largest looking out onto the river—and most importantly, an enormous skylight made of aluminum that showed off a considerable amount of sky. Next to the large window with the river view, a snow-white table stood in the middle of the room. It looked expensive, with an equally expensive stainless steel lamp on it, a large flat screen, and an elegant white chair behind it. There were two chairs in front of the table. Perfectly fitted steel shelves on the walls, white paneling. In the other corner of the room was a black leather sofa with a low, matching coffee table.
“Monsieur Vannec?”
Tordeux didn’t stand up till the last second and was now walking purposefully toward Dupin, holding out a friendly hand to him. Medium height, slim, lightly tanned, short black hair discreetly gelled back, a silvery shimmer on the sides, an elegantly narrow face—perfectly shaved—dark gray slacks, light gray shirt, gray tones that went too well with his hair to be a coincidence, three shirt buttons open, studiously casual. Perhaps late fifties or even early sixties; it was hard to say—he had stayed young without appearing to be making a desperate effort to do so.
For now Dupin didn’t intend to clear up the obvious misunderstanding, letting Tordeux talk.
“You’re absolutely right to come to me. Belon oysters! There’s nothing better! It’s great that you found us okay. We’ll make you an excellent offer. Do sit down!” He pointed to one of the two chairs.
The expert approach of a shrewd salesman. Dupin stayed standing.
“Commissaire Georges Dupin—Commissariat de Police Concarneau.”
Tordeux looked surprised for just a moment and then smiled in amusement. Self-assured.
“I was expecting a new customer. A restaurateur. He was meant to be here at five,” he replied, “but of course it’s a pleasure to welcome the police too.”
Dupin was not in the mood for joking.
“Do you maintain business links to Scotland, Monsieur Tordeux? To Scottish companies?”
“To our sister nation?”
Dupin did not answer.
“Yes, with a trader in Edinburgh. And a farmer in Dundee.” Tordeux spoke in a pointedly casual way.
“Edinburgh and Dundee?”
A hit on the first try. Scotland, two links. Albeit eastern Scotland.
“Yes.”
“One of your business partners is called Ryan Mackenzie, I take it.”
It couldn’t hurt to give it a try.
“Ian Smollet. That’s the name of the trader in Edinburgh. I sell our delicious plates to him. And James MacPhilly is the farmer in Dundee—I refine his oysters into superb Belons. I see them both, I’d say, every two years. The business is worth it. Edinburgh is a fantastic city, they cultivate an exquisite flavor there!”
Dupin had fished his notebook out of his pocket. “You don’t know a Ryan Mackenzie, Monsieur Tordeux—I’m asking you straight out. You’ve never met him? Never heard of him?”
“Definitely not.”
“He was the victim of a murder yesterday, very near here.”
“So it’s true then. There’s been some unsettling news going round since last night. And you mislaid the corpse. That must be seriously annoying for you.”
“Seamus Smith? Do you know him?”
“Same thing. Never met him, never heard the name.”
“And your trader and your farmer—are they in contact with one of them?”
“You’re kidding me! Do you think I know all of their business partners? Who are these two gentlemen you’re asking about, are they oyster farmers too?”
“One of them is, yes. Ryan Mackenzie.”
“My partners aren’t accountable to me. And just for context: I maintain business relationships with sixteen European countries.”
“And how long have you had ties to Scotland?”
“Twenty years, I think. At least twenty years.”
“Was either of the two—your Mr.,” Dupin checked the names, “Mr. Smollet and Mr. MacPhilly—here in Brittany recently?”
“Most recently, I saw them both at the beginning of last year. In January and March maybe. They were here briefly. There’s nothing more to tell.”
His answers came very casually.
“But you’re in touch regularly? By phone, email.”
“You don’t give up—what are you actually trying to get at?”
A smug smile suddenly flitted across Tordeux’s lips. For a split second.
“I’m investigating. So?”
“Of course we stay in touch. There are regular deliveries. The trader gets a shipment of plates every two weeks. The farmer sends me quite large quantities of his oysters twice a year. And I send them back to him.”
Again, it was like water off a duck’s back with Tordeux.
“Do you fear the outbreak of an oyster infection here in the Belon, monsieur? That the catastrophe from Arcachon will spread as far as here?”
“We’ll see.”
He didn’t seem surprised by the question. He didn’t seem worried by the topic at all. Or he was hiding it very well.
“Is there talk of that round here yet?”
“Ask the others. I’m certainly not talking about it.” Tordeux’s eyes flashed suddenly. “Who supplies the commissariat in Concarneau with oysters? I’ll make you an unbeatable offer.”
Dupin wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a joke.
“I hear you’ve just bought and expanded a farm near La Forȇt-Fouesnant?”
“That’s right. And two years ago in Cancale. Yes, you’ve got to position yourself well strategically! And business is good. If you work hard for it.”
“And why so extraordinarily good? We’re talking about significant investments here.”
Tordeux looked Dupin right in the eye. “We’ve increased turnover here by a factor of twelve in ten years. Increasing year on year. And we’ve saved capital.” He spoke in a pointedly calm voice.
“Pierre Delsard. The building contractor. A good friend of yours, apparently. You supply him with oysters and mussels.”
“A very good friend. And a very good customer. Yes.”
Dupin felt it was almost provocative, how willingly Tordeux gave information.
“Monsieur Delsard didn’t go into business with you, by any chance? As the financier? A silent partner?”
The answer came promptly; Tordeux didn’t betray any emotion: “No. I do my own thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” he said, and burst out into loud laughter.
“Financially, is your business based more on farming or refinement on the whole?”
“Refinement.”
Dupin glanced at his watch. He would need to get going soon.
“And now for the most important question, Monsieur Tordeux.” Dupin paused for a few moments, as if he was waiting for something. “What were you doing yesterday at the scene of the crime at the time that it was happening?”
The question caught Tordeux by surprise—there was a flicker of shock on his face.
He made a big effort to make his tone breezy and sarcastic. “So that’s how it is. I’m your suspect. I would never have thought you capable of so much humor—Parisians are normally more on the grumpy side.”
“That’s right, Monsieur Tordeux,” Dupin said sharply. He was fed up with the rhetorical dancing around. “I alone decide who is under suspicion. You’re absolutely right to worry. So?”
“Oh, so you can be a bit more aggressive. I’m glad. That’s important in your profession. So, my official statement for the record: I own a gîte rural, a kind of guesthouse, inherited from my aunt, around a kilometer from the parking lot, and there’s only one way to get to it: via the road with the little dead end to the parking lot off it. I came via that street. A completely legal action, as far as I know. Around four forty. Because I had something to do at the gîte. And I saw old Madame Bandol with her dog. She was coming up the path from the Belon. And that was it. As befits an upstanding citizen, I accurately reported this to the police when a colleague of yours asked me whether I had by any chance been in the area in question at the time in question and whether I happened to notice anything.”
“To summarize: at the time of the crime you were at least in the vicinity of the crime scene. What did you need to do in your gîte, monsieur?”
“I was expecting guests.”
“And you do all of that yourself?”
“Of course I’ve got someone who looks after the building.” Tordeux was acting almost indignant. “Making the beds, cleaning, and so on. But there are things I need to do there too.”
“Do you have many guests?”
“There could be more, if I wanted. I just do it on the side. I mainly rent to friends and acquaintances.”
“And what were these things that you had to do?”
“I had the key.”
Dupin had been thinking more of the heating or something along those lines. “The key?”
Before Tordeux could respond, the commissaire carried on: “We’ll get in touch again very soon, Monsieur Tordeux. Then you’ll tell us the rest. A colleague will speak to your guests too.”
Dupin turned around and headed for the stairs.
“I’ll be here.” Tordeux seemed completely calm, not a trace of irritation. “And have another think about the supply to your commissariat. Your festive occasions, receptions. There must have been plenty of them since you’ve been there.” This didn’t sound sarcastic in the slightest. “I make the best offers. Real Belons!”
Concentrating hard, but moving quickly, Dupin climbed down the neck-breaking steps.
It was 5:45.
Outside the exit, he could see a short, dumpy man approaching the stone building, keeping close to the wall and wearing an ugly pale yellow suit. Making an effort not to get too close to the mud. It looked ridiculous. Presumably the restaurateur whom Tordeux was expecting.
Dupin hurried on.
He could see Riwal at the turnoff for their command center. The inspector noticed him too, although Dupin had been trying hard to scurry past.
Riwal immediately rushed over to him.
He got started before Dupin could even say that he really didn’t have the time right now.
“Boss, the policeman who drove over to Mackenzie’s wife has just called, we spoke in depth. Our colleagues—”
“And?”
“Jane Mackenzie has confirmed she didn’t know what her husband was doing in Brittany. She—”
“I’ll call you from the car soon, Riwal, I mean, straightaway, in a minute.”
He wanted to hear the details of what the Scottish policeman had to report from this conversation.
“From the car?”
Dupin hadn’t told anyone about his “field trip” to Quimper.
“In a minute.”
“There’s more important information, the phone records belonging to—”
“In a minute, Riwal. I promise! Tordeux has two Scottish business partners, by the way. In Edinburgh and Dundee. An oyster farmer and a trader. Have them checked out by the Scottish police, Tordeux is to give you their contact details. Find out whether they were in touch with our two Scotsmen.”
Dupin was already walking on, but he turned round again briefly.
“And work out where I can find this trader. Tonight.”
* * *
It was 6:37. Dupin was almost on time. And nervous. Why was Claire acting so mysterious?
He was already at the Place Laënnec that he liked so much, at the imposing cathedral. He would be there any moment now, at the corner of Rue de Kergariou and Rue du Sallé, a little cobblestoned street with quite a steep rise to it—hilly, medieval Quimper had a good number of them—with old houses in shades of pale beige, ochre, and gray that made the light glow in an atmospheric way.
Riwal had been reporting to him in great detail for almost the entire journey.
The conversation between the policeman from Tobermory and Mackenzie’s wife had ended up taking a long time; the policeman had had to stop a few times. Jane Mackenzie had been in a miserable, nervous state.
She definitely didn’t know of her husband having any business ties to Brittany. Her husband had apparently spoken to her about the idea of getting into business with Cueff, but her impression was that this had remained vague. Most importantly, she had had no idea that her husband got in touch with Cueff last week or that he was considering this issue again at all. Mrs. Mackenzie didn’t have much of an overview of the business or finances. She outlined the history of the farm for the policeman in broad brushstrokes, including various attempts and plans for expansion, along with the setbacks. Apparently it was indeed the great oyster death in 2008 that led to the sale of the other companies, combined with the poor economic situation. The Mackenzies’ company had experienced many highs and lows. Her husband dreamed of building something big, and despite all of the adversity, never gave up. Ryan Mackenzie had told his wife he was going to drive to Glasgow and possibly stay overnight—and he really did have a meeting with his business partner that he had arranged three weeks ago. They had found an email in Mackenzie’s outbox canceling it with no explanation. It must have happened in the days leading up to that: something in Ryan Mackenzie’s life that made him—along with Smith—plan the fateful Brittany trip. Something that possibly began with the call from Smith.
According to Jane Mackenzie, Mr. Mackenzie was a “good man through and through.” Riwal had noted several phrases and read them out: “introverted, honest, and had no enemies.” She couldn’t—it was always the same old story, Dupin had heard it often enough—for the life of her imagine that he would have been caught up in something bad. He had had trouble with alcohol when he was young, but not for a long time now. She had got to know him when he was thirty and she was twenty-two. Jane Mackenzie had confirmed again that Smith and her husband, as far as she knew, hadn’t known each other well. That her husband had felt “somehow sorry” for him and gave him work now and again.
Dupin had wanted clarifications and more details, even asking questions as if Riwal were Jane Mackenzie. It had quickly descended into the ridiculous.
