The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 25
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
“The photos, Riwal! The photos!”
“Madame Bandol and Kolenc’s daughter are in the background. Madame Premel is in another photo with her family at the side of the road. In the crowd. Kolenc is playing a set of bagpipes, Tordeux is playing a bombard, they’re both marching in a large group. I have the photos here in front of me.”
“Photos of Kolenc, Premel, and Tordeux, as well as Madame Bandol—at a music competition in Riec?” Dupin was still standing rooted to the spot. “In a bagpipe magazine that was amongst Smith’s few personal belongings in northern Scotland?” This beat every previous insane thing. “A photo that Smith highly likely saw? That’s crazy.”
“Not really, boss. Everyone interested in piping reads the magazine—in other words, all of Scotland. This issue belongs to the residential home. They have subscriptions to several magazines and newspapers and they’re available in the common room, I’ve just looked. Most of them are about fishing, boats, and Scottish music, which mainly means the bagpipes. You can take the magazines back to your room for a day and night.”
“What does the article say? Something about one of these people, are they mentioned?”
“Nothing like that. Just a general report about the competitions, and that presumed it would be another victory for Quimper. And a few longer touristy articles. About the landscape, the people. A separate article about the oysters, the famous Belons. But that was also on the general side, no particular farm is mentioned.”
This magazine, these photos that Smith had seen—it could have set everything in motion. The logical conclusion was this: Smith had seen someone he knew in the photos. One person or several. That must have triggered everything. The whole fateful incident, the chain of events.
The magazine was from March 16. The first call from Smith to Mackenzie had taken place on that exact day. Smith had seen it and then got in touch with Mackenzie. Although Dupin had no idea why. This much was certain: it was the first direct, irrefutable connection between the two Scotsmen and the people in Port Belon.
Dupin’s thoughts were racing. This was exactly what they had needed. A success like this. It was clearer than ever there was a coherent story! And it had nothing to do with sand theft or with a shady building contractor.
“And there’s really nothing else of relevance in this article apart from the heats and the bagpipes.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll scan it as soon as I can and send it to you. The resolution on my mobile isn’t good enough. Or this would be much easier: have someone get you a copy of Piping Today from Riec, you’ll get the magazine quicker that way. There’s a very well-stocked Maison de la Presse there, I’m sure you’ll find it there.”
“Okay, Riwal. Talk to the director of the Shelter House again, and to Smith’s friend. I wonder if he mentioned anything that could be related to the photos. Show them the photos! And Mackenzie’s wife is to see them too.”
“Will do, boss.”
Dupin hung up and looked around for Magalie Melen. She was standing a few meters away and seemed to have been on the phone too, because she was just taking her mobile away from her ear.
“News, Commissaire!” The young policewoman strode firmly up to Dupin. “Cueff was lying! He did leave his house the day before yesterday! He was seen in a supermarket, the big Leclerc on the first roundabout, around twelve forty-five.”
“Really? Who saw him?”
This was also significant news.
“A woman who farms oysters. He was standing at the meat counter.”
“And she’s absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
It was unbelievable. How stupid or brazen did Cueff have to be to risk this lie? If he had been in a supermarket, he must have known about the danger of someone having seen him. Stupid, brazen—or on the defensive, in trouble.
“That means”—Melen did the calculations again—“if Cueff left Cancale around one P.M. the day before yesterday, he could have been in Port Belon at three P.M. His wife and son saw him at home at eight thirty, so he had until six thirty in our vicinity. Three and a half hours.”
That would have been enough time to do everything. Yes. But Cueff was definitely not the person who attacked Tordeux. He hadn’t set the fire yesterday evening or lain in wait here in the wood this morning for Tordeux. But he could nevertheless be involved.
Melen seemed to have read Dupin’s thoughts. “Our colleagues in Cancale have spoken with the organizer of the écailler competition and emailed him a photo of Madame Premel. The organizer says that if Cueff and Premel both actively took part, it’s extremely unlikely that they didn’t meet, impossible really. But he cannot remember seeing them together. Cueff knows the organizer, of course. However, it’s unlikely that Tordeux and Cueff saw each other at this association meeting in Cancale—there were a hundred and fifty participants. Cueff, according to his own statement, was only there for half an hour, which several people were able to confirm.”
“Did Tordeux stay the night in Cancale?”
“No, he went back to Port Belon afterward. In his car. Nolwenn hasn’t been able to reach Cueff yet, by the way. She has just left him a message that you can’t come and that he should get in touch urgently. Our colleagues in Cancale are aware.”
“Nolwenn is to try him at regular intervals.”
“She is.”
“I want to grill him as soon as possible. And I’ll speak to Madame Premel.” Dupin was not concentrating fully; his mind was still on the photos and the Piping Today issue.
He relayed the news to Magalie Melen in concise sentences.
“So, first and foremost we’re assuming a direct connection between Smith and someone in Port Belon, whatever kind of connection that might be,” Melen said.
Dupin nodded thoughtfully. “Would you do me a favor? Could you get me something from Riec…” The commissaire hesitated and changed his mind. “No, never mind. I’ll do it myself.”
It wouldn’t be very far. And he wanted to see this article quickly.
Magalie Melen looked inquiringly at him.
“I’m just going to get myself the current issue of Piping Today quickly.”
* * *
Having propped himself against an old waist-high stone wall in front of the Maison de la Presse, Dupin was engrossed in the magazine. He was right on Riec’s central square, an impressive church towering up in the middle of it, and not far from the wonderful bakery. The sun was showing off its springtime strength, pretending it had been shining the whole time and was guaranteed to keep shining for days.
Dupin had already started to read the article while standing at the cash register and had stumbled out of the shop, still reading, after two minor collisions with mobile newspaper stands. The friendly owner had run after him to give him his change.
He still couldn’t believe it. It was too strange. There they really were—in photos in a Scottish bagpipe magazine: the residents of Port Belon, almost the entire oyster scene. Photos that Smith had clearly stumbled across; it was at this point that speculation came in, but there was no other way to make sense of it. And then because of these photos, Smith—presumably because he recognized someone—contacted Mackenzie. Many phone calls later, the fateful Brittany trip had happened.
“Shit.”
It didn’t make sense.
Kolenc’s bagpipes were scarlet and looked like they were made of a heavy velvet material. Tordeux’s bombard looked like a long recorder but with a bulge at the bottom like on a trumpet. Both were wearing black pants, white shirts, and forest-green waistcoats.
Madame Bandol was wearing a dark red dress with a blue bolero and was standing in a small group on the edge of the crowd. A little way behind her, in conversation with a young woman whom Dupin didn’t know, was Kolenc’s daughter, Louann. In another one—there were five photographs of the festival in Riec in total—you could see Madame Premel at the edge with her family. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself, and absolutely everyone looked cheerful. Dupin was fond of Breton festivals.
There really was nothing significant in the article—lots of touristy tips on the place and people. The only thing that caught his eye was the note at the end about the local piping club in Riec, along with an address.
Rue du Presbytère. Dupin knew it: there was always a small market there on Wednesday and Saturday mornings, where, alongside fresh seafood and other local specialties, Isabelle Barrette sold the very best cheese in France. The road branched off directly from the main square.
Dupin thought it over quickly. It was worth a try. It was almost half past twelve. Maybe he’d be in luck.
He rolled up the magazine and started to run.
It was even closer than he had expected: number 78 was practically right on the square. It was one of the pretty old stone houses, just two stories, whitewashed.
A weathered little plastic sign hung next to the doorbell. Amis de la musique celtique/Bagad Belon.
Dupin rang the bell. Twice in a row. Nothing happened.
He rang again.
Still nothing.
So he wasn’t going to get an answer. He would ask Erwann Braz to stop by later.
“Bonjour, can I help you?”
Dupin spun around. A youngish man with a beard was standing behind him. He was wearing a plain jacket in difficult-to-define brown shades. Dupin knew the man. He didn’t know where he knew him from, but he had seen him before. Not that long ago.
“Georges Dupin—Commissariat de Police Concarneau. Are you one of the … music friends here?”
“You’re in luck, I’ve just closed the bank, lunch break.” He got a key out of his bag. “Jean Danneau, head of the center here, and Sonneur en chef of the Bagad Belon,” he said matter-of-factly but not without some pride.
Then it came back to Dupin: “You’re the chief druid from the clearing!”
He must have been a very busy man. Today, in broad daylight and far away from woods and clearings, the beard, which had lost some of its magic even after the ceremony, looked completely ordinary to Dupin. It was neither long nor white. Hard to believe.
“And Nolwenn Premel collected you from the meeting yesterday. How can I help you?”
The chief druid and bank clerk, despite having the key in his hand, made no move to open the door. He looked inquisitively at the commissaire.
“Baptiste Kolenc and Matthieu Tordeux, they are both members of your group.”
“Do you think there’s a link between the bagad and Tordeux’s accident?”
As always, word of the events had spread quickly. It didn’t surprise Dupin. The miraculously instantaneous spread of news was an ancient and fundamental cultural technique for Bretons; they didn’t need “new media” for it.
“We just want to build up a picture.” Dupin couldn’t have expressed this more vaguely, but that was exactly what he wanted. “Tell me about them both.”
“Kolenc comes regularly, he’s one of our most loyal members. Tordeux doesn’t come often anymore. But when he does, he’s enthusiastic. He’s good on the bombard. You need strong men for it!”
“Is your group in touch with anyone in Scotland? Do you travel there now and again?”
“Oh yes. We visit a piping band in St. Andrews, in the northeast. Every two years. They come to us too. And sometimes to the festival in Lorient too. Not every year, but every two or three years.”
“And Tordeux and Kolenc are always there, on the trips, I mean?”
“Kolenc is never on them. He says he can’t leave his farm unattended. Tordeux, I have to think about that one.” He pressed his lips together and briefly closed his eyes. “No, I can’t remember him coming along in recent years. But if the Scottish band comes here, they’re usually there. Those are some very fun evenings.”
“Do Kolenc and Tordeux have any particular bonds with anyone in the Scottish group? Do you know of any friendships?”
“No. Monsieur Kolenc is an introvert, a quiet, important figure in Belon oysters who keeps to himself. I don’t think he makes friends quickly. Tordeux acts the smart, self-confident raconteur and will chat to anyone, but I don’t know of any close relationships.”
“How long have the two of them been members of your group?”
“A very long time. I’m the third Sonneur en chef they’ve had. More than thirty years, I’d say.”
“Do you do other things together as a group—apart from music?”
“Just music. It’s about the social aspect too, of course.”
“But your club doesn’t do any other activities?”
“No.”
“Madame Bandol, Madame Premel, and Kolenc’s daughter—do they have anything to do with the bagad?”
“They’re enthusiastic audience members. The Premel family is, anyway, in spite of the ex-husband. They’re always there. The first time I saw the actress was at this event. Mademoiselle Kolenc comes every once in a while but not regularly.”
“But Madame Premel was never a member or came on trips?”
“No, never.”
“At the heats in Riec—did any unusual incidents take place? Did anything out of the ordinary happen?”
“What do you mean?” The chief bagpiper seemed anxious now.
“Anything odd that you can recall?”
“No. We had two distinctly pleasant days. Very quiet.”
“Piping Today did a report on those two days here in Riec, did you see their team?”
“A journalist and a photographer, yes, they spoke to me briefly.”
“Do you know anything about them? Where they came from?”
“No.”
“Then thank you, Monsieur…” Dupin’s memory for names was disastrous, time and time again.
“Danneau.”
“Right.”
“Is Matthieu Tordeux going to make it?” Danneau sounded genuinely concerned.
“We don’t know.”
“I really hope he does, we’re terribly shorthanded on the bombards. It would be a heavy blow.” He seemed to think it over. “But of course I especially hope so for his own sake.”
He hadn’t made much of an effort with this afterthought, but he clearly didn’t feel bad about it.
“Well then, I hope to see you at one of our performances sometime. It will be worth your while!”
The head bagpiper turned to a postbox to the right of the front door with his key. “I just wanted to pick up the post.”
“Au revoir, Monsieur … Danneau!”
Danneau smiled in a friendly way, a very friendly way.
Dupin turned away with mixed emotions. Somehow that was all very interesting, but yet again, it was extremely vague. However, the commissaire was still certain that they needed to keep at this, despite not being able to say why.
He went back to his car, tired, worn out. He yawned a few times, really yawned, which he didn’t often do. Dupin had considered getting himself another coffee at the bakery earlier. In the objective interests of the case and the investigations! He would have gone ahead and done it but his stomach didn’t feel at all well. A sharp, occasionally severe pain had been bothering him at regular intervals all day. Ever since that one little coffee that morning that hadn’t counted.
* * *
As Dupin left the parking lot and headed on foot to Madame Premel’s farm, he felt a strange mood coming over him.
The idyll of Port Belon had disappeared—the village suddenly seemed menacing. The atmosphere was eerily frantic. There was a squad car in front of each of Delsard’s and Tordeux’s houses, three police cars in between them, and a fire engine still in the driveway of Tordeux’s house.
Two police officers were patrolling the parking lot, inspecting everyone approaching the scene. No doubt this was an order from the prefect (who had just called again, but Dupin hadn’t answered).
The commissaire picked up his pace.
Down by the quay he saw a sign, a discreet one by the roadside: Huîtres fines/Nolwenn Premel. He turned off.
Dupin had tried to get hold of Riwal from the car. It had been busy.
He tapped the number again.
“Boss?”
“Riwal, there’s something else I urgently need to know.”
“Yes?” Riwal knew this line from the commissaire only too well.
“Research who wrote the report and who else came to Riec at the end of February. I know of a journalist and a photographer. Maybe there were more. A group of Scottish friends of piping?” This should obviously have been researched already.
“Will do, boss. I’ve just spoken to the director of the home and to a few residents. Nobody knew anything about this article or about Smith having read it. The director said he often took the magazine Piping Today back to his room, along with an angling magazine. She doesn’t know any of the people from Port Belon. He never spoke about this village or about Brittany at all. But she could vaguely recall that a long time ago, twenty or twenty-five years ago, Smith played in a piping band himself. He played the bombard—there was a small band in the Shelter House back then.”
“Not anymore?”
“No.”
“Tordeux plays the bombard too. Now and again.”
“Speaking of a long time ago, it appears that Mackenzie and Smith were involved in the same robbery. I’ve found that the place and year match. So they would have had a common criminal past. That kind of thing binds people together for life, even if you’re not friends and don’t actually even see each other anymore.”
It would explain a thing or two. Mackenzie had apparently managed to build a relatively successful, honest life, and he had obviously felt responsible for Smith.
“Does Madame Mackenzie know anything about this holdup at the bank?”
“She has never said anything about it. It was a good eleven years before she got to know him. I’d understand if he were to have kept it to himself.”
While they were talking, Dupin had arrived outside a rather dilapidated stone building on the edge of a little inlet of the Belon.
