“He did what?”

  “He wanted us to have a prominent presence.” Nolwenn’s tone of voice signaled that she was just reporting what had been said—and also what she thought of the measure Locmariaquer had taken. “He has—”

  “We need Kadeg.”

  “He’s meant to look for joint business activities by Tordeux and Delsard in particular.”

  Deep breaths, he needed to take deep breaths—Dupin could almost hear Docteur Garreg’s words. Like a set phrase from autogenic training: “Breathing is one of the best techniques for controlling anger. It instantly reduces the acidity in the stomach.”

  “The prefect wanted to tell you himself just now. He was extremely annoyed, he claims you just hung up. There will be serious disciplinary consequences to that one day,” Nolwenn reported drily. “I’m also meant to tell you that he doesn’t for one second believe it was an accident, and he sees this attack as a direct response to the search he ordered at Delsard’s house. The prefect sees this incident as the ultimate confirmation that the core of this case relates to the sand theft. I’m to tell you that.”

  Dupin’s pulse was quickening dangerously.

  “These are extremely strange coincidences, of course”—Nolwenn spoke as if she were thinking out loud—“but they don’t have to mean anything. The attack on Tordeux could just as easily fit with the logic of a different matter. The matter you’re working on! Or it’s only to do with the Delsard sand theft affair. And nothing to do with your case. There could definitely be two unrelated cases.”

  For a moment, Dupin wasn’t sure whether Nolwenn was gently trying to get him to reflect—about whether he ought not consider the possibility of a connection after all.

  As he was silent, she carried on undeterred: “Riwal just called, before the news about Tordeux. There’s some new information. They’ve tracked down the co-owner of Oyster Heaven in Glasgow; apparently he has several homes. He doesn’t have the slightest idea why Mackenzie suddenly headed off to Brittany. Mackenzie did mention several times that he knew a Breton oyster farmer, presumably Cueff, but nothing about a forthcoming trip to Brittany. Or else the owner is lying. The bar has only ever sourced its oysters from Mackenzie’s farm, he says. All of the information at the Scottish police’s disposal makes him look nonsuspicious at the moment.”

  Here, fifteen hundred kilometers away, they had no other choice, thought Dupin.

  “Riwal has spoken to Mackenzie’s wife.” Nolwenn carried on with her report. “Everything she told Riwal matches what the Scottish policeman reported from the conversation. Apart from one thing: it does seem to her now as though her husband was behaving strangely now and again recently. He went out late at night a few times, which he had apparently never done before. He said he needed some exercise. And during work he sometimes left the oyster farm to make long phone calls. She thinks he had something on his mind.”

  “Since when? When did this start? Did Riwal ask her that?”

  “About two weeks ago, she says.”

  Dupin got out his notebook with one hand and leafed through it on his right thigh, the other hand firmly on the steering wheel. He soon found what he was looking for: Tues. 03/16, first call from S to M. That had been two weeks ago.

  It would bring back into play what had once been one of their theories: that everything had begun after a call from Smith to Mackenzie.

  “Anything else?”

  “No. The only other thing I was meant to tell you was that Riwal believes her. That Jane Mackenzie really doesn’t know anything. That’s his instinct.”

  That meant something: Riwal had a good sense about that kind of thing.

  “He ought to be with the director of the Shelter House by now. He’ll call you again soon,” said Nolwenn.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve got a few reinforcements so that Magalie Melen and Erwann Braz can delegate tasks.”

  “Thanks.” That was important, now that neither of his inspectors was available.

  “And I’ll inform the police in Cancale that you’re not coming. How do you want to handle Cueff?”

  A good question. Dupin hadn’t thought about that yet. The conversation was in fact extremely urgent. And he would really have liked to do it locally. And have a bit of a look around.

  “Cueff is to come to Port Belon, I’ll speak to him here,” he said.

  Of course this was not the ideal solution, but he had a feeling it would be important to stay in the vicinity. The story was not over yet, and its center was here.

  “I’ll see to that, Monsieur le Commissaire. I’ll call him. I’ve already spoken to him about your exact meeting point. I’ll send him the address. I’m sure he’ll want to assist the police with their investigations. And he might prefer you not to turn up at his farm anyway.”

  “Did you get him on a landline?”

  “Yes. An hour and a half ago, he was definitely in Cancale.”

  “Thank you, Nolwenn.”

  “See you then, Monsieur le Commissaire, I’m sure we’ll speak again soon.”

  * * *

  It had been a crazy journey. Dupin’s state of mind fluctuated between fury, bad temper, deep unease, and pent-up energy, and all of these feelings alike had made him floor the gas pedal. He had called Magalie Melen every five minutes during the drive to ask for news, and she had taken it surprisingly calmly.

  There were no witnesses to the accident so far. What they knew was this: Tordeux had been on his way to his warehouse in Riec—the orders were prepared and dispatched here—as he did every morning. Every morning, at the same time. Half past nine. Everyone from Port Belon knew this, they were aware of his habit.

  The star forensic investigator had personally arrived at the accident site a while before with his whole team, and so far they hadn’t been able to find anything unusual about his car. No discernible doctoring, no “second vehicle involvement”—no missile, no stone or anything like that—so far, Reglas considered “an accident” to be “very unlikely.”

  Tordeux had crashed behind a blind curve. It was definitely possible to lose control of a car if it was going too fast and there was a sudden distraction or irritation; an animal, for instance. As the crow flies, the accident site was less than a kilometer from Port Belon.

  The doctors in the hospital had said Tordeux’s condition was still critical, extremely critical. They had not managed to stabilize him yet. He had not woken up, his hip was shattered, as was his right leg, he had many deep lacerations, but the worst of all were his severe internal injuries. They had not been able to find any signs of medical reasons for the crash—a heart attack, for example—but the doctor in charge understandably did not want to commit himself definitively at this point.

  Shortly before he arrived, Magalie Melen had sent him a preliminary list of who in Port Belon had been where, and when, this morning. The most important list, Dupin felt. All interviewees had given plausible statements, but they were generally difficult to verify. Besides, if someone were to have caused the accident by doctoring the car, then it wouldn’t have happened this morning anyway, it would probably have happened the night before. This had been Tordeux’s first journey today, that much had been established.

  Dupin had parked his Citroën a few hundred meters from the site of the accident on the narrow strip of grass next to the road, well away from the cordon.

  Tordeux’s car looked horrific.

  It was hard to fathom that somebody had been taken out of this crushed scrap metal still alive. Dupin found the sight of accidents almost more difficult to bear than anything else. You could see the sheer physical brutality of the sudden forces at work, the speed, the masses, the crazily distorting or breaking steel—and the absolute defenselessness and fragility of the human body by contrast. If fate decreed that sheet metal or girders cracked badly, they sliced and cleaved whatever was in their way.

  Dupin had stopped a few meters away from the car; that was close enough. And also because he wouldn’t be able to stand a conversation with Reglas. Even now, almost two hours after the accident, there was a terrible smell. Of burnt rubber and plastic, charred paint and steel skidding across the asphalt. A sharp, aggressive stench.

  Dozens of people were standing around the car. Several police cars around the sides.

  Magalie Melen had noticed Dupin and was coming toward him.

  “Any new findings here?” Dupin said gruffly.

  “No. The press wants to speak to you, Commissaire, they turned up here early, they had had a tip-off about the search of Delsard’s house and were already in Port Belon. I sent them away. The prefect has announced a press conference for noon today. He—”

  “I know. Where’s L’Helgoualc’h?”

  Dupin wouldn’t concern himself with any of that. With the press or with who would now think, say, recommend, or demand what, where, or how. He would just keep following his nose, his instinct.

  “He got here half an hour ago and … disappeared into the wood.”

  “Into the wood?” Dupin looked round reflexively.

  “Yes, he had a look at the car, just briefly, and then disappeared into the wood.”

  This part of the road ran through one of the typical little woods, the Breton thicket.

  “Okay. I’ll drive into the village. And talk to some people. First up, Premel.”

  Melen nodded.

  Reglas had seen Dupin a while before, but pointedly turned away—the top pro didn’t want to be disturbed. The commissaire would do him the favor.

  “The forensic fire experts have been in touch. The way they were leaning has proved correct, they are now sure: it was clearly arson, from outside. Somebody set the fire. And definitely not Tordeux. On the back wall. Right down at the bottom where the wooden slats jut out slightly, they don’t reach all the way to the ground. They’ve definitively not been able to detect any fire accelerant. But,” his young colleague said in a practiced way, as if she had dealt with this dozens of times before, “with a wooden wall, it’s enough to place a small piece of burning wood underneath it.”

  So what they had been imagining was now confirmed. It had been a deliberate attack—just like today’s incident too, no doubt. Somebody had it in for Tordeux; it was good to be able to work with more than hypotheses.

  “A group of our colleagues from Quimper is already examining Tordeux’s residence and also the little building by the oyster beds. They’re also inspecting the data.”

  “Good, I want to know everything.”

  For a while, neither of them said anything.

  “Just briefly, about the Interceltic activities in this area, there are masses of them. Nolwenn has already told you, they go well beyond the annual preparatory meeting for the festival in Lorient. In Riec, we’ve discovered, there’s even a native Scotsman, the owner of the excellent fishmonger’s, and he regularly organizes a trip to Scotland. They go in a group of seven or eight, usually the same group, but never anyone from Port Belon. And no discernible connections to Mackenzie or Smith or anywhere in their area. You know about the druidic association, that’s fourteen people from Riec anyway, and Madame Premel from Port Belon. They often go to Scotland too.”

  “Okay.” Dupin was increasingly certain that this was the wrong track, but he noted everything down to be on the safe side; you never knew in this phase of a case.

  “There’s something I’m meant to tell you from Kadeg. He has cleared up two more things that you wanted to know. Nobody in Port Belon bought fresh cultures of European oysters from northern Scotland after the catastrophe in 2008. Only from Norway. The second thing: he has been looking into the monitoring and information system for seawater quality. There are several institutes, it’s an elaborate system. He thinks it’s extremely unlikely that someone could get relevant, exclusive information first, even through bribery. All of the institutions make their respective results public immediately and independently.”

  That was a dead end too.

  “Thanks. Speak to you soon, Melen.”

  Dupin turned away and was about to go to his car.

  “Come—have a look at this!”

  Dupin jumped.

  The deep, gloomy voice had come from off to the side, from inside the wood. Dupin’s muscles tensed. Magalie Melen had turned to the side in alarm too.

  A moment later, a man burst out of the thicket.

  Dupin recognized him straightaway: Brioc L’Helgoualc’h, with his usual surly expression.

  “Follow me.”

  Not waiting for a response from Dupin or Melen, he went back into the wood. Melen looked inquiringly at Dupin, and on Dupin’s nod, they followed L’Helgoualc’h, having to make an effort to get into the thicket at all without hurting themselves.

  Silent, a coureur des bois in his element, L’Helgoualc’h wove his way between the trees, suddenly making a sharp left turn and stopping a few meters farther on with no warning.

  At first, Dupin and Melen didn’t notice anything. It was only when they followed their colleague’s gaze that they saw a narrow path running through the wood at this point—not a very well-beaten path, but you could still make it out.

  L’Helgoualc’h knelt down.

  “Somebody ran along here after the last time it rained. These are fresh footprints, although there’s no complete print anywhere.”

  Melen and Dupin had also crouched down. L’Helgoualc’h pointed to a particular spot with one finger. They couldn’t see anything. Anything at all. Just forest floor. The tiniest twigs, dark leaves, moldy soil.

  “Obvious.” L’Helgoualc’h stood up and followed the path. Just a few steps and you were out of the wood. They now found themselves on the strip of grass between the road and the Breton jungle. They were right in the sharp bend, perhaps twenty meters from the accident site. Melen and Dupin had stopped right behind L’Helgoualc’h.

  Without saying a word, he turned around and went back into the wood. Dupin and Melen followed close behind. L’Helgoualc’h paused. He looked and then squatted again.

  “Somebody was standing here. For some time. And then left abruptly. No doubt about it,” he said, sounding pleased all of a sudden.

  “What does that mean?” Dupin felt an urgent sense of unease.

  “Look.” L’Helgoualc’h pointed out a spot with his finger again.

  Melen and Dupin crouched down again.

  And sure enough, it was visible now! A footprint. Two, in fact, close together, distinct, albeit perhaps only two-thirds of them. No tread marks. And along the top you could see the print indented in the soil, little sticks trodden into the ground, even more so on the right footprint than the left.

  Magalie Melen spoke in a measured way, although the conclusion to be made was really quite extraordinary: “You think someone could have stood and waited here until Tordeux was close enough for them to jump out of the thicket suddenly? And confuse Tordeux?”

  “All I’m saying is somebody stood here, then ran away. With some speed.”

  Quite a long silence followed.

  Melen followed her speculative scenario to its logical conclusion. “Tordeux would have had to swerve. He pulled the steering wheel round, lost control, and sped into the tree. The simplest method of causing an accident.” The young policewoman walked a few meters into the open air, looked to the left, and came back. “Beforehand, the perpetrator was able to monitor the road in peace from here.”

  Melen’s scenario was plausible. Absolutely plausible. That’s how it might have been. But of course it was still speculation, based on the interpretation of two-thirds of a shoe print. But still.

  “That won’t be enough for any court or public prosecutor. We need to find more,” grumbled L’Helgoualc’h. “I’m going to keep looking round.”

  Dupin and Melen watched him go.

  “Where does the path lead to?” Dupin was speaking in a low voice for some reason.

  “This is one of the hunting trails, I presume, they’re all over the place here. If you follow the path—it leads straight to Port Belon.”

  That’s what Dupin had figured.

  “I would li—”

  The monotonous beeping of his mobile seemed eerily loud here in the wood. He reached into the back pocket of his pants.

  Riwal.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not going to believe it, boss. This is seriously crazy, I have no idea what—”

  “Riwal!”

  “I drove to the Shelter House like you told me and had a look at everything here, including Smith’s personal belongings. There really aren’t many; in fact he owned almost nothing.” Riwal’s tendency to relay everything as a story increased when he was more agitated. “A handful of old photographs of people, none of whom are known to us thus far, some with captions. Everything in a little decorative wooden box, plus two fishing rods—very old models, three jumpers, two—”

  “Riwal, what did you find?” It was clear that the inspector was coming to something significant.

  “An old edition of Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Ebb-Tide, two well-thumbed crime novels, and … an edition of Piping Today, published on the sixteenth of March this year.”

  “Riwal, get to the point!”

  “Do you know Piping Today? It’s the leading fortnightly magazine about piping and everything related to it—about the culture and history of the bagpipes, the music, the technique, the immortal heroes—”

  “Riwal!”

  “Piping Today is also the official magazine of the World Pipe Band Championships. It does in-depth reporting on all of the qualifying competitions every year. This year included. In this issue there’s a comprehensive special section: a report about the regional heats.” Riwal was electrified now. “And obviously about the Brittany heats too. About the two days in Riec at the end of February. With plenty of photos.” He paused briefly. “To be precise, there are five photos from Riec from the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth of February. Kolenc and Tordeux are in one of the photos in the bagad from Riec.”

  “What?”

  Dupin had stopped in his tracks. This was unbelievable.

  “The band itself didn’t take part in the heats at all, but they helped to organize the fringe program. They played during the opening march through the village. A bagad from Riec and the surrounding area, and it’s not bad, it—”

 

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