The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 31
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
You could really see the water flowing down the river, not gently and sluggishly—but powerfully, urgently, with speed, lots of eddies, the Atlantic reclaiming the masses of water it had lent the countryside. Like a breath in and out. The Aven was about a hundred meters wide at this point; it broadened into lakes a little bit upstream and downstream, like on the Belon at Madame Bandol’s house. Dense woods turning pale green lined the banks. It was incredibly tranquil. The twittering of birds, water sounds and boats knocking together, everything muted.
Dupin poured himself another glass.
There were boats in the middle of the river on round, white buoys. Motorboats and sailing boats with their towering masts bobbing restlessly back and forth through the current. On the opposite bank, Kerdruc’s handful of elegant houses towered into the air, liberally scattered and ringed by magnificently flourishing botanical gardens. There were huge stone pines there. The sun would set between them later. It wouldn’t be much longer now; the sun had already moved part of the way toward them and was bathing the water and everything on the Aven in soft golden light. There still was not a cloud to be seen—the sky was a delicate pastel blue.
Dupin came here a lot, often with Claire; the Bistrot de Rosbras had become one of his favorite haunts. Mostly they just sat here next to one another, a glass of wine in hand, and stared, not talking. Watching birds, boats, eddies, the moving sun. Or not even that: simply getting lost in the atmosphere of the place and the moment.
“What’s wrong, Georges? You look angry. And exhausted.”
Dupin jumped.
Claire was standing directly beside him.
She must have parked the car upstream.
“I was just distracted. I’m not…” Dupin trailed off.
What could he say? Claire knew him.
“Have you eaten anything yet?”
“No.”
“And when did you last have something to eat?”
Dupin waved her question away.
“You’re crazy, Georges! But at least you’ve had something to drink.” She looked at the glass and smiled. “Very good. As a doctor, that’s my urgent order!”
Claire sat down. Every single strand of her Normandy blond hair was shimmering in the warm light.
“I’m starving too.”
Dupin loved that about Claire: that she could be famished and then really ate accordingly too!
Marie must have heard Claire. She had come out to welcome her.
“We need to eat something, Marie. The Breton fish soup for me and then the parmentier de canard. And the gâteau breton. And some oysters to start—twelve. I’ll have a glass of white wine with the oysters and then the red too!”
Dupin could hardly bear his hunger once Claire ordered.
“And for me too—everything. Just no oysters!”
Marie disappeared with a smile.
The parmentier de canard was simply divine here, creamy mashed potato with braised, deboned duck, tender and aromatic.
It would do him good. Give him strength. And much more importantly: it would be wonderful to sit here with Claire and eat. And forget everything he couldn’t get his head around—for this evening, at least. Dupin got out his mobile. He pressed the Off button for three seconds. A gentle vibration confirmed it.
“I’m officially suspended from the case. The case that doesn’t even exist anymore. Officially, it’s considered solved. The prefect was in Port Belon in person and arrested the criminal—but this man has nothing to do with the murders.”
Even these sentences had been difficult for Dupin. He had no idea how he was meant to explain the absurd affair in a few sentences, and more crucially, he didn’t have the strength.
“I can’t be bothered anymore, Claire. The case is over.”
“We’re just eating now, Georges. And drinking wine, nothing more,” she said, and she meant exactly that. She poured some more wine for him, then herself.
“Yec’hed mat. To us!”
“Yec’hed mat, Claire.”
Dupin drank.
He could already feel the effects of the wine on an empty stomach. In his head, in his body. And was glad. And he was also glad Claire wasn’t making a fuss about his situation. She knew that this would be the most helpful thing for him.
“I decorated the whole apartment today. I’m going to take almost nothing from Paris, no furniture.”
That was typical of her. Decorating an entire apartment in a single day.
“The hospital director has asked whether I can operate again tomorrow. It’s an interesting case, but I said no. I’m not going to risk missing your party.”
The party. That was all he needed.
Dupin had clean forgotten. It was the last thing he was in the mood for right now.
A moment later, Marie was standing in front of them with the oysters. Fresh bread on the side.
Claire expertly set about the delicacy straightaway; European oysters, the plates. She drizzled some lemon on top, detached the meat with the little fork, rested the oyster on her lips and slurped, then chewed, rapt. Dupin already had a piece of baguette in his mouth. And a large swig of wine.
It did him a world of good.
“I’ll be able to eat them every day again. Like when I was a child. It’s terrible; once you try them here, you can never eat them anywhere else.”
Dupin had to smile. Although he couldn’t understand this when it came to oysters, he did know exactly what Claire meant. It was true of everything here: the fish, the mussels, the crabs, the lobster, everything that the local fishermen hauled out of the waters off the coast of Brittany. It all tasted not just slightly but entirely different from the seafood in even the best Parisian restaurants. Here, a fish tasted of what it was, it had its own delicate taste, its own special flesh—with every additional hour of transport and storage, all fish started to taste identically bland.
“I saw a basking shark, Claire. Right in front of me. He only eats what oysters eat, those tiny plankton particles. Not us.” Dupin was silent for a moment. “Or, if it does, it’s only by mistake.”
Claire gave him a quick, perplexed look.
“Kiki.” He emphasized both of the i’s longer than he meant to. “And Charlie. A Toulouse goose.”
Dupin realized his thoughts were wandering. Moving nimbly into the distance and he couldn’t do a thing about it.
He stretched his legs out. Slid back slightly.
“Have one.”
Claire had detached an oyster with the fork; the flesh was swimming in the little pool that had formed in the half shell.
“I’d rather not.”
Claire wouldn’t be put off.
“With a little vinaigrette for beginners.” She drizzled vinaigrette onto the oyster and held it out to him again. Gave him an encouraging look. With sparkling eyes.
“I’d rather not. I…” Dupin paused.
Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea. He was a little nervous about seeing Docteur Garreg at the party the next day—at least if he ate this, he’d have stuck to one of the instructions. Most importantly: if they were so tremendously healthy, specifically for the stomach—real medicine, the cure par excellence—maybe it really would be worth a shot. Perhaps it would help.
Claire was about to eat the oyster herself.
“I’ll eat it,” Dupin said quickly.
It had sounded incredibly dramatic. He reached for the wineglass and took a large mouthful.
He was ready.
“Good for the stomach. Doctor’s orders.”
All of a sudden, he took the oyster from Claire, tipped his head back—this wasn’t about being elegant—and slid it quickly into his mouth. Remembering Riwal’s words about how to eat an oyster, he chewed quickly and swallowed. The whole thing had taken less than five seconds. He had been so on edge that he hadn’t tasted much. And yet: it hadn’t been bad. The little that he had tasted—mainly fresh, salty, iodine-laced water—hadn’t tasted that bad at all.
Claire looked genuinely amazed. Dupin had to laugh.
He topped up his wine.
“The soup.”
Marie was standing beside them, holding a tray with two deep, steaming dishes. Dupin was glad that the soup put an end to any more fuss about the oysters.
“It’s very hot.”
Dupin loved the thick, aromatic scent of the Breton fish soup, and also the ritual. You took the croutons, spread rouille on them, very liberally, or Dupin did anyway, placed them in the soup—they floated on it like little boats—and sprinkled it with grated Gruyère that melted on the dark, creamy soup. The flavor was unique, there was nothing like it. It was the sea, in concentrated form. A strong, well-seasoned taste, combined with the slight sharpness and freshness of the rouille.
Marie had disappeared yet again.
“Your first oyster. I’m impressed.” Claire had said this sincerely, but with a little wink.
“So am I.”
The soup tasted as good as it smelled.
They ate. Without saying a word.
Dupin’s thoughts began to intertwine in strange ways and form large, wide curves. That’s how it felt at least. The whole golden world was starting to form large, wide curves.
The commissaire reached for the wine with a smile.
* * *
A handy little police Peugeot came round the bend dangerously fast. It braked below the terrace, right in front of their table. So hard that its tires screeched.
A moment later Magalie Melen leapt out of the car and was standing in front of Dupin.
It had happened ridiculously quickly.
“Nolwenn. She’s got some new information. You should call her straightaway.”
Dupin didn’t know how to respond. Marie, who had just brought a new bottle of wine for the duck, and Claire were watching the scene like something out of a play.
“I…” Dupin sat up straight, which turned out to be an awful lot of effort. “I am suspended. I mean, already suspended. I can’t. How did you know I was here in the first place?” He did his best to pull himself together. Proper, coherent sentences were required.
“Nolwenn said you’d definitely be having dinner. She made a few calls; this bistro was actually her top tip but it was busy the whole time.”
“And what does she have? What does Nolwenn claim … I mean, what news … new information?” Not an elegant sentence.
“I can’t say. She wanted to speak to you personally.”
He was no longer in a fit state. And he was fed up.
“Not this evening, no.”
He had spoken clearly and firmly. The effects of the wine weren’t audible.
“Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow morning.”
Depending on the kind of information Nolwenn had, he would then still be able to have a think. If he wanted. And he absolutely didn’t think he would. With a clear head—if …
Claire didn’t say a word.
“Are you sure?” Melen wasn’t giving up yet.
“Yes.”
It felt right.
Melen made a skeptical face.
“No, then. I need to get back, I left the prefect’s ‘big compulsory debrief’ after Nolwenn got hold of me. I said I felt a bit ill. I understand, Commissaire,” she sounded sad now, “I really do understand.”
She turned round, got into her car, skillfully turned it around on the jetty in three moves, and soon she had disappeared.
Within seconds, the languid peace of the area was back. The scene had been like a fleeting nightmare.
Dupin was still sitting bolt upright.
He looked at Claire.
Something inside him had tensed up at Melen’s final words.
He couldn’t.
Not like this.
At that moment, a smile appeared on Claire’s face.
“Go, Georges. You can’t not.” She laughed loudly. “You held out for a hell of a long time. So go! I love you.”
Dupin couldn’t help but laugh too. He started to feel dizzy a moment later and held on tight to the table.
He reached for his mobile, nearly sweeping his glass off the table with his elbow.
He turned his phone on. He realized that he was excited.
Nolwenn’s number.
She answered straightaway. Without saying hello.
“I’ve got something extremely interesting, Monsieur le Commissaire. I did manage to get access to quite a few of the three men’s documents via some connections of mine.”
He never asked what “some connections” meant. Nolwenn had countless contacts, including quite a number of unusual ones. Like a private detective in a classic film noir.
“And what do … the documents say?” The wine was still in his head, despite the excitement.
“I have all three high school diplomas. Cueff’s in Cancale. Kolenc’s also in Cancale. Tordeux in Brasparts in the Monts d’Arrée.”
“In the Monts d’Arrée?”
“And the birth certificates, again for all three of them. But here’s the thing: for two of them, I have a series of other documents from the time in between. But in just one case: nothing. Nothing at all! Not a single document. There is nothing to be found. As if the man didn’t exist in the meantime.”
Dupin had goosebumps. He didn’t know whether it was the wine or the tension.
“I then called the local school authorities and asked about him. He doesn’t appear on any school register or any list. Despite having a leaver’s diploma from there. There’s just this one document, he never attended the school by the looks of things. The document is a forgery, Monsieur le Commissaire! There was no—”
“Who is it, Nolwenn?”
Dupin had stood up abruptly. Hitting the table hard. The wine bottle had tipped over onto his plate.
“What is it, Georges?” Claire sounded worried, hastening to put the bottle back again.
Nolwenn uttered the name quickly and matter-of-factly.
Their perpetrator.
Dupin stood there, thunderstruck.
But it was correct.
It had to be him.
“I’ll … be in touch, Nolwenn. I’m leaving straightaway. Straightaway … I think I’ll arrest him.”
Dupin hung up. He was trying to stand up straight.
Claire had stood up too.
“You can’t drive anymore, Georges.” She got out her purse and put some money on the table. Marie was nowhere to be seen.
“I’ll drive!”
Dupin wanted to protest. But when a fresh wave of dizziness hit him, he decided against it.
Claire had already rushed over to her car.
Dupin ran after her, mindful of every step he took.
* * *
The sun hung low, the shadows had lengthened. It was dark in the small woods they drove through. The vast rapeseed fields in between flashed brightly in the last of the light.
One more bend and they were at the parking lot in Port Belon. Claire and Dupin had been silent for the entire journey. There was a strong, palpable tension.
Dupin had been doing his utmost to concentrate. He got the feeling the last few glasses of wine were only really having an impact now. He absolutely had to clear his head.
“A bit farther. Drive beyond the parking lot.”
Claire nodded.
Dupin wanted to park directly outside the door. For various reasons. He mainly wanted to avoid having to walk all the way down the street because then he would be seen. The good thing was that nobody knew Claire’s rental car. In his own car, he would have been recognized immediately.
Claire drove at a walking pace. Dupin waited until the last moment.
“Now. Here.”
Claire stopped the car. Pulled the handbrake. Dupin opened the door, which elicited a loud, metallic clang. He’d hit the wall of the house.
Claire, already halfway out of the car, didn’t react in any way. Dupin didn’t say anything either. Instead, he climbed awkwardly over the gear stick onto Claire’s seat, hitting his head twice in the process. He got out on her side.
The cool air felt good, although it made little difference to the state Dupin was in.
“Here.” He made straight for the wooden gate to the inner courtyard. Opened it. It wasn’t closed this time either.
“Do you have your gun, Georges?”
“No.”
Without any further explanation, he stumbled across the yard with its fine gravel and stopped in front of the door.
He ran a hand through his hair, expelled all the air from his lungs, and breathed in again. Then he rang the bell. Claire said softly, “Georges, wait! I can’t come in with you,” but he barely noticed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then there were a few noises. As if furniture was being moved. Footsteps. Light footsteps.
The door opened.
In front of them stood Louann Kolenc.
Her blue eyes flashed when she saw the commissaire. She was otherwise inscrutable. She had tied her black hair back in a plait and was wearing a pale gray V-neck pullover and jeans.
“May we come in, Mademoiselle Kolenc?”
Dupin pulled himself together as best he could.
Louann Kolenc looked grave, but there was no trace of hostility or defensiveness.
“Come in. We’ve just sat down to dinner, my father and I.” She led the way through a dark, narrow hallway. “I take it you’d like to speak to both of us.”
Dupin and Claire walked into a cozy room that might once have been the manor house’s kitchen. There was now—along with the aging kitchen furniture—an old wooden table in the middle of the room. A lamp with a plain, pale-colored shade hung over the table, giving off a faint, warm light. On the table: a large pot, a baguette, plates, two wineglasses, a bottle of red wine. Through a west-facing window you could see intertwined oak trees and the Belon amongst them, shimmering a golden color in the light of the setting sun.
Kolenc was sitting at the table. Composed. Calm.
He looked at Dupin and Claire without malice. But he did not greet them. His daughter sat down.
Dupin and Claire had stayed by the door.
They were silent. A long, incriminating silence.
It was some time before Dupin took half a step closer to the table. He made an effort to get his voice under control, but didn’t manage it. It started to crack. Quietly.
