While one policeman spoke to Jane Mackenzie, two of his colleagues had paid a visit to the farm. The employees were completely in the dark about Mackenzie’s trip to Brittany, and also had no idea what their boss might have wanted in Port Belon; they didn’t even know about Cueff. What was also significant was that they were sure the farm had never done business with the Belon, or with any farm in Brittany, for that matter.

  A different topic had been more productive. The Scots were quick: they already had all of Mackenzie’s phone records from the last six months. From his landline and mobile. Almost entirely local calls and some to Glasgow too, to Oyster Heaven. No calls to France or Brittany, apart from the one to Cueff the previous Wednesday at four thirty (matching up with Cueff’s statement). Almost four minutes long. What was interesting was this: nine records of calls between Mackenzie and Smith, whose prepaid mobile they had also examined already. A call from Mackenzie three weeks before Christmas, then not again till the Tuesday of the week before last: half an hour, in the morning, an outgoing call from Smith followed by two more in the early evening of the same day, eight and fifteen minutes long, this time outgoing from Mackenzie. Then a call every few days, always around three o’clock in the afternoon, and two calls on the day before their trip, on Monday of this week. As if something had begun two weeks ago, that’s what it looked like—but what?

  Dupin had reached the corner of Rue de Kergariou and Rue du Sallé some time before.

  But Claire was not there yet.

  He looked around. Maybe she was in one of the shops. Some of Claire’s favorite shops were here in the narrow streets on the slope. The one with the kitchen towels, tablecloths, and pottery in every color under the sun; the bustling shop with the wonderfully silly knickknacks, objects that were made from other second-hand objects. A little bit farther up you came to the venerable lycée, the medieval city walls, enchanted gardens laid out in an interlocking pattern and labyrinthine paths. You could see it here: Quimper in its atmospheric, majestic beauty, its old charm.

  Just before Quimper, right after the long phone call with Riwal, Nolwenn had called. They hadn’t been able to talk for long. Dupin was deeply relieved: she was on her way back to the commissariat.

  She had given a brief update on Kadeg. Internal affairs had finished the inspection of the sites and also the sand deposits misappropriated by Kadeg. There were endless statements to write now. But then it would all be over. Nolwenn had learned in a call from the prefect that two men from Lorient’s “sand theft” special task force had been present for the inspection. And had apparently found everything “highly interesting.” The prefect had been in a very good mood. And had ordered that all information about these “unspeakable goings-on” be systematically pooled and that they now officially include Kadeg in the operation in order to deal a “devastating blow” to “these sorts of environmental villains” as soon as possible. It was ridiculous. But it made Dupin smile—the special unit would have some fun with Kadeg.

  There was still no sign of Claire. The commissaire—whose agitation was worsening by the minute—was walking restlessly to and fro.

  He was now standing in front of the display window of the knife shop he liked so much. The one with hundreds of hand-crafted pocketknives from the Cévennes villages that he had visited as a child with his father. Laguiole, Thiers, Perceval. Mythical names. Knives that you owned for a lifetime, that you inherited, from generation to generation. The way he had inherited his father’s little collection, fourteen completely different knives that his father had selected over the decades: with handles made of walnut, juniper, olive, cherry wood, ironwood, ash, oak, and beech. They had seemed magical to him as a child. They had decorations, symbols, and names like magic wands: Gwarlan, North Wind; or Aile de Pigeon, Pigeon Wing. Dupin had started to expand the little collection one day. He did so here too occasionally, in this shop, but mainly in the excellent fishing shop next to the Amiral, which carried an impressive collection and whose owner he liked very much.

  * * *

  “Georges! Over here!” a familiar voice suddenly cried out behind him.

  Claire sounded absolutely euphoric.

  She took his arm in greeting and pulled him with her.

  “You’re not going to believe it.” She headed up the road with him, toward the shop with the strange objects.

  Shortly before the shop, she turned left—into the small shop with the pottery.

  “Choose one. The one you like the best.”

  They were standing in front of an impressive shelf of bowls, little dishes in all kinds of shapes, sizes, and Atlantic colors.

  Dupin was dying to know what was going on. What was Claire doing here? On a normal Wednesday, a working day, in Quimper. She clearly hadn’t just got here, she didn’t have any luggage with her, nothing. What was wrong?

  “When did you arrive, Claire? Have you taken a little time off?”

  “Choose a bowl, Georges, go on.”

  She was being serious. He knew Claire. He wouldn’t find out anything until he had chosen a bowl. And until she felt the moment had come to tell him.

  His eyes roved along the shelf and came to rest on a classic, quite small bowl: opal blue with a beigey white on the inside.

  Claire picked a warm orange one.

  “They go perfectly together,” she declared.

  She took his bowl out of his hand, went to the cash register, and paid. Soon, they were back outside.

  “A little bit farther.” She pulled him on up the street, as impatient as before. “Any minute now, Georges, you’ll see.”

  Suddenly, Claire stopped in front of one of the old houses. A particularly beautiful one in a light yellow with pale granite stones on the sides and around the windows. She rummaged in her handbag. Then she walked toward the door. Dupin saw that she was holding a key in her hand. She opened the door and quickly went inside. She knew her way around. Dupin followed her.

  They went up to the second floor. Then Claire fiddled about with the door to an apartment, pushed it open wide, and gestured to him to go in.

  It was still not the time to ask questions yet—she would be the one to let him know what was going on here.

  A little hallway, a room to the left with a view of the garden. An empty apartment. Pale, old oak parquet. A second room facing the front, flooded with powerful sunlight shining right inside.

  Claire had gone into the second room. She opened the balcony door. On the narrow balcony there was a small, round marble table and two blue folding chairs with peeling varnish.

  Claire took the two bowls out of the paper bag and one of those stylish silver thermos flasks out of her handbag. She opened it and poured something into the little dishes that Dupin instantly recognized by its aroma, café au lait. Then she sat down in the chair on the right and looked at him, completely relaxed now.

  Still she didn’t say anything.

  Dupin sat down next to her, becoming more and more nervous by the minute. He looked around. The view was magnificent. Gorgeous old houses exuding tradition, soft colors, you could look up and down the Rue de Kergariou, see the bustle of people outside all the little shops; directly opposite, a rather wide alleyway revealed a view of the sky. Everything was wonderfully tranquil.

  Claire took a mouthful of coffee, then carefully put the bowl down. A smile flitted across her lips.

  “Welcome to my apartment.”

  She had said it perfectly matter-of-factly. With that typical smile that Dupin instantly fell for every time.

  “I … Claire—What?” He was struggling with what her words meant. “You’ve … That’s…” Dupin rarely stammered, but he did so now. “Claire, this is your apartment? Your apartment?”

  “Since five o’clock today. It’s more practical this way.”

  Claire always stayed with him when she came to Brittany; his apartment was big enough for both of them, even if Claire was staying for a few days. Weeks, if she wanted.

  It was clear that this was—in Claire’s opinion—a wonderful piece of news that she was revealing to him—although this wasn’t yet evident from Dupin’s reaction.

  “You’ve rented this apartment? For yourself?”

  They had already been over that much.

  “As I say, it’s much more practical!”

  This sentence didn’t help to clear up Dupin’s confusion.

  He took a big mouthful of the milky coffee—to hell with Garreg’s ban.

  “From here, I can get to the clinic in a few minutes. So I’ll be on time in the mornings. As is appropriate for the head of cardiology.”

  Dupin stood up abruptly.

  “You applied for a job here in Quimper, you looked for an apartment—you…” He waited a moment before he dared to say: “You’re moving here, you’re moving to Brittany!”

  Claire had also stood up. “Well deduced, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

  This was absolutely crazy. Dupin could scarcely believe his luck.

  Claire, the Normandy woman, the Parisian cardiologist, would become a Breton woman.

  “I thought I’d just give it a try,” she said firmly and clearly.

  Dupin pulled her toward him and kissed her.

  Claire loved to surprise him. She often did it. Although this time it was on a different scale. She hadn’t even vaguely hinted that she was considering this kind of step. Never. But this was what she was like, he knew she was like this. And he loved her like this. She was never afraid of a big decision if it was about creating the life she imagined for herself. We only have this one chance, Claire always said, it could always all go wrong. It’s so easy to be afraid of that and leave things as they are. It’s simple.

  This moment with Claire, on the balcony in the sun, a few meters above the hustle and bustle that seemed infinitely far away—this, Dupin realized, was definitely one of the happiest moments of his life.

  “I saw the clinic’s job listing two months ago, at the beginning of February.” Claire’s eyes sparkled. “I called the head of the clinic and then came for the first time a few days later. We agreed on everything three weeks ago. Then I signed. It all worked out perfectly, Georges. And I had a little bit of help.”

  This certainly explained Claire’s recent behavior. That she had come in the middle of the week, citing altered shifts and rhythms in the Paris clinic. And also sentences like “I just want to see what everyday life is like here in Brittany” ought to have given him pause.

  “I looked at the apartment last weekend,” she said, and smiled.

  Dupin’s mobile rang, interrupting Claire in the middle of her story. With a reflexive movement, he took it out of his trouser pocket. This reminded him that Claire didn’t know anything about the case—she didn’t even know there was a case. He had almost forgotten it himself over the last few minutes.

  Riwal.

  Now was absolutely not a good time, of course. This moment with Claire was too important. And no doubt she had made plans for the evening.

  Dupin answered.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve got the car, boss. The rented C4 from Brest. It—”

  Dupin was immediately focused. “Mackenzie? Is his body in the car?”

  Claire’s eyes widened.

  “No. But we have the car anyway.”

  “Where?”

  “On the secluded headland below Kerfany-les-Pins and Kerdoualen there’s an old road that goes into the sea. Not far from the Plage de Trenez. Somebody let the car roll into the Atlantic there.”

  One of the countless coastal roads that went right into the sea so that boats could be launched.

  “And no trace of a corpse?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.”

  It was going to be crucial to get their hands on the corpse eventually.

  “Other traces?”

  Dupin gave Claire an apologetic glance and went inside.

  “The windows are wound down, the doors are open. Somebody wanted to make sure that everything would be washed out of the car. It’s very effective.”

  “How was the car found?”

  Dupin walked on through the apartment. It really was beautiful.

  “Two divers. On the hunt for crabs and spider crabs. The season has started.” There was unalloyed joy in Riwal’s voice, but then he switched back into his professional tone: “A skillful perpetrator.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That we’re dealing with a competent perpetrator.” No doubt all terms from that infuriating psychological training course on the “Perpetrator Profile” last year, thought Dupin. In the months that followed, Riwal had rather tested Dupin’s patience with his “expert comments.” “The perpetrator knows the area. And not only that. They knew how to sink a car and hence remove trace evidence. Perhaps they also dumped the body there at the same time; we’re experiencing extreme tides at the moment, so the currents are brutal. If he did throw the corpse into the sea there, it will never come to the surface again.”

  Riwal’s reasoning was plausible. If somebody in Port Belon wanted to dispose of a car and a corpse in the sea and knew their way around, they wouldn’t start by driving around the Aven, through Pont-Aven, and back down again on the other side of the river. And they also would not drive farther along the coast toward Lorient, where it was difficult to get to the water. They would choose this exact headland. And another reason was that it was very secluded.

  “But how did the perpetrator get away again?” Dupin wondered aloud. The perpetrator must have needed to get back to the parking lot where—possibly—his own car was parked. A dark or red one perhaps. “A lone perpetrator would have had to walk back. Or at least to a bus stop.”

  “Kerfany-les-Pins would be the nearest stop.”

  “Tell our colleague from Riec he is to see whether there was a bus that stopped in Kerfany at around five thirty in the evening—and if so, ask the bus driver if he remembers the passengers who got on there. There and wherever else the bus stops nearby.”

  “If there were two perpetrators, one of them could have driven in Mackenzie’s rental car, the other in their own car. They could both have come back that way. And, someone who knows their way round that well probably wouldn’t have taken the risk of a journey on a public bus.”

  “Have it looked into anyway!”

  Any scenario or conclusion was possible; it was enough to make your head spin.

  “Trenez, Kerfany—you know those are the beaches where Kadeg suspects sand theft,” Riwal remarked in a deliberately offhand way.

  This had completely slipped Dupin’s mind.

  “And?”

  “That’s all. It’s an interesting coincidence.”

  Now and then Riwal could drive Dupin mad too. He just hoped that Riwal wasn’t falling victim to this obsession too. The commissaire ignored this.

  “Where exactly are you, boss?”

  Dupin had rather gracefully avoided this question from his inspector during the phone call earlier on the journey to Quimper.

  “I’m coming to Kerfany, Riwal. Wait for me there.”

  Dupin hung up.

  And went back out onto the balcony. Claire hadn’t moved. She was leaning back, her legs crossed, looking along the little alleyway. Relaxed.

  “You’ve got to go, Georges. Nab the perpetrator,” she said, and turned to him.

  It hadn’t sounded at all sarcastic, or angry either, Dupin realized with relief. Not even disappointed. She meant it exactly as she said it, he could see it in her eyes.

  She stood up, gave him a kiss, and left the terrace. “I’m going to take a bit of a look around my new town. I definitely need some new furniture, Georges. And I still need to drop into the clinic and discuss a few official things with the director.”

  Dupin suspected her working hours would no doubt be roughly as long as in Paris.

  “And then I’ll go and sit in the Amiral, okay? That’s how it works here, isn’t it?” Claire looked at him with her warm smile.

  “Exactly. That’s how it works.” Dupin returned her smile.

  “Just come when you’re done. Then we’ll have a drink together. And raise our glasses! I’ll cancel the reservation here in Quimper.”

  “I won’t be too late,” Dupin said quickly.

  His phone rang again.

  “Has the car disappeared, Riwal? Or what’s wrong?”

  “See you in the Amiral later, Georges,” Claire whispered to him, and vanished into the kitchen.

  “Tordeux’s house is on fire—his home, boss.” Riwal was almost shouting. “The house is ablaze, nobody knows if Tordeux was inside or not. Kolenc’s daughter called the fire brigade. She—”

  “What?” Dupin was standing there thunderstruck.

  “The fire brigade is on its way. Melen and I are already on the road too. Braz is staying at the site where they’re salvaging the Citroën.”

  “Is there a police officer at the scene yet?”

  “No. The call came in two minutes ago.”

  “Was it arson?”

  “We don’t know yet, boss.”

  “We need forensic fire experts. Immediately.”

  “I’m on it, boss.”

  “Where is Tordeux’s house?”

  “In the middle of the village. You can’t miss it. It’s on fire.”

  “I’m on my way, Riwal.” Dupin had already left the apartment and was running down the stairs. “See you shortly.”

  * * *

  His mind was racing.

  The probability that at this point in time and in this place, this was an accident, a coincidental fire—that Tordeux had maybe just forgotten to turn off the oven—was low. But still. It urgently needed to be investigated. If it were arson, that would change everything. Up till now he had intuitively assumed it was a “finished” crime. A brutal crime with two people dead, yes, but one that was over with and now needed to be solved. Arson would mean that events—whatever they were—were still taking their course, and right under their noses too. And on top of that, the matter would be much more complex than assumed and would probably involve more participants.

 

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