The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 8
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
“The man was wearing jeans. Definitely. He did have very short hair, dark brown or even black, very dark!” She was still speaking with urgent speed. “And shoes with birds on them. Or a bird, it might only have been one. It was a jacket, not a coat! Not as long as a coat. And it was dark green. As I said! Dark green! I saw it clearly last night.”
“You saw … it clearly at night?”
“Everything. I saw everything. In my dream.”
“In your dream?”
“Oh yes, I saw it crystal clear!”
Dupin was hesitant. “You dreamed it?”
“I see everything in my dreams. And everything that was gone earlier.”
“You mean that in your dreams, you remember things that you’ve forgotten?”
“Heaven knows I do! So, note everything down exactly as I said in your little red notebook. I only use Clairefontaine notebooks too, by the way.”
“I … anything else, Madame Bandol? Did you dream anything else?”
“That was rather a lot.” Her intonation was stern, but Dupin was already used to it. “Taken together, a pretty decent picture is emerging. You can work with that. It should be enough for identification. And then we’ll know more!”
“I think—”
“You ought to pass the information on quickly, Commissaire.”
Dupin still didn’t know what to say. He pulled himself together.
“I’m going to do that, Madame Bandol. Soon.”
“Fine, keep me up to speed, then. And the man in the photo, there’s no way that was him, it’s out of the question. Your young colleague, she’s standing next to me here. I’ve already told her. That photo doesn’t get us anywhere. It might also be a fresh corpse—but it’s not mine, anyway! Speak to you soon, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
She hung up, leaving Dupin bewildered. He rubbed his temple.
The waiter brought over a small bottle of water that Dupin had only ordered out of sheer desperation that he wasn’t allowed another coffee. Even the waiter had looked at him oddly—and initially forgotten to bring it, not all that surprisingly; drinking water didn’t have a good reputation in Brittany, for health reasons. Bretons said it caused rust—“l’eau ça fait rouiller, l’alcool ça conserve!” Dupin poured himself some anyway and got out his notebook. He had immediately started again this morning, from the back and upside down. For the Monts d’Arrée. The commissaire added a few things.
He was just finished when his phone beeped again. The prefect. He really was serious.
“Yes?”
“As always, you cannot be reached when you’re needed, Commissaire.”
Dupin had learned how to have phone calls with the prefect in recent years without them inevitably ending disastrously. First of all, in the irritable phase, it was best to say nothing. Then Locmariaquer carried straight on, you just had to let him speak.
“Always the same. But there are more important things right now. It’s about Kadeg. Your inspector. We have a problem.”
Suddenly Dupin was paying attention. “What kind of problem?”
“We have reasonable suspicion of criminal activity. He is accused of being involved in conspiracy to commit sand theft on the Plage de Trenez. The commissariat in Lorient let me know. They have initiated disciplinary proceedings against him; the most senior authorities are involved. The commissariat has been on the trail of a criminal ring for months, undercover, and they have the preliminary evidence. With support from Paris. They—”
“What’s Kadeg meant to have done?”
“They steal sand, in large quantities, simply transporting it away during the night, he—”
“This is utterly absurd. Nonsense, absolute rubbish,” Dupin interrupted the prefect. “About Kadeg, I mean.”
“There’s evidence. Photos of Kadeg systematically reconnoitering the beach at night. On nights when he wasn’t on duty, mind you. Wearing dark clothes. With a female accomplice.”
“An accomplice?”
This was getting more and more ridiculous.
“He conspired to establish contact with some building firms under a false name, in order to offer consignments of sand. The evidence is comprehensive and has come from the last three months. It’s serious.”
Unbelievable. It sounded like their colleagues from Lorient had set up an elaborate undercover operation.
“Of course he did. He…” Dupin was stupidly getting into difficulties. How was he meant to explain to the prefect what he had spontaneously suspected: that in his sand theft obsession, Kadeg had been investigating single-handedly and outside of his work hours?
“He’s in serious trouble, Commissaire, and he’s your guy, we’ve got to—”
“Of course Inspector Kadeg is investigating entirely on my orders, Monsieur le Préfet. Undercover.”
Dupin surprised himself with these words. He hadn’t thought it through, he had just felt himself getting angry. Kadeg was definitely many things, including insufferable, but he was absolutely not a criminal. The accusations were ridiculous. And the inspector was part of his team; Dupin took that very seriously. If circumstances got tough, it didn’t matter how great any personal differences and antipathies were.
“You … he … you mean to say, he…” The prefect struggled to compose himself. Dupin’s words had thrown him. “What are you talking about?”
“We’ve been working on the subject of sand theft in Concarneau for some time now too. We were obviously alarmed by this business on the beaches in Kerouini and Pendruc. Kadeg was doing some specific investigation, especially on the Plage de Trenez.” Dupin had to risk a few shots in the dark to sound credible and cover as much as possible of whatever else Kadeg might have done. “He inspected suspicious sites and activities for us incognito outside of his official work hours. I ordered it.”
“And who is this female companion?” Unfortunately this question put Dupin in an extremely difficult position. “He came to the beach in the middle of the night on numerous occasions, with a woman, half covered up, you can only see her hair.”
Dupin kept improvising. “A disguise. He took a woman with him so that it looked as if they were a couple in love.”
Dupin suspected that she was, speaking of romance, Kadeg’s wife, the police martial arts teacher from Rennes—but he preferred not to say anything.
“You don’t believe that yourself. Why was I not in on it?”
“We still only had a vague level of reasonable suspicion.”
Dupin was partly taken aback, because he had always assumed that the prefect had a soft spot for the overeager inspector, who was always obsequious to him, and because he enjoyed using Kadeg as an extension of himself. Now he was dropping him like a hot potato. It spoke volumes, it was a question of character.
“I ordered everything, every single thing,” Dupin insisted—there was nothing for it but to forge right ahead. He just hoped that Kadeg hadn’t done anything too idiotic in his sand theft mania—in all honesty, he feared the worst.
“You’ve just made that all up!” The prefect remained strangely calm as he said this.
“As you can see, Monsieur le Préfet, we were right all along. There was obviously something to our suspicion.”
Although it didn’t really matter right now: Dupin was stunned that Kadeg’s obsession had apparently had a kernel of truth to it.
“We will of course listen to what Inspector Kadeg has to say in his defense. He is being picked up by a squad car right now, in the Monts d’Arrée. They’re taking him to a hearing.”
“They’re having him picked up?”
“The accusations need to be clarified. It’s out of my hands now. The sooner, the better. And if the situation is as you say, then he has nothing to be afraid of anyway.”
Kadeg, picked up by a squad car, on the way to a hearing in serious disciplinary proceedings—Dupin could not believe it.
“We have more pressing matters right now anyway, Commissaire! What’s all this with the corpse in the Monts d’Arrée? And the one in Port Belon yesterday? That then disappeared again?”
Dupin would have to call Kadeg immediately. He wouldn’t get anywhere talking to the prefect right now.
“We’ve only just begun the investigations in the Monts d’Arrée. Two hours ago.”
“And you don’t know anything yet, I hear.”
“No. But everything’s been set up. We’ll have preliminary findings soon.”
“Good. That’s what I want to hear. The press is already making an enormous fuss. It says ‘The Body in the Hell-Bog’ on the internet.”
“It wasn’t in the bog. It was underneath the Roc’h Trévézel.”
Luckily Dupin wasn’t aware of anything in the press. But they would obviously have a field day over this. And when he thought of the hiking group alone, there were plenty of people who would happily tell their stories.
“On the topic of Port Belon, the headline says: ‘A Corpse—or No Corpse?’ And it says that even the police themselves aren’t sure whether there was a serious crime there yesterday or not. I don’t need to tell you these are not the headlines I’d like. I’ll have to make a statement, you know, I have a responsibility.”
Dupin had to force himself to remain calm.
“We’re assuming there was a crime. Yes. In Port Belon too.”
The prefect remained silent for a while. Dupin let him.
“Good. Then I expect you to solve it quickly! And the business in the mountains too. And, Commissaire: this Kadeg thing—don’t get carried away! Be careful!”
Dupin didn’t intend to respond.
“And stay in touch! Do you understand? You’re going to get in touch regularly. That is an order. Now, I have a more important meeting to get to.”
A moment later, the prefect had hung up.
Dupin was dumbfounded. The craziness continued unabated. One crazy thing merrily followed another. And they were getting increasingly serious.
What on earth had Kadeg been thinking? The trouble was, Dupin could answer that question himself. Kadeg would have become increasingly worked up over this sand theft theory. Sunk his teeth right into it like a terrier. That’s what happened.
What was equally incomprehensible was this: Dupin may never have been able to stand that commissaire from Lorient, but they had never had any serious run-ins. A squabble here or there, but nothing more. Why hadn’t he simply called Dupin? Then they would have been able to work it out at the beginning. And been able to speak to Kadeg.
The commissaire gave himself a shake. Now was not the time for questions like this; there were more pressing matters. His inspector was capable of doing serious damage to himself.
Dupin dialed Kadeg’s number. It took a while for the inspector to answer.
“Mons—”
“Kadeg, keep your phone to your ear and listen to me. I know you’re in a squad car. No doubt someone is sitting next to you. You are going to answer with a yes or no only, in a casual tone of voice.” Dupin paused briefly, as a test. It took Kadeg a moment before he uttered a relatively neutral “Yes.”
“Good. Now make a mental note of the following: not only did I know everything that you did, I ordered it all. Me, personally. In its entirety. That means all of the idiotic activities you undertook in connection with your sand theft investigations. Do you hear me?”
This time it took even longer before the confirmation came: “Yes.”
“Was that your wife, Kadeg?”
“Yes.” He sounded miserable, though he was trying to pull himself together.
“Did you … do anything seriously illegal during the course of your … investigations?”
“No.”
“Is that a definite no?”
“Yes. I mean, no.”
“Good.”
Silence.
“And you’re … you’re not actually mixed up in anything? Anything illegal?”
Just as a precaution.
“No.”
“Then nothing can happen. I’ll take care of everything. You’ll be back on duty soon.”
“Yes.” There was an audible hesitation, then a relieved “Thanks” and also a childish, sulky “You see, I was right. They’re stealing sand.”
Dupin hung up.
The whole thing was a farce. He absolutely had to keep a cool head. There were—probably—two murders, and he was dealing with his inspector’s ludicrous antics!
* * *
Dupin had summoned the two policemen from Sizun—the tracker L’Helgoualc’h and the young man from earlier—to the Hôtel des Voyageurs for a brief meeting. He would have no support for the next few hours. One of his inspectors was completing an exam on Breton history, the other was at a police station on suspicion of criminal activity. Brilliant.
He had spoken to Nolwenn again while he was waiting. Mainly about Kadeg. She had heard about it already, of course, but had still been beside herself. She intended to call the prefect personally. She hadn’t come up with anything else on the dead body in the Monts d’Arrée.
The two policemen had sat down with Dupin at the outdoor table and given brief reports. The corpse was in Brest and the autopsy had begun, while the forensic team had completed its work with no new findings. As expected, they hadn’t found anything at the summit that L’Helgoualc’h hadn’t found, and they had confirmed everything he had said without exception. They had checked the footprint tread in the databank: the specific tread of the footprints they had detected came from Nike. The company used it for three different models. Another important thing was this: nobody had found footprints belonging to anyone else. In all likelihood there had been just one perpetrator at the Roc’h Trévézel.
“The man must be missed somewhere. Since yesterday lunchtime or yesterday afternoon.” Dupin really didn’t understand it. “There’s been no report anywhere?”
L’Helgoualc’h had not said much so far; his young colleague had taken on the reporting.
“No, Monsieur le Commissaire. No report anywhere. The medical examiner cleaned up the dead man’s face and emailed a photo to us. I think he’s recognizable in it despite the significant injuries.”
“Send it out. And to the media too.” Dupin was fed up. They needed to do something. They couldn’t just wait and see if someone would get in touch. “To all Breton départements—and nationally too.”
“We’re planning to show it around in the bars and restaurants in the area,” the young man said. “An effective method round here.”
The commissaire nodded.
“When was the last time there was a murder in this area?” Dupin had been thinking about it. It was bound to be a long time ago.
“In 1962. A farmer killed her drunken husband after he ran over their pet horse when he tore into their yard in the car while wasted one night.”
Dupin didn’t inquire any further. He knew the status horses had in the Breton countryside. Nolwenn knew dozens of astonishing horse stories through her clan. For centuries, a horse had been the most valuable item for a family. Wealth and status were determined by the number of horses you had. Sometimes they even lived in the houses with the family and, like the housewives, were called Charlotte, Marianne, or Ma Chérie. The violent loss of a horse, therefore, was a genuine motive for murder.
“That’s it, nothing else?”
“Nothing major. Lots of alcohol offenses, but they’re harmless,” L’Helgoualc’h said, and shrugged. “Hardly ever a theft. And if there is one, then it’s because of a feud, for revenge.”
“The dead man’s clothes? What about those?” Dupin asked.
The young policeman took over again: “The medical examiner will let us know. Brands, sizes. Any potential unusual features that would allow them to be traced. We ought to get those shortly.”
Dupin felt uneasy. Something had occurred to him.
“Anything else on the tattoo?”
“Not yet.”
“I—” Dupin paused. He was absorbed by a thought. It had come to him when they had been talking about the clothes. An odd thought, perhaps—but then again maybe not. It was about something Madame Bandol had said. About one of her memories from her dream last night.
Dupin stood up without explanation. He needed a computer. He had to take a look at something. His smartphone! He was always forgetting all the things it was capable of doing.
“One moment.” He had spoken more to himself than the others.
He bent over the small screen, found the browser, and opened it. Typed in what he was looking for, making a few typos as he did so. After a couple of seconds the first images appeared. There was a quizzical astonishment on the young policeman’s face, profound skepticism on L’Helgoualc’h’s.
“That could be it.” Dupin kept scrolling. “Yes.” He looked at the two policemen. “I’ve got to go. It’s important.”
It was important, and he had to look into this issue himself. Speak to Madame Bandol himself.
“Get in touch straightaway if there’s any news.”
“Understood,” the young officer gasped out, still visibly confused about the commissaire’s sudden departure.
“Thanks. And again: good work!”
Dupin placed some cash down on the little plastic plate and walked briskly away.
He was in a hurry.
* * *
“It’s done! He’s out.” Nolwenn was worked up.
That had happened quickly. Not that Dupin would have been surprised, but the prefect was—precisely because of his slow-wittedness—often a tough nut to crack. Besides, the issue wasn’t in his hands alone—disciplinary proceedings were highly official affairs.
“How did you manage that? Kadeg has…”
“Not Kadeg—Inspector Riwal! The exam, the diploma! He says he knew everything.” Her worked-up state was tempered now with pride. “I didn’t expect anything less, of course.”
Dupin had parked his car in the parking lot in Port Belon and walked down the small road toward the quay—this was where Nolwenn had got through to him—and he would be there any minute. He had given the young policewoman from Riec a task to do during his journey and she had responded not with questions but with a “No problem, I have some at home.” Magalie Melen had also organized the meeting with Madame Bandol in a few minutes’ time.
