The Second Day

“Yes, no doubt about it—we’ve got a dead body, Monsieur le Commissaire. A corpse. It’s definitely there, why do you ask?”

“Is someone near it?” Dupin was standing there thunderstruck, the phone pressed hard to his ear.

“Me. I mean, I’m near it.”

“Are you keeping an eye on it the whole time?”

“I’m standing here a few meters away from the corpse, I can see it the whole time.” The policeman sounded stressed. Stressed and bewildered.

“I don’t want the corpse to be unsupervised for a second. And where, tell me—where is the body?”

“In the Monts d’Arrée. Almost underneath the Roc’h Trévézel. I’m sure you know the D785, the mountain road that runs along the mountain ridges of the Monts d’Arrée—on the other side, where—”

“Unbelievable!”

He knew the mountain road over the “mountains,” but it was a hundred kilometers away from Port Belon, a little way north of Quimper and far inland. A secluded area in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

“Is he wearing a dark green jacket? Or a dark green coat?”

“A dark green jacket?” The policeman—a gendarme from Sizun—was increasingly despairing. “No, he’s wearing a beige jacket and it’s covered in blood. And torn. Jeans. Brown leather shoes or sneakers.”

“Short, dark brown hair? Injuries to the upper body?”

“He has injuries everywhere, Monsieur le Commissaire. The body is horribly contorted. He’s lying directly beneath one of the steep peaks. He must have fallen from it. But there’s something else,” the policeman said.

“What?”

“There are terrible hematomas on his neck. The doctor thinks he could have been strangled. Before the fall. He is positive the hematomas didn’t happen during the fall, anyway. It doesn’t look like an accident.”

“Strangled?”

This was all difficult to believe. Dupin didn’t wait for an answer.

“What kind of doctor are you talking about?”

“Our GP from Sizun. He came straight with us. As a precaution. The man could still have been alive, of course. He’s a very good doctor, eighty, but very fit.”

“And he’s certain about the hematomas? Already?”

Medical examiners always said they wouldn’t give any opinions until the final results of the autopsy.

“Yes, absolutely. Do you want to speak to him directly?”

“No, no. And the short, dark brown hair?”

“It’s not long, I’d say. What do you mean by short? Buzzed?”

“Averagely short.”

“Could be. And the hair definitely isn’t blond or red, anyway. It’s hard to tell because it’s covered in blood and anyway the head is hard to—”

“And there’s nothing to identify him?”

“There’s nothing in the pockets of his pants or jacket. It looks as though someone made sure there was nothing left to find.”

“What age would you say he is?”

“Oh—that’s hard to say too. Mid-sixties perhaps. As I say: the corpse is in a bad state.”

“And the official medical examiner? Where’s he coming from?”

“She is coming from Brest. She ought to be here soon.”

Dupin had almost reached his Citroën. The call had come in as he was on his way from his apartment to the Amiral. He had walked straight to his car, which as always was parked in the big square right by the harbor—in contravention of all official regulations that provided obligatory parking for the police in the exclusive spaces at the commissariat.

“I need to know the time of death as soon as possible. Whether he died yesterday around four or five in the evening. And if there’s anything on his clothes or hair that doesn’t come from the place where he’s lying. Soil, grass, whatever.”

Could this in fact be a case with two corpses all of a sudden? And two—in all likelihood—murdered men? If Madame Bandol’s statement was correct, and Dupin still assumed it was this morning—although of course it couldn’t be completely certain—but in any case, if it was true, then it would be absurd: two capital crimes, two murders within just twelve hours in southern Finistère? A male body was missing here, while one was suddenly found there, albeit a hundred kilometers away. Of course the obvious thought was that the corpse in the Monts d’Arrée was the missing corpse from Port Belon.

The Monts d’Arrée were an extremely remote area, hence a good spot to dispose of a dead body. On the other hand, there were also extremely remote places around Port Belon, closer places—and above all, the much safer place: the Atlantic. But maybe there were reasons for this place that they simply didn’t know about. Or this really was a question of a second corpse.

“I’ll inform the medical examiner of everything as soon as she is here.”

“Shit,” Dupin said, still absorbed in his thoughts.

The policeman seemed—understandably—not to know how to respond. Dupin picked up again where they had left off. “Who found the man? And why so early?”

It was just quarter past eight.

“A group of hikers. An organized tour with a guide. Twelve people. They set off from Sizun at seven o’clock. They wanted to get to the summit. And then on to Lac Saint-Michel. The hiking season is just beginning here.”

Dupin knew how high the Roc’h Trévézel was: 384 meters, the highest elevation in Brittany. He could never help smirking when people talked about a “summit,” even if the hill fell steeply away facing the west, toward the Atlantic. Especially because Dupin knew real summits. Real mountains. His father’s home village was at 700 meters’ altitude, on the edge of the Alps. In less than half an hour you could be at 2,000 meters’ altitude; a little further and you were at 3,000 meters and above.

“And he was lying in the middle of a hiking trail?”

“No. On a rock slightly off the trail. And it’s just a narrow path that’s not used much anyway. One of the group wanted to take a photograph and left the path—he discovered the corpse. As I said earlier, it was directly below a steep rock face. It’s a good hundred-and-fifty-meter drop. He probably fell or was thrown. In any case he was probably already dead.”

“And a local would have known that a path runs along there?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a car anywhere in the vicinity?”

“No.”

“No dark car? Or a red one?”

“No.”

“How did the man get there?”

“We can’t tell at this stage. My colleague is up on the mountain ridge. He’s looking for footprints. Perhaps that will tell us more. He’s very good at looking for footprints.”

Dupin had reached his Citroën.

“I’ll be there,” he checked his watch, “by just after nine, I think. As soon as the medical examiner has anything to say, she’s to call me. And take a photo of the corpse on your mobile, from above at an angle, and send it to my assistant. Immediately.”

They would show it to Madame Bandol. Her memory sometimes behaved in an extremely arbitrary way, suddenly and selectively, but that meant it could be full of surprises anytime. Even if the chances were slim, they needed to try everything.

Without waiting for an answer, Dupin hung up.

It was baffling. A string of baffling incidents that had started yesterday at the penguin exhibit in the Océanopolis. And hadn’t stopped. Dupin firmly believed in the principle of accumulation. He always had. If extraordinary incidents occurred, no matter if they were good, bad, funny, or even baffling, then several happened in a row. They didn’t like to be alone.

There had also been something baffling about the equal parts surprising and mysterious message Claire had given him this morning on the phone when she had woken him at seven o’clock. Dupin was to meet her early that evening in Quimper. “At about six o’clock.” She would be in touch again to tell him where. At first he had thought she was joking. It was also mysterious because no train came in from Paris “about six o’clock.” The TGV came in at four forty-five or six forty-five. Dupin hoped he would be able to make it. Now that there was definitely a corpse.

---

The landscape was surreal, rugged, bizarre, wild, like in a sinister fairy tale. The perfect place for whimsical fantasies, stories, and legends—and in fact there were huge numbers of them here. The ideal dwelling place for druids, sorcerers, fairies, dwarves, and other magical creatures. It was creepy and utterly inhospitable to poor human beings. A setting for stunning fantasy films, where scenes about Frodo, Gandalf, and their companions could have been filmed.

The Monts d’Arrée, the “Breton mountains,” formed the border between southern and northern Finistère. Dupin remembered how overwhelmed—and above all, deeply shocked—he had been when he had driven through them for the first time, up the D785 to Morlaix, because of some little bureaucratic issue. He would never have suspected Brittany had landscape like this. The road ran through forests of black fir until a new world suddenly opened up: gentle mountain ridges of granite and sandstone, rounded by the weather—the menez—alternated with rough, rugged mountain crests, jagged quartz, oddly contorted rock formations: the rocs. There were a few spacious plateaus too. It looked as though the ground had cracked violently open. The rocs towered high into the air, jutting out of a barren landscape of heather, gorse, ferns, mosses, and springs, streams, and bogs steeped in legend. There were several secluded chapels here and there, themselves the topic of various stories. And a smattering of mysterious menhirs.

“Supernatural” was the best word for this area, Dupin thought. The everyday world, the world on “this side,” ended here in the heart of Finistère. Deserted realms where thick fog fought for the upper hand against bitter winds and raging storms. With no trees at all, which looked even more odd; they simply didn’t grow here, like at dizzying heights above the tree border. Winds and storms carried the infinitely fine salty spray of the raging Atlantic as far as here; it fell straight down onto the chain of mountains and the salt prevented any more luxurious vegetation growing. That was the scientific explanation. There were legends about it too—probably the most ridiculous legend that Dupin had ever heard: when Jesus was born, the heavens had sent the trees on the Monts d’Arrée to Bethlehem to welcome the Messiah. When they stubbornly refused (simply Bretons) they were condemned to wither and never be able to grow again.

During his trip to Morlaix back then, Riwal had drummed it into Dupin—emphatically and using many vivid stories—only to venture across the chain of mountains in broad daylight. Dupin couldn’t tell how serious Riwal was being. But as always, Riwal had managed to provoke a slight sense of unease in Dupin, as crazy as this was. Impure souls wandered around here before and after sundown, in desperate hope of salvation, apparently; dwarfs danced with wild movements in the darkness on the heath; eerie stone depictions of Ankou, Death, came alive at night. The devil himself had hidden his treasure here, and whoever tried to dig it up would be grabbed by the legs and dragged down into the depths. It was even rumored that the entrance to hell, Youdig, was located here, in the Yeun-Elez, the ancient bog surrounded by rugged rocs.

At some point Dupin had interrupted Riwal as he reeled off stories. It was probably a good thing he was not around today.

The commissaire was almost there. The Roc’h Trévézel towered up imposingly to the left of the road.

A moment later he spotted a small police Peugeot in the unpaved parking lot next to the road.

Dupin had intended to take a look at the corpse and to meet Kadeg, the policeman, and, most importantly, the medical examiner there. But if the perpetrator had left footprints, then they would probably be up there and not where the corpse had hit the ground.

Dupin drove up on the right and parked directly behind the police car.

The weather was doing its best to heighten the dramatic effects of the landscape further. Vast jet-black banks of cloud drifted menacingly across the sky with misshapen holes in them, light falling hauntingly through them in dazzling streaks. Roving spotlights illuminating several sharply outlined sections of the landscape: a peak, a section of heath, a lake. Like with religious or paranormal phenomena.

Dupin couldn’t resist a smile: a weather-beaten signpost pointed the way to the “highest mountain in Brittany.” It was perhaps three hundred meters high, and a narrow, stony footpath ran up it. It must have rained heavily during the night, because the path had turned into a stream. To the right and left of Roc’h Trévézel were more rugged peaks.

He would have a good view from above. Dupin broke into a run, which quickly turned into a wearying trudge over the rich soil. Within a few meters, his shoes were soaked through. Even the faded grass had been, like everything up here, blown askew by the wind. There wasn’t much here: low, gnarled undergrowth that looked like overgrown bonsai trees, bright splashes of green and purple here and there, large fragments of rock in between.

Dupin had to scramble the last few meters up to the summit. He was pretty out of breath when he got up there.

The views were spectacular in every direction. And it was as he had suspected: down below, on the other side from the one where he had parked his car, he could see a little group of people. He noticed Kadeg’s new dark red jacket; the others must have been the policeman who had called him and their colleagues from forensics. He could only just make out the hiking trail. They were standing a few meters to the side of it.

Dupin could also see the large rocky ledge with a misshapen silhouette lying on it. The dead body. Someone was standing next to him, presumably the medical examiner. There were two more figures in front of the rocks.

Dupin had another hundred or hundred and fifty meters of the ridge to climb before he would get to the place from where—according to the plausible hypothesis—the victim had been thrown. Already dead. If what that doctor from Sizun said was true. The rocks were slightly lower there.

Dupin was almost there when his mobile started to beep loudly. He almost didn’t hear it in the strong wind up here.

“Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“Yes, who else would it be, Kadeg?”

“Where are you, boss? We’re waiting for you.”

“Look up.”

“What do you…”

Dupin could see Kadeg moving. Raising his head. It still took a while.

“Is that you up there?”

“What do you think?”

For some ridiculous reason, Kadeg now began to wave.

“What are you doing there?”

“What is it, Kadeg, fire away!”

“The medical examiner has given some preliminary details on the possible time of death. In light of the rigor mortis and livor mortis, of course the weather has made the corpse’s core temperature—”

“Kadeg!”

“The man died yesterday between nine o’clock and twelve. Probably, as I sa—”

“Yesterday morning?”

“Between nine and twelve, yes.”

This was unbelievable. It had a significant impact on everything.

Madame Bandol had—if this was true—seen the corpse around five o’clock in the evening, before the perpetrator could get rid of it, in the parking lot near Port Belon. So the murder would in all likelihood have happened during a timeframe before five o’clock. It would make absolutely no sense to strangle someone yesterday morning—seven to ten hours beforehand—and then place them in the parking lot in Port Belon at five o’clock, or rather leave them there until five o’clock, and then drive the corpse into the Monts d’Arrée that evening or that night and throw them off one of the rocky ridges. It would be utterly ludicrous.

But then—then they were in all likelihood dealing with two corpses! With two murders.

“Hello? Are you still there, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

“What about the strangulation, what does the medical examiner say about that?”

“She agrees with the GP from Sizun. There’s a strong probability that death occurred due to mechanical asphyxiation. He was probably strangled, in any case. We will only know for certain whether he was already dead during the fall, or simply unconscious, after the autopsy. But she thinks strangulation is the most plausible cause of death.”

“I presume nothing has been found yet that could identify the man?”

“We would have informed you,” Kadeg grumbled. “Are you going to come down to where we are? The medical examiner wants to have the body picked up as soon as possible.”

Dupin’s thoughts were elsewhere. “Yes. I’m coming.”

He hung up and remained motionless for a few moments. He ran a hand roughly through his hair. Then he looked around. During the phone call, he had continued to climb slowly.

It could have happened somewhere here, in the next few meters. The victim was thrown down the slope here. They, the perpetrator and victim, had probably come by car. The path from the road to here didn’t look quite as arduous as the one he had taken.

There were several possible scenarios. The murder, the strangulation, had taken place up here, or it had happened earlier and the victim had been brought up here, either dragged or carried up. It wouldn’t have been a stroll anyway: the perpetrator must have been fairly strong. Or they weren’t alone.

A deep bass voice cut into Dupin’s thoughts. “Are you the Frenchman?”

The commissaire turned around. A few meters away, a head appeared from behind a rock, then the uniformed body. A very old policeman, by the looks of it anyway. Snow-white hair, a face weathered by the sun, weather, and life. This had to be the colleague who was looking for footprints. He stood still and scrutinized Dupin from head to toe.

“Nothing good has ever come out of France. Don’t take it personally,” he said.

“And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Dupin made a point of being pleasant in his response. He generally ignored it when he was spoken to like this. And the sentence “Nothing good has ever come out of France” had long since become an everyday Breton phrase to him.

“Brioc L’Helgoualc’h.”

“Pleased to meet you, Monsieur…” This was the exact kind of Breton name that Dupin couldn’t remember for the life of him, let alone pronounce. “Have you found anything up here?”

“Are you in charge of this now?”

Dupin remained calm. “If you mean the murder investigation: that’s right, monsieur.”

“This just gets better and better!” The old policeman’s intonation was far less unpleasant than his words. “Is this your first time here in our neck of the woods? In the Monts d’Arrée?”

“Do you think it could be relevant to solving the case, the question of whether I’ve been here before?” Dupin said, remaining even-tempered. There was nothing hostile about the grumpy chap.

“Oh yes.”

“You were going to tell me whether you’d found anything interesting.”

Brioc L’Helgoualc’h grunted something Dupin couldn’t make out, turned around, and disappeared behind the rock again without any further explanation. A hint of movement with his head could be interpreted, with some generosity, as a request to follow him. Dupin sighed—and followed.

This was going to be a wonderful investigation.

---

When Dupin rounded the rock, Brioc L’Helgoualc’h was already some distance away. As old as he might be, he walked fast.

He was kneeling in the heather a little below Dupin.

“Here,” he called.

Dupin approached. Only now did he spot the small path. He crouched down too and saw what the policeman had meant: two faded but still clearly visible footprints on a patch of ground between some stones and moss. A right foot and a left foot, almost parallel at this spot. Deep imprints. Someone stood here for quite a long time. One single person.

Dupin looked along the path. It ran directly from the road and led to the rough, rocky ridge with the slope where the dead body lay.

“There’s another print down there. And further up there too. But the path is mostly stony or mossy.”

Dupin’s mobile rang. Kadeg again. He answered anyway.

“So where are you, Monsieur le Commissaire? You’re the only person we’re waiting for. The medical examiner wants to leave with the corpse.”

“I’m investigating,” Dupin replied drily. “I hope there was another reason you called me. A good reason.”

“The medical examiner says that she sees indications of a struggle. Apart from the strangulation marks, she means.”

“Yes?” This was relevant.

“Hematomas on the right side of the face, on the chin, on the stomach, that very likely were not sustained in the fall; a twisted, broken right wrist that doesn’t look like an injury from the impact either. But she wants—”

“A broken wrist?”

It must have been a brutal struggle. The victim had grappled ferociously with his murderer. “Has she said anything else?”

“No, but that is quite a lot—before the autopsy.”

“I’m coming—until then, everyone stays where they are.” Dupin hung up.

He turned back to L’Helgoualc’h. “I—”

“Broken wrist?” L’Helgoualc’h’s voice had changed. He sounded insistent.

“A broken wrist, yes.”

“When night falls, the Kannerezed Noz, the washerwomen of the night—bony, pale women—begin to wash the shrouds of the dead in the bog. If you encounter them, you’ve got to copy them. But if you don’t wring out the washing in the same direction as them, they break your wrist and you bleed to death.” He looked Dupin in the eye imploringly.

“He didn’t bleed to death,” Dupin said, “much less from a broken wrist.”

But he had to admit that the eerie imagery had thrown him slightly. Although he never really reacted to these kinds of stories anymore. They cropped up in every case: myths, legends—they weren’t in Brittany for nothing. They were essential. And what’s more, he found them somewhat comforting in the absence of Riwal—who would otherwise no doubt have told these stories long before. Riwal would have really embellished them, however, and delighted in telling them with style. L’Helgoualc’h had told them downright prosaically by comparison. And appeared to intend to leave it at this interjection—a moment later he was back to the footprints.

“As I say, I’ve found the same footprints down there. Shoe size eleven or twelve. I suspect an especially heavy man, or a man who was carrying something heavy. Another man, for instance. The footprints are deep.” L’Helgoualc’h stood right next to the footprints and stayed there for a moment. Then he stepped aside.

“Have a look.”

Dupin crouched down again. The policeman’s footprint was practically invisible. And looked tiny compared to the others. “I’m a size seven and a half.”

Dupin was impressed. The estimate of 11 or 12 was precise.

“I think he brought the man up here once he was already dead, although I don’t see any drag marks. They won’t have been deep enough. With the rain. The man stopped a number of times to catch his breath where the ground was even and he could get a solid foothold. If there was a struggle, then it wasn’t on the rocks here, it was down there, earlier.”

Dupin nodded.

“He was wearing sneakers. Nikes. He—”

“Nikes?”

“Easy to identify by the tread marks.”

Dupin took another look. He would not have been able, no matter how sharp the edges of the footprint, to identify any tread marks. L’Helgoualc’h seemed to Dupin like some Native American tracker. No doubt there was also an ancient connection between the Celts and Native Americans that Dupin just didn’t know about yet.

“Bigger structures like honeycombs, wavy lines in between … A common design,” L’Helgoualc’h said.

“I see.”

If this was correct, they had their first clue to the perpetrator. Apart from the fact that he must have been reasonably strong. Nike sneakers in 11 or 12. This was potentially a crucial lead. Dupin was intrigued about what the forensic team would say, but he had no doubts about his colleague’s expertise.

“It wasn’t a hiker. No sensible hiker wears sneakers like that.”

“Are there footprints belonging to anyone else?”

“No.”

“And you haven’t found any other trace evidence up there on the ridge?”

“No. It’s all rocky. Not a chance.”

“I want to go up anyway.”

Dupin turned away and followed the path up the ridge. It was in fact a much easier walk than the earlier path. Soon he had reached the last rocks. The slope that now came into view was brutal. Steep, a long way down, and dotted with sharp, rocky outcrops. Dupin averted his gaze. He turned around slowly. Amongst the ominous banks of cloud, bigger and bigger sections were being broken up by clear blue sky, opening up views far into the distance of the breathtaking peninsula of Crozon and of the bay of Brest where you could see the Atlantic—Ar Mor Braz: the large sea. The bog with the washerwomen of the night in the east, surrounded by the three rocs. The reservoir Saint-Michel, and beyond it, one of the largest unspoiled Breton forests, the Chaos of Huelgoat. Also a place of wild stories.

“This—this is the balcony of the west.”

Dupin practically jumped. He hadn’t heard L’Helgoualc’h coming. Suddenly he was standing next to him and speaking huskily, but with unexpected melancholy. “The balcony of the western world, they say. The Monts d’Arrée might look to you like strange hills—in reality they’re mountains. Majestic mountains; the Massif Armoricain is a vast mountain chain that stretches hundreds of kilometers, from Normandy to here. And for a long time its peaks were higher than Mount Everest is today. They were over nine thousand meters. The Himalayas, and also the Alps, the Pyrenees, the Caucasus, they’re all young mountains in comparison to this one; not even fifty million years old. The Monts d’Arrée are ten times as old. That, monsieur, that is the truth of these mountains.”

Dupin had to concede that even he was moved. For Bretons, the commissaire had learned, the past was as real as the present, and a point in time three hundred million years ago, for example, was just as valid as one in the present, so that it was deeply unfair and presumptuous to arbitrarily pick today as the only valid point from the continuum of time. Just because you were someone who happened to live right now, it was pure arrogance, modern pretension. If you looked at the world in a Breton way, the Monts d’Arrée were real mountains, even today.

“This is Bretagne bretonnante—the heart of Brittany beats here like nowhere else.” L’Helgoualc’h put it as a quintessential truth. In the last few years, Dupin had received many hours of Nolwenn-lessons about Bretagne bretonnante, or Breton Brittany. What this meant was the westernmost tip of the Breton peninsula, Basse-Bretagne, which in the old language meant “far from the capital,” far from Rennes and Paris. Which was the greatest compliment for Bretons, who were rebellious on principle.

They spoke the “genuine” Breton here, Celtic, not the Gallo of eastern Haute-Bretagne that, like French, had developed independently from Vulgar Latin and was therefore a young language. Celtic was at least a millennium and a half older than French, a very important fact for Bretons. Thus had Bretagne bretonnante taken on the aura of the “real” Brittany over the centuries. If Finistère was the center of everything—the beginning of the world: Penn Ar Bed—then Breton Brittany was the center of the center.

“I’m going to take a look at the corpse,” Dupin said. He really did need to make a move. “Excellent work, monsieur.”

L’Helgoualc’h did not respond to the compliment in any way, of course. His expression darkened instead.

“The perpetrator isn’t from round here.”

“Why do you think that?”

“To a stranger, the steep slope must have looked like a place where it was possible to dispose of a body forever. But everyone even slightly acquainted with this area knows that there’s a path not too far away down there. A local would have disposed of the victim in the bog. The Yeun-Elez is just a few kilometers away.” He gestured vaguely westward with his head. “The body would never have reappeared.”

There was something to that.

“There’s a path that leads directly into the bog at Kernévez. There are peat banks meters deep there. It contains water, mud. It would be easy. This was someone who doesn’t know their way round here. A stranger. They were just passing through. It has nothing to do with us locals.”

It was as though L’Helgoualc’h was speaking about his tribe.

“So many people have disappeared in the bog. At night, but also during the day, in the most beautiful sunshine.” As he had done earlier, he explained sinister things with no warning. “Suddenly you see mist, a kind of bubbling on the surface as if the water underneath is boiling—if you stop and stare, you’re done for. Your curiosity will cost you your life. The ground you’re standing on gives way. The howls of a dog ring out. And you disappear forever in the Youdig. The portal to hell. To a cold hell. We had our last missing person’s report just several years ago: three men went missing in the bog during perfectly clear weather.”

“And they were never found?” Dupin blurted out, and instantly felt awkward.

“They were never found. The bog was combed systematically for days.”

That must have been before his time. Dupin couldn’t remember news along those lines. He was glad.

“That’s the way it is here. Every night you hear howling somewhere. Demons, the souls of the dead who were able to escape for a few hours. Now and then figures appear in the villages that are not what they look like, and that are not what or who they claim to be. Up until a few years ago, Catholic priests performed exorcisms here: they cast the demons out and into the bodies of black dogs and threw them in the water of the Youdig.” L’Helgoualc’h looked at the sky. “These mountains are a special place. To this day, the druids hold their most important ceremonies here, mainly at the bog. Just recently there was the Celtic end-of-year festival. A large group, three hundred druids were there.”

Dupin had heard of it. From the modern druidic associations. Riwal had explained it to him. Riwal may not have been a member of these societies himself—surprisingly—but he knew several members and of course couldn’t see anything odd about it.

The druids had apparently been the finale of the fantastical stories. L’Helgoualc’h looked inquiringly at Dupin.

“Yes, that sounds plausible. That it was a stranger.”

Dupin tried to shake off the images of devious demons.

“They’re waiting for me down there.”

He instinctively looked in the direction of the bog before setting about his descent.

Back to the car.

Back into the normal world.

He had to concentrate on what was concrete: a strong person, according to the current scenario, had brought the victim from the road to the rocks and thrown him down from there. At that point, the victim was probably already dead, strangled. There had been a fierce struggle. The perpetrator wasn’t from round here. And he wore sneakers. Nikes.

Now that was something.

---

The corpse looked truly horrific. Dupin had grown used to quite a lot. But this was amongst the worst that he’d ever seen. “Severely contorted” would have been an appropriate description. The dead man must have hit rock numerous times during the fall. His body had literally burst open in many places. The entire ledge he was lying on was covered in blood. Blood and other sticky fluids.

“Do you want to spend longer looking at him? I’d like to take him to Brest immediately and get started on the autopsy,” the medical examiner said. She was a surprisingly pleasant-seeming representative of her profession—just forty perhaps, curly brown hair, a focused look on her face—and was standing on the rock next to the corpse. Dupin was at the edge. The landscape down here was different again; the bushes grew tall and there were small copses. A single vast oak tree stood a few paces away and cast long shadows.

Dupin had had to walk quite a distance—by car you could only get within a few hundred meters of the site via a grassy path.

The man, as far as it was possible to say, looked rather slight; he wasn’t tall, perhaps one meter seventy-five. Dupin guessed at dark blond hair, an inconspicuous color. He saw exactly what had been described to him earlier.

“Take him away. Are there any more findings yet?”

“I’ve already shared everything I’m able to say right now with your inspector. Just one more thing: above the broken wrist, you can see the edge of a tattoo. That could help with identification. I’m going to have to remove the clothing with a scalpel and hope that there’s still enough skin there to be able to make it out fully.” She sounded unfazed, professional. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have news.”

“Right, okay. Thank you.”

The medical examiner gave a signal to two young men who were waiting next to the rocky ledge with a stretcher.

Dupin turned away and walked toward the small group standing in the heather a few meters away. Kadeg was on the phone. It looked important, of course.

A young policeman was coming toward him. Dupin greeted him with a vague gesture. “We spoke on the phone?”

“Exactly. Gendarmerie de Sizun. You’ve already met my colleague up on the rocks there.”

“So do we have a better picture of what might have happened here yet?”

“No.”

“Anything relevant? A missing person’s report? Reports from people in the area who’ve noticed something unusual?”

The policeman’s expression verged on alarm. “No. I mean, not yet.”

It would have been too perfect anyway.

“Our colleagues from forensics want to know whether you’d like them to do anything specific down here at the rocks. Otherwise they’ll go up to the summit and carry on with their work there.”

It was hard to believe that even the forensics team seemed to be easy to work with here.

“That’s fine.” Dupin bit his tongue, not remarking that they probably wouldn’t find anything up there other than the Breton Native American. The word “summit,” he realized, didn’t make him smirk anymore. He would look at these mountains differently from now on.

“So we know nothing, then? Nothing at all?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” The policeman practically stood to attention as he answered.

“Good work,” Dupin said in an upbeat way, although he noticed his mood was worsening. The policeman looked a little relieved anyway.

There was nothing more for him to do here. And the same was true of the summit.

In fact he could have done with a coffee now. To prevent his mood getting even worse for one thing, certainly, but mainly because he needed ideas and a razor-sharp mind. He had—by the looks of it—two cases on his hands all of a sudden. And both appeared utterly mysterious. This case, and of course the one in Port Belon too.

“Is Sizun far from here?”

“Just a few minutes by car.”

“Is that the nearest village?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take a look around there.”

It was obvious the policeman would have liked to ask why. And also that his instinct told him he’d better not.

“Here I am, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Kadeg, Dupin’s overzealous inspector, had come over to them. “The phone call is over, everything is okay.”

Kadeg’s facial expression told a different story. He looked worked up and jittery, but he was trying to hide it.

“What’s wrong, Kadeg?”

The inspector hesitated.

“No. Nothing. Everything is absolutely fine.”

“All right then.”

Dupin wouldn’t try to drag it out of him, whatever it was. Without another word, he turned around and walked back to his car.

---

Sizun was tiny; a pretty village. And indeed just a few minutes’ journey from the mountains.

Dupin was sitting in the most glorious sunshine outside the bar at the Hôtel des Voyageurs. He could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays on his skin; it was as though the sun wanted to demonstrate with all its might what it was capable of as early as the beginning of April.

A few plain wooden tables and chairs. One of the simple, authentic bars—brasseries, restaurants—that every French village had, no matter where they were, even in the sleepiest backwater, and Dupin loved them on principle. And also because without fail, you could rely on getting a decent entrecôte frites and a respectable red wine—one of the foundations of the Grande Nation. The Hôtel des Voyageurs was, like all of the buildings on the village’s small central square, an old stone building; a long building, whitewashed, with window frames, awnings, and other details in a flamboyant green. People gathered here every day, in the mornings, afternoons, and especially in the evenings—this was where it happened: the daily life that made up people’s existence. Dupin could sit at places like this for hours and watch people, watch them simply going about their lives. This was where everyday things were celebrated and special things too: births, baptisms, engagements, weddings, big birthdays—and funerals.

Dupin had in fact only ordered one coffee, and that didn’t count. And he had already drunk it. Which had caused a recurrence of the stabbing pain. As a precaution he had ordered a jambon-fromage sandwich to give his stomach something different—and because he didn’t know when he would next get something to eat; during a case, food was always tricky for him. The baguette was an impressive size: it was lying on a large plate in front of him and it was still jutting out over the edge.

Dupin had spoken to Nolwenn briefly. Brioc L’Helgoualc’h, the tracker, was obviously a police institution in Finistère, although Dupin had never heard of him. The deep respect in Nolwenn’s voice had been unmistakable.

Nolwenn had not heard anything about Riwal and his exam yet; she had commented on it three or four times. The written portion of the exam was today and it had begun at nine o’clock. However—and it was already overdue, in fact—the prefect had been in touch. Lug Locmariaquer, as unpronounceable as he was unbearable—he was sadly unavoidable too. Dupin was to call him. “Urgently. Immediately.” Which didn’t surprise Dupin one bit—the prefect immediately became self-important if there was a crime that promised some attention. The only odd thing was that although the prefect, according to Nolwenn, did want to talk about the dead body in the Monts d’Arrée, he primarily wanted to talk about something else entirely. “Something extremely delicate.”

Dupin didn’t have the slightest idea what this was about. And no desire whatsoever to find out. But he had had to promise Nolwenn, and she seemed to take the request seriously, so Dupin knew it would be sensible to take it seriously too. That was ten minutes ago now.

The commissaire sighed, took another bite of his sandwich, and reached for his phone.

It was already in his hand when the monotonous beeping started. A withheld number. Dupin hesitated for a moment before picking up.

“Commissaire! Madame Bandol here! I need to speak with you urgently. It’s important.” She was speaking extremely fast.

“What’s this about?”

“The incident. I’ve remembered some more things after all.”

Dupin pricked up his ears. This was unexpected. She sounded very firm and clear.

“Go ahead.”

“It all depends on what I remember, doesn’t it? We haven’t got anything else yet,” she said.

“Exactly, Madame Bandol.”

“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.

“What do you think, Monsieur le Commissaire?” Nolwenn cut across his thoughts.

“I … I’m glad.”

“Do you know what one of the topics was?” With her enthusiasm, Nolwenn could hardly be stopped. “America!”

“Very good. I’m sure Riwal gave a thorough account.”

A pitiful attempt on Dupin’s part.

“America exists thanks to Bretons! Who discovered America? Breton fishermen from the Île de Bréhat! And centuries before Columbus. They landed on Newfoundland. Everything is documented. American independence?” Dupin could practically see Nolwenn’s shining eyes. “Won by a Breton! The Marquis de la Rouërie and the corps he was leading dealt the English the decisive blows. And Halloween. But you know that, don’t you?”

Dupin hoped it had been a rhetorical question.

“All Breton! When it’s getting cold at the beginning of November, the Celts celebrate the Feast of Samhain. That night the hidden portals to the dark world open up and creepy creatures dash through our realms! In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Celtic emigrants brought these legends and customs to North America and voilà: Halloween!”

That was genuinely interesting, but not right now.

“Don’t worry about Kadeg.” Nolwenn had seamlessly returned to harsh reality. “The prefect and I have thoroughly … let’s say spoken. And I’ve also made my opinion plain to the commissaire from Lorient.” It was on the tip of Dupin’s tongue to ask for details, but he refrained. “I think you’ll get him back soon.”

“Excellent.” Dupin would never have dreamed he would ever say that in reference to Kadeg. But this really was good news, and in truth it look a load off his mind.

“And Riwal is already on his way to you. Where exactly are you?”

“I’m standing in front of La Coquille. I want to speak to Madame Bandol. And then take another look at the parking lot. Where the corpse was.”

“So you’re still assuming that Madame Bandol saw a corpse?”

“That’s right, and I have a little theory that I want to test.”

“Has Madame Bandol trawled through her memory again? Has anything else occurred to her?”

“She saw the corpse during the night in a dream.” Dupin was aware that it sounded odd. “More clearly than in her memory. So she was able to see a few extra details.”

“Just like with Aunt Marguerite! When she’s dreaming, lots of things come back to her that have completely slipped her mind while she’s awake. Sometimes you ask her something and she says you’re to ask her again tomorrow morning. And that’s how it goes: she knows it again then. That, Monsieur le Commissaire, is nothing unusual.”

Any worries that Nolwenn might doubt his sanity had been completely unfounded; he might have known. For a Breton, the truthfulness of dreams was self-evident.

“Who knows, maybe even more things will come to her this way—it’s astonishing sometimes. In any case: don’t let yourself be put off, Monsieur le Commissaire, even if you don’t have anything concrete yet. You know the Breton motto: nothing is more real than what you cannot see! The world is an enchanted forest. There’s hidden meaning everywhere. And dreams are a tried and tested signpost. I”—again the switch to practical things was seamless—“will tell Riwal he’s to meet you at the parking lot.”

Dupin was already pacing up and down outside the entrance of the restaurant with the dozens of colorful signs. Huîtres de la Bretagne. Le plaisir à l’état pur, promised the largest of the signs: “Pleasure in its purest form.” He was impatient; he wanted to know what truth there was to his idea. Perhaps it was just too far-fetched.

“Thanks, Nolwenn. I—”

“Your party the day after tomorrow,” she said, sternly now, and Dupin jumped, but luckily she didn’t say what he was afraid she would. “You won’t be dealing with that today, you’ve got things to do, the murders come first. I’ve confirmed the menu with Alain Trifin. Almost everyone has accepted. Even Commissaire Rose let me know today she’s coming. As long as a crazy shoot-out in the salt marshes doesn’t get in the way, of course, I’m to tell you, and: ‘wind and sun permitting.’ That’s it. Any comments?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll call Inspector Riwal now.” She hung up on the last word.

Dupin was standing in front of the door to the restaurant. He took a few deep breaths and then went inside.

Jacqueline nodded to him from the bar. She seemed to have been expecting him.

“It’s over here.”

She gestured to the end of the bar with her head, where a package lay.

“Brilliant.” With a satisfied expression, Dupin picked up the package as he walked past. Magalie Melen had completed the small task immediately.

Madame Bandol was sitting at the same table as yesterday, which was absolutely fine by Dupin—it was in keeping with his way of quickly developing habits everywhere. Her dog was standing at the terrace door today, his nose on the windowpane. He seemed excited.

“Come on, Commissaire, come on! What is it? It seems extraordinarily urgent.”

Madame Bandol practically pulled Dupin toward the table. She was dressed in shades of pale blue from head to toe, another long skirt and a simple blouse with a wide, round neck. She looked almost girlish, her hair even wilder than yesterday, expertly wild.

“I’ve got to show you something, Madame Bandol.” Dupin had remained standing. “You spoke about shoes with birds on them. On the phone earlier. Is that right?”

“Oh yes.”

“Shoes with birds on them. Which was what came back to you in a dream. One of the new details.”

Dupin had pulled a pair of sneakers out of the package. Covered in mud, they had clearly been heavily used in all kinds of weather. But the thing he was interested in was still clearly visible. In a garish neon green on dark blue. A kind of elongated check mark—or even: a stylized bird.

The trademark.

“I’d like to know—”

“You really know a thing or two, Commissaire! You’d never think it to look at you! They were different colors—I’ve just remembered, the shoes were black and the birds were red—but yes: that’s them! The shoes that the dead man was wearing. Just like those! We’ve got the man.”

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind the thought had been sparked when Madame Bandol had talked about the “shoes with birds on them.” That’s often how it was for Dupin: the associations, the deductions began and he only really realized later. One of the reasons why he really disliked talking about his “method.”

“Are you one hundred percent certain, Madame Bandol? Absolutely certain?”

This was a crucial point.

“I swear it! I did tell you, I could see the birds down to the last detail in the dream.”

“And now you even recall the colors?”

“As if I were seeing them in front of me.”

Dupin sat down.

“Nikes. The victim was wearing Nikes,” he murmured almost inaudibly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Commissaire?”

Instead of answering, Dupin got out his phone. There was something else he could still check. This could be another lead. A further validation.

“A black shoe, you say.” Dupin was on the manufacturer’s website again. He put in the color and a few moments later he saw the range. “With a red symbol,” he said, going through the list model by model. “Completely black—apart from the red symbol, I mean. No other colors on the soles or anything?”

“Completely black!” Madame Bandol looked put out by the query.

“Here!” He had found what he was looking for. “Like this?” Dupin held the phone out to Madame Bandol.

“Exactly! The colors. The model. These exact ones! Bravo!”

Now for the most important thing. Dupin clicked on one of the extra pictures with a view of the tread. A moment later he saw it blown up: honeycomblike patterns and wavy lines. It was obvious. This model existed. This exact model: plain black Nikes with red symbols—and most importantly, they had the special soles that left footprints like the ones from the Monts d’Arrée.

Dupin ran a hand roughly through his hair. He needed to concentrate.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Monsieur le Commissaire! How else can I help you?”

Dupin’s brow creased. “We’ve found exactly these footprints from this type of shoe,” he said, and pointed at the mobile screen, “by the place at the Roc’h Trévézel where the murderer threw off his victim. The perpetrator there was wearing shoes like this.”

Madame Bandol’s eyes widened, there was profound fear on her face. Then she steadily shook her head in a theatrical gesture.

“Then it was my dead body!” She was quite agitated now. “My missing body from the Belon—and he was the murderer from the Roc’h Trévézel! It’s got to be!”

The implication was spectacular. The exact same thing had struck Dupin. Assuming Madame Bandol was remembering the shoes (and anything else) correctly, they were dealing with a turn of events that was just as confusing as it was dramatic. He tried to express it as a potential sequence:

“The man with the Nike sneakers killed the man yesterday morning, whom we then found at the Roc’h Trévézel this morning. Only to be murdered himself a few hours later, a hundred kilometers away in Port Belon.”

The two cases—they would be one case.

“Maybe they were both just wearing the same shoes. The murderer yesterday and the dead man yesterday,” Madame Bandol said.

“I don’t think so.” His instinct told him this was no coincidence.

“I don’t either.” Madame Bandol gave him a conspiratorial smile. “And it’s much more exciting this way too.”

Dupin didn’t delude himself. It sounded far-fetched, highly speculative. Radical. But if the assumption was correct, there was a strict logic to the consequences.

“I’d like to have a facial composite of this man done—of your dead body. And send it round with the other photo. We might get lucky. Perhaps the pair of them have been seen together somewhere.”

They didn’t have enough details to produce a face, of course, but they did have some details of what the dead man—the perpetrator—had been wearing. They were clutching at straws to some extent. But they only had straws right now.

Madame Bandol shook her head again.

“The chances are definitely slim. But all right. Have a composite done! Maybe something else will occur to me then. We’ll see. Memory is a grab bag.”

“I’ll arrange for one of the sketch artists to visit you.”

If the story that was just emerging was true, the case would be on a large scale. There would be at least a third person involved in the matter. And still out there somewhere. The murderer of the murderer. Yet they didn’t have the slightest clue as to what it was about, what dramatic intrigues were going on. They were groping about in the dark.

Dupin felt an urgent sense of unease. He was used to feeling this way; it was a state he always got into if cases became complicated.

“Thank you, Madame Bandol.” Dupin stood up. “If anything else comes to mind, get in touch immediately.”

There was considerable disapproval in Madame Bandol’s expression.

“You’re not going to leave me here by myself with these extraordinary developments, are you? Besides, it’s lunchtime, you ought to have something to eat. And we can keep investigating together as we eat.”

Dupin reached for the sneakers and put them back in the crumpled package.

“I’ve got to go, Madame Bandol, I’m sorry.”

After a brief reflection, her generous, open smile reappeared.

“Well then, what are you waiting for, my dear?”

---

“I would narrow down the time of death to between eleven o’clock and twelve noon yesterday. And finally, I can confirm what the village doctor suspected: the man was strangled. He was already dead during the fall down the steep rock face. The broken wrist probably came from a struggle, along with a series of hematomas that occurred antemortem. Unfortunately, we didn’t find any tissue or skin from the perpetrator underneath the fingernails.”

“Anything else?”

The old Citroën groaned; Dupin had taken a sharp turn at too high a speed. The medical examiner had called him just after he got into the car. He had delegated some new tasks to Magalie Melen beforehand.

“At the moment, I’m assuming that the injuries sustained in the struggle, strangulation, and subsequent fall occurred within the space of an hour at most. When he was thrown off, he had not been dead for long.”

This wasn’t much, but it did to an extent make it easier to sort through the scenarios about the sequence of events.

“That means it could all have taken place there at the Roc’h Trévézel.”

“That’s possible. But another possibility is that the victim was murdered somewhere nearby and then brought there.”

Dupin liked the medical examiner’s precise, unflappable, and unassuming manner.

“Are there any clues to the identity of the dead man?” he asked.

“Nothing conclusive. Mid-sixties, one meter seventy-six, central European. Very bad teeth, conventionally treated, the dentistry could have been done anywhere. Heavy smoker. Not a balanced diet. But surprisingly healthy overall, on first impressions. Limited personal hygiene. Non-branded clothing and shoes. Nothing striking.”

“The tattoo?”

“We’ve taken a careful look at it. Unfortunately the right arm suffered severe injuries during the fall, and part of the tattoo was torn to shreds with the skin. We couldn’t fully reconstruct it. But what you can still make out looks maritime. A stylized sail, a kind of building, I guess, a letter, an S. One or more letters could be missing. An old sailor perhaps. He has had the tattoo for a long time.”

“A sailor?”

“Perhaps he went to sea in his youth. Or maybe not; maritime motifs have always been amongst the most popular ones. So perhaps it doesn’t even mean anything.”

“Can you send my assistant a photo of it?”

“Of course. There are the remains of a second tattoo on the left upper arm. He has had that one for a long time too. Unfortunately you can make out even less there due to the considerable injuries. Just a line, three centimeters long, that tapers at the top. I presume the rest is missing.”

“Just a line?”

“A kind of shallow wedge. Or beam. I don’t have a clue what it could be. I’ll take a photo of it too. That’s it for the moment.”

“Thanks. Call if you have anything else.”

As the call ended, Dupin turned onto the narrow road to the parking lot.

He ran a hand roughly through his hair again. It was maddening. What was all this about? On top of the statistical considerations, his instinct said something else pointed to a connection between the two cases: the utter mysteriousness. Two dead men suddenly lying somewhere and nobody knew who they were or where they came from. And nobody seemed to have reported them missing yet.

Dupin parked his car just outside the red-and-yellow tape that had been used to cordon off the parking lot. Magalie Melen had spent the morning making more inquiries round Port Belon and also Riec. Not one person had noticed anything unusual anywhere or had had anything to say about the—purely officially speaking—“potential” corpse.

The spot where Madame Bandol had seen the body was still cordoned off separately. The four neon yellow mobile pillars and the tape around an empty section of grass looked absurd. Especially in the middle of this desolate landscape.

Dupin stooped and slipped underneath the tape. He was now standing exactly where the corpse had been lying. Cautiously, ever so cautiously, he turned in a circle, not looking for anything in particular. Why this place? He had been wondering this all along. And the same went for the Monts d’Arrée. Why the Monts d’Arrée, why Port Belon?

The murderer of the dead man at the Roc’h Trévézel had—according to the hypothesis—come here in the afternoon—why? Or had he been murdered somewhere else and brought to Port Belon already dead? The fact that the corpse had apparently only been lying here for a short time before it disappeared pointed more to a spontaneous crime and not to a plan, let alone a clever plan. Which was equally true of the murder in the Monts d’Arrée and the disposal of the body there. How had the corpse been taken away from the parking lot—in a car? Taken away forever; perhaps it would never turn up again.

Dupin’s thoughts were interrupted by an approaching car.

A police car. But not Riwal. The car stopped directly behind his. A moment later the unpleasant policeman from yesterday was clambering out and heading straight for Dupin. Erwann Braz.

“What are you doing here?” Dupin grumbled irritably, having been glad to be alone briefly.

“I’m checking Madame Bandol’s statements. They are not consistent.”

“Excuse me?”

“She said she took the same route yesterday that she always takes. That is not true.” Braz spoke quickly and eagerly, but Dupin felt he also spoke with a brazen personal antipathy toward Madame Bandol. “I have two witness statements saying that she stays on the lower path along the Belon every single time she takes her daily walk, and walks as far as the cliffs, where you have a view of Port Manech. Then she turns around and walks back the same way. But not yesterday!” He was trying to inject some pathetic suspense into his long-winded sentences. “Yesterday she didn’t come via this path by the Belon, she came via the little path that leads to the parking lot! From that direction.” He pointed to where their cars were parked. “Beyond the first branch in the little road, where the left fork goes to the gîte and the right to Port Belon, there’s a footpath up from the river. That must have been where she walked. She left the path by the Belon before the estuary and came around here.”

“Yes, and?”

“So the statement that she came down the path from the hill is false.” Braz was acting as though he had solved the case with this extraordinary discovery. “She gave a de facto false statement. Possibly even deliberately.”

This did need to be cleared up, but the policeman was making Dupin’s blood boil. First wanting to declare Madame Bandol of unsound mind and now even suspecting her—it made him extremely annoyed.

“Whether Madame Bandol came from here or there doesn’t affect her statement on the corpse in any way.”

“It drastically reduces the overall credibility of her statements even further—and certainly raises more questions.”

“I think—”

The monotonous beeping of Dupin’s mobile sounded. Nolwenn. He took a few steps to one side without saying anything.

“It’s instantly recognizable, Monsieur le Commissaire! Shelter House!”

Dupin was slow on the uptake.

“We went through it, do you remember? It’s similar to the Abris du Marin.”

Nolwenn’s longer explanation didn’t help.

“The hostels and homes that Jacques de Thézac established in various Breton ports at the beginning of the twentieth century, to provide stranded sailors with a home, food, accommodation, and work. To rescue them from the clutches of alcohol.”

Dupin knew what the Abris du Marin were. One of the old hostels was right next to Henri’s Café du Port in Sainte-Marine, a beautiful building. Dieu—Honneur—Patrie was written in large letters above it and Dupin was deeply moved every time he saw it.

“And?”

“The tattoo! It’s the symbol of the Shelter Houses. The north Scottish counterparts of the Abris du Marin. Very well known, as is the symbol! There’s just an H missing on the tattoo—the arm looks badly injured. Good thing the man was already dead before the fall.”

“Tell me more, Nolwenn.”

This was so difficult to take in. Nolwenn could only just have received the photo. She had recognized it straightaway. And now—now they suddenly had their first real lead. And it possibly pointed to Scotland.

“It’s a Celtic sister association—there are close links between the Shelter Houses and the Abris du Marin.” That had been one of the big topics in Nolwenn’s Brittany lessons recently: “Intercelticism,” the connection between the regions of Europe where the millions of remaining Celts lived nowadays and who were finally bonding again. Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, the Isle of Man, and Brittany, they were known as the “six Celtic nations.” Millions of representatives of a three-thousand-year-old, enormous, proud, ancient civilization! Which, at its largest in the third century B.C., had taken up almost all of Europe (Brittany had been Celtic even in 800 B.C.). It stretched from the British Isles via Gaul, down the entire Atlantic coast as far as Spain and Portugal, and in the east, to the modern-day countries of the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia, Croatia, and Poland.

“We ought to contact them immediately, Nolwenn.”

“I was just on the phone to the headquarters in Thurso. They have hostels in Portree on Skye, in Oban, Drumbeg, Hope, and Armadale. Lots of sailors who live in the Shelter Houses have a tattoo like that.”

Nolwenn was fantastic.

“Are they all registered?”

“Yes. The current residents and the former ones too. Most of them come back every once in a while. Things are very personal, that’s the principle of it. I asked them to make inquiries everywhere as to whether someone is missing. I’ve also sent the photo of the dead man over to them already. The employee in Thurso didn’t know him, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Brilliant.”

Perhaps they’d be in luck. It was a real opportunity.

“I’ve got to go, Monsieur le Commissaire. The funeral. Poor Aunt Elwen. Otherwise she’ll be in the ground before I get there. I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything. The woman in Thurso has my mobile number.”

Dupin could see it now: Nolwenn at the grave, the shovel with soil in her right hand, the mobile in her left, that’s how it would be.

She hung up a moment later. Dupin stood there for some time, lost in thought. Then he turned with a start. Another car was approaching the parking lot. This time it really was Riwal. The inspector brought the car to a stop with a violent jolt. Dupin walked over to it. He was glad that Riwal was back.

Erwann Braz was clearly unsure whether to follow Dupin. At first, he walked a few paces in Riwal’s direction, but then for some reason he stopped and tried to catch Dupin’s eye. Unsuccessfully.

Riwal’s pride was clear to see—he seemed to have grown a little.

“The remedy for scurvy?”

“I … sorry?”

“It says in all the history books that James Lind discovered it at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In reality it was François Martin, a Breton pharmacist from Vitré, and it was in 1601! He was on an expedition to East India when a dreadful storm sprang up, the boats were drifting about, unable to maneuver. All of the sailors got scurvy, apart from the ones on his boat. He had given the seamen oranges and lemons to eat.”

“Congratulations, Riwal!” Dupin had phrased this too openly—a mistake, the story was not over yet.

“They were rescued by Dutchmen and the Dutch king asked the pharmacist if he could keep the secret for the Dutch navy. Out of gratitude for his rescue, he agreed.”

Dupin was getting impatient. “Riwal, a number of the first important clues have just emerged.”

Riwal’s facial expression changed instantly.

“Clues that could lead us to the identity of the dead man at the Monts d’Arrée,” Dupin said, and told him about Nolwenn’s discoveries.

“We need—” His mobile rang again. Nolwenn once more. Dupin imagined she was already in the car.

She launched right into it:

“Seamus Smith!” She had uttered the name like it was a sensation.

“A regular guest at the Shelter House for decades. In Oban. Sixty-two. Scottish. They recognized him in the photo straightaway. He—”

“We’ve got the identity of the dead man? We know who he is?”

Things were happening thick and fast now, and this was Nolwenn’s favorite speed.

“He moved back into the hostel last November. He set out very early yesterday, but didn’t tell anyone what his plans were. Much less that he wanted to take a trip. Apparently he didn’t take any luggage either. They noticed he hadn’t come back this morning. Which never really happens. He doesn’t have any family left. They were already considering reporting him missing. Nobody can understand how he got his hands on a plane ticket; he didn’t have a cent.”

“How … did this happen so quickly?”

“There was no witchcraft, Monsieur le Commissaire. My Scottish friend is very good.” Dupin could hear genuine respect in her voice. “She’s on the phone to Oban again right now. They’re trying to track down the director of the hostel, she wasn’t in just now. My friend has only spoken to the assistant so far.”

Their dead man was a Scotsman. Dupin had only been in Scotland twice, and that was a long time ago. In Edinburgh. He had really liked the city. He didn’t know Oban; only the wonderful whisky.

“What else do we know? Was he a fisherman?”

“Yes. But he hadn’t been at sea for many years now. Too much alcohol. Probably a screwed-up kind of existence on the whole. No luck. Casual jobs in fish markets, mainly at mussel and oyster farms. Only ever temporary jobs. We don’t know any more at the moment.”

“Oyster farms?”

“They have them on the west coast of Scotland too. Right up into the north! But now I really must go. My friend is going to call Riwal, I’ve given her his number. I might not have any reception at the cemetery. Has Riwal arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Have you congratulated him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Nolwenn hung up.

---

Dupin put the phone in his pocket and placed both of his hands on the back of his head.

They had their dead man. One of their dead men. They knew his identity.

Although, it made everything even more mysterious for now. Why on earth did an aging day laborer from a Scottish backwater, who lived in a hostel for stranded sailors, leave Oban out of the blue one morning, only to then be murdered a few hours later fifteen hundred kilometers away in the Breton wilderness?

Dupin had—as he usually did while on the phone—been walking around without noticing. With no purpose in mind, no destination; it was almost like sleepwalking. When he hung up, he occasionally didn’t know where he was.

He had walked from the parking lot as far as the cliffs. Way out. Large, pale granite blocks rounded into whales’ backs over millennia, in the midst of thick, scraggly heather, a deep purple. The rocks were covered in lichen—neon yellow, bright orange, and bilious green areas in endless shapes—oval, oblong, round. Like ominous, enigmatic signs, ancient symbols.

Dupin took off his jacket. He was wearing one of his navy-blue polo shirts. It was really warm today, the sun hinting effortlessly at summer. A gentle, velvety breeze was blowing. One of those great Atlantic days, as Dupin called them, when the radiant, clear blue of the sky was everywhere. The sea seemed to want to show off its endless palette of blue shades too. Directly below him lay the turquoise bay. Far out there on the horizon there was a deep, rich blue to admire, while the horizon itself was a delicate, pale blue line. To the left was the Belon estuary; the Aven’s estuary to the right. You could see the bay, and on a small headland beyond it was Port Manech with its cozy harbor, the lagoon-like beach, the two tall palm trees at the front, and the small red-and-white-striped lighthouse.

The view was extraordinary. It was one of those days when a baffling optical phenomenon occurred. The air above the ocean acted as binoculars. Riwal had explained it to him once. At great length. But it was true. Faraway islands that you could usually only see the contours of suddenly seemed very close. You could make out several trees, sandy beaches, houses. So close you could almost just casually swim over.

Two large sailing boats were coming out of the Aven one after the other, and a green fishing boat was coming out of the Belon. Dupin’s gaze roamed farther out over the sea. Suddenly it snagged on something. Something dark was moving in the water. Not a boat. He briefly closed his eyes. Then stared at the spot again … gone! It was gone. He opened his eyes wide, standing there motionless. Was that Kiki? The direct relative of the great white shark? Perhaps it was just a rock that had been briefly exposed by the swell. In any case, there was nothing visible there now.

Dupin shook himself.

The new updates were significant. They had a lot to do. There were tasks to be delegated. Specific measures to implement, investigative steps. They needed to learn as much as possible about Smith as quickly as possible. But for a moment the commissaire was overcome by a strange feeling. Not the usual unease, tenseness, his typical restlessness. He was oddly relieved. Relieved that he could finally do something.

He was keeping an eye out for Riwal. Braz and his inspector seemed to have stayed in the parking lot.

Dupin walked back along the bumpy path he had taken earlier.

“Hello, boss.”

Dupin almost jumped. Riwal. But not from the direction Dupin was expecting. He was not far away and had called out unnecessarily loudly.

“Here, boss.”

Dupin turned and saw Riwal, Erwann Braz, and also Magalie Melen heading for the cliffs along a different path from the one he had just been standing on. Dupin turned round.

“We saw you’d walked to the cliffs.” Riwal knew that Dupin couldn’t stand being followed when he was on the phone. “I thought you—”

“There have been important developments,” Dupin announced firmly.

They had no time to lose.

They would have a discussion here on the cliffs.

Erwann Braz stopped in the middle of the path, unfazed. Riwal and Magalie Melen looked for a place to stand in the heather.

Dupin explained the extraordinary news in just a few words. And also his theory that the missing body from Port Belon was presumably the murderer from the Monts d’Arrée. That it would therefore all be one case.

It was clear all three were astonished.

Dupin had pulled out his little Clairefontaine notebook. “Smith must have flown. To Brest or Quimper, maybe. We need all the information on that, especially whether he traveled by himself.”

“I’ll take that on.” Riwal seemed to be full of energy, the triumph of passing the exam. “I’ll deal with Smith.”

“I want to know everything about him. Someone needs to speak to every resident of this hostel in Oban. To everyone he knew.”

Riwal nodded. He knew about the commissaire’s obsessions; he would want to know every little detail straightaway, no matter how insignificant it seemed.

“The police in Oban will be investigating now too. We need to make sure that they know our questions and ask them. You’re to establish contact with someone there as soon as possible, Riwal.”

“I’ll do that right away, boss.”

“And then I want us to make his identity public. And for the police to request the assistance—”

“I’ll take care of that,” Magalie Melen said quickly.

“Braz—you put in a call to the Monts d’Arrée. To the gendarmerie in Sizun. And inform both of our colleagues. Ask them whether they know anything about a Scotsman in the area.”

“Will do,” the policeman confirmed.

“Melen, send a sketch artist to Madame Bandol. They’re to produce a photofit image of the man she saw for us. There are a few new details. As soon as you have it, send it out too.”

Dupin had kept an eye on Braz as he was speaking.

“Who actually told us that Madame Bandol didn’t walk down by the Belon yesterday?”

Braz looked at the commissaire in astonishment.

“Matthieu Tordeux. One of the oyster farmers. He owns Super de Belon. A very successful business.”

“What was the man doing there when he supposedly saw her?” You could always turn the tables, thought Dupin. “He was obviously not far from the crime scene at the relevant time. What was he doing there?”

“I—I,” Braz stammered. “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

“You ought to. How did you come to hear about it?”

“Well, we did speak to everyone in the area about whether they noticed anything unusual yesterday.”

“And you didn’t think it was unusual that he was there himself?”

This was really a question that arose straightaway.

Braz squirmed. “I will speak to him immediately.”

Dupin turned pointedly to Magalie Melen. “Tell me about oyster farming in Port Belon. Who does what with oysters here?”

“Oysters?”

“Oysters.”

“There are four companies. The old Château de Belon, Madame Laroche and her family, she’s a descendant of the Breton founder of oyster farming. Then there’s Baptiste Kolenc, the owner of the second manor house, another old hand, he has been running the business Armoricaine de Belon for decades and he’s a friend of Madame Bandol.” The one who knew her secret, as Dupin was aware. “Then there’s Matthieu Tordeux’s farm. If you go down the ramp at the quay and then left along the high stone wall: the small white building there. And there’s a trader, Madame Premel, who also does refinement, affinage. Her farm is on the other side, toward the estuary.”

“That’s the entire oyster scene here?”

Dupin had been making notes.

It was relatively easy to get an overview of the oyster industry here in the world-famous oyster village.

“Only part of the oyster industry takes place in Port Belon, of course. In total there are around thirty companies on the Belon, most of them have their headquarters in Riec or right next to the production line at the river, they—”

Dupin’s phone beeped.

Magalie Melen broke off and looked inquiringly at the commissaire. He glanced at the screen and picked up.

“Where are you, Kadeg?”

“I … there is … there is still an issue after all, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Kadeg seemed even more subdued than this morning. Even more pitiful. This didn’t sound good.

“One moment,” Dupin said, and turned around. “Everyone is to get in touch as soon as they have anything.”

Then he set off. Back toward the cliffs. “Go ahead, Kadeg.”

“I’ve … there’s sand on an undeveloped piece of land belonging to my wife near Lorient. From various beaches. Including from Kerfany-les-Pins and Trenez beaches.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had to offer the building firms samples. We needed to convince them.”

Dupin could see why Kadeg was feeling pure fear. What he was saying amounted to no less than the fact that he really had stolen sand. Irrefutable in the legal sense too. It was enough to make Dupin tear his hair out.

“You assured me earlier that you hadn’t done anything illegal. You—” Dupin broke off. This was absurd, he had been naive, he ought to have known better.

“How much, Kadeg, how much sand?”

“A reasonable amount. I—”

“You’ve lost your mind!”

Kadeg couldn’t control himself any longer. “They are unscrupulous crooks. They are destroying the beaches, entire biotopes that Brittany…”

Dupin had never seen Kadeg as a committed ecologist or patron saint of Brittany before. This must have been his wife’s influence. But right as Kadeg might have been about the issue—that wasn’t what mattered.

“Kadeg! Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Getting him out of there would be really complicated now. But they had more important things to do! After Nolwenn’s intervention, Dupin had hoped it would be over.

“I’ll say you knew nothing about the … sand samples, of course.”

“Nonsense. Then you’ll be in a real mess.”

“I can’t drag you into it any further.”

Dupin was almost impressed. This was not Kadeg’s usual style.

“You’re an idiot, Kadeg. Is that clear? A complete idiot.”

Kadeg was really just the terrier he always was. He had sunk his teeth right in.

“Do internal affairs know about the sand yet?”

“No. But I’m going to tell them. I should have done it already.”

“I ordered you to do that too. To procure sand samples and to offer them—do you hear me, Kadeg? It happened on my orders!”

Dupin had no choice, he had to keep going down the road he’d chosen. Not knowing whether it led straight to disaster. For Kadeg—and for him.

“All right.” It had taken Kadeg a while to answer. He was audibly relieved.

“Any other illegal activity I should know about?”

“No. That … that’s all.”

“If you keep anything else secret from me, then it’s over.”

“Do you know what, boss?” Kadeg’s voice was suddenly firm again. “Do you know where one of the managing directors of Construction Traittot owns a house? In Port Belon! That’s really something, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Dupin rolled his eyes.

“Construction Traittot! A large construction company angling to get a foothold in Brittany with knock-down prices. I’ve been keeping tabs on them for some time. We’ve made more progress than our colleagues in Lorient.”

“If you have any serious evidence, Kadeg—then out with it! Tell our colleagues! Tell them everything!”

“They receive deliveries of sand in Lorient on trucks that aren’t registered to any company.”

“You’ve seen this?” Dupin couldn’t believe he had got mixed up in this.

“Absolutely. Gracianne did too. And took photographs.”

Kadeg’s wife, the stout martial arts teacher, was in fact called Gracianne; Dupin always forgot.

“That’s not reliable at all.”

“We need to tackle their books, all their business records.”

“We have no chance of getting a look at their books without reliable suspicion. You know what a search warrant requires. Pass on everything to our colleagues from Lorient, Kadeg! And let them do it. We’re staying out of it—do you understand? We are staying out of it!”

“They’re just poking around so far, my instinct—”

“Kadeg, stop. What matters now is preventing a charge being brought against you, a suspension. And we’re in the middle of a double murder here!”

“I—”

Dupin was furious. “I’ll have to speak to the prefect again and somehow explain the sand on your land. Before he hears about it from the other side.”

“I—”

Dupin hung up.

Kadeg was driving him up the wall. This whole issue. Utterly pointless. This had to end.

---

It had—like all phone calls with the prefect—turned into a nerve-shredding conversation, ten infinitely long, wasted minutes of his life; but somewhat successful in the end. However, Dupin had foolishly put his neck on the line again.

At first he had given emphatic but undetailed updates on the first breakthroughs in the murder investigation—“A start at least, keep up the good work, mon Commissaire” was the prefect’s response—and then he had come to the sand theft issue. And he quickly appealed to the prefect’s boundless narcissism this time. This matter presented “potentially, a genuine coup for the prefecture,” Dupin had claimed. Especially, of course, if a criminal French firm was engaged in destroying Brittany for profit, in the macabre form of the theft of original Breton resources to boot. If this was all true, there would be extraordinary media interest and Locmariaquer would become—Dupin had described this in glowing terms—the celebrated green hero. The fact that Dupin thought the chances of this vanishingly small was an entirely separate matter. Eventually the prefect had said that the issue, in spite of the “completely unacceptable methods” of the commissariat in Concarneau, could probably be resolved amicably. “In the interests of Brittany!” which really meant “in my own interests.” It was disgusting, but it didn’t even matter.

This time Dupin hadn’t stopped at the cliffs, walking farther down the path instead and into the bay, as far as the water. When he hung up, he was standing on fine, dazzlingly white sand. A gorgeous little beach that he knew well. Tiny waves lapped on the bank, like at a lake. From here, so close to the water, everything seemed even bluer today. When he and Claire did the wonderful walk along the Belon, they often ended here, and always did in the summer. With a little dip. Then they had a picnic: baguette, brie de Meaux, boar sausage. Dupin was reminded of the mysterious plan to meet “around six o’clock”; he had no idea how he was going to manage to get away now that they found themselves on a real case. In any case, he would have to be there.

“Monsieur le Commissaire? Hello?” Riwal was standing above Dupin on the cliffs and was frantically scouring the surrounding area. If someone were watching from a distance, it would be an amusing sight—the way they had run around this landscape in the last half an hour, met, parted, met again.

“Down here.”

Riwal lowered his gaze to the sea. A moment later he took off running.

Out of breath, he soon came to a stop just in front of the commissaire, his cheeks reddened.

“What is it?” Dupin had walked toward him.

“A second man, there’s a second Scotsman—on the plane, the two of them came together, he … his name is Ryan Mackenzie … They flew from Glasgow to Brest. They left yesterday morning at seven forty-five, Glasgow, I mean”—Riwal took a deep breath—“they rented a car in Mackenzie’s name, a silver Citroën C4. Everything via a travel agent in Glasgow—booked and paid for by Mackenzie.”

Dupin was standing bolt upright, as if thunderstruck. A bull’s-eye. Two men. Smith had not been alone. The two of them had come together. That strengthened their hypotheses.

Erwann Braz had joined them by now too. Riwal must have had him in tow.

“What did he have on?” This was the all-important question now.

Riwal didn’t understand at first. Dupin repeated: “I mean this second Scotsman, what did he have on yesterday? What did he look like?”

“They weren’t able to tell me that. I’ve asked the airline to get in touch with the aircraft crew immediately and ask whether anyone remembers the two men from 15A and B. Our colleague Braz has—”

“I have,” Braz interrupted Riwal, his voice thin, barely audible, “just spoken to the car rental company on the phone.” He hemmed and hawed. “He was wearing a jacket. Dark green.”

“Dark green—a dark green jacket?”

That was it! Unbelievable.

There was no way that was a coincidence.

“And he had sneakers on, yes, dark sneakers, that’s what the man who gave them the car remembers.” Braz’s embarrassment was clear, and with good reason. “Jeans. Short hair. I … It appears as though Madame Bandol did in fact see this man.”

It was all true.

Madame Bandol had seen a man lying in the parking lot above them. And it was this very man. The second man. Ryan Mackenzie. Who had flown from Scotland to Brest with Smith. Dupin almost made a fist and shouted “Yes!”

Gentle, mystical chords rang out. Riwal’s mobile. Dupin had asked him to change this psychedelic ringtone countless times but to no avail.

“A Scottish number. I’d better answer it.” Riwal picked up. “Hello? Inspector Riwal, Commissariat de Concarneau.”

Riwal held the phone slightly away from his ear, but Dupin couldn’t make out anything anyway.

Away from the phone, Riwal whispered:

“A Scottish policeman. From Tobermory. Isle of Mull. I had requested information on the second man.”

“Yes,” Riwal said in English, speaking to his Scottish colleague again. And listened carefully for quite a while.

“Yes.” The Scottish policeman was obviously telling him an awful lot.

“Yes, thank you.”

Riwal hung up. Dupin knew he spoke very good English, although that hadn’t been clear from this conversation.

“So.” Riwal was trying to get his excitement under control, which he was only partially successful in doing. “A sixty-two-year-old small business owner from the Isle of Mull, married . . he … he has been missing since yesterday evening.”

“Well, that’s pretty obvious now,” Braz interrupted sulkily, but Riwal carried on unfazed:

“His business is in a secluded bay on the island, around fifteen kilometers from Tobermory, that’s where they live too.” Riwal’s intonation made it clear the climax of his report was coming. “It’s called Oyster Culture—they’re oyster farmers!” He paused briefly and then carried on in measured tones. “They also fish other species of bivalves, but they mainly farm and sell oysters.”

Maybe this was their link.

“The policeman is going to get in touch with more information soon.”

“We’ve got to speak to the wife immediately; after all, she ought to know what her husband was up to in Brittany. Why he made this trip—and why he came with Smith.”

Dupin noted down the most important points.

“We need to find out what Smith and Mackenzie’s relationship was like and how they knew each other. When exactly did they intend to fly back, Riwal? Do we have the return flight?”

“Yes. On the same day, yesterday evening at seven forty-five.”

This was odd too.

“They wanted to go straight back? On the same day? They flew to Brittany for just a few hours?”

“That’s right. The flight only takes an hour and a half. Whatever they were planning, judging by their itinerary, it would have been possible to get it done in a matter of hours.”

That explained why Smith hadn’t had to officially sign out of his hostel. He would have been back again that night. Nobody would ever have known anything about his trip. This sensational news raised a string of questions.

“Are there any leads on the location of the Citroën C4?” Dupin asked.

“No. We’ll put out a search for it immediately. It will probably have been somewhere near here yesterday afternoon.” Riwal craned his neck vaguely in the direction of the parking lot. “Mackenzie probably came to Port Belon from the Monts d’Arrée by car.”

“Mackenzie could also have been brought here by someone else—by his murderer, for instance. Perhaps he met his murderer in the Monts d’Arrée,” interjected Braz, who was trying to make up for lost ground.

“In any case, after renting the car, the two of them drove directly to the Monts d’Arrée—why? Why there?” Dupin was aware that neither Riwal nor Braz knew. “Braz, have you spoken to one of the gendarmes from Sizun?”

“Yes. They don’t know Smith and had no idea what a Scotsman might have been doing in the area either. They don’t know any Scottish people at all.”

“Call again and bring them up to speed. Perhaps something else will occur to them about it.”

It was unlikely, but still.

“There might at least be a completely banal explanation for why they drove through the Monts d’Arrée.” Braz wanted to score more points. “That’s the shortest route from Brest, although it’s actually quicker via the four-laner. Older GPS devices often just go by the distance in kilometers.”

It was a plausible idea.

“But why do the two of them fly here together, which suggests that they know each other—only for one of them to kill the other right after they land?” Riwal had articulated one of the key questions. “It would have been easier to do it in Scotland. It can’t have been planned, there must have been a spur-of-the-moment argument.”

“How far is it from Glasgow to Oban and to this island?” Dupin was still thinking about how they had wanted to travel there and back on the same day.

“I think it’s two hours to Oban by car, and another hour to the Isle of Mull.” Riwal was good at geography. Especially the geography of the sister nations. “That will have been the oyster farmer’s car; Smith won’t have owned one, I’d say.”

The speculation was pointless—they needed more solid information; they had to be patient. It was awful.

“Have a search put out for Mackenzie too. Find out whether someone saw him yesterday evening. I want to see his photograph in every newspaper, along with this Smith’s photo. Online, on the Breton television channels, everywhere.”

“Most importantly, we need his corpse,” interjected Riwal thoughtfully.

“Where’s Magalie Melen?”

“Creating the composite with Madame Bandol is proving, how should I put it, rather complicated,” Braz gloated. “She had to go and help the artist.”

“Well, it’s pointless now. Call your colleague, let her know! Tell her to arrange for the search for Mackenzie. She’ll work directly with Inspector Riwal.” Dupin paused. “The oyster farmer who’s friends with Madame Bandol,” he glanced at his notebook, “Monsieur Kolenc. His business is based in that manor house?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Then I’m going to find out whether anything occurs to an oyster farmer in Port Belon about a Scottish colleague’s trip to Brittany. Perhaps the Scotsmen knew someone here.” Dupin’s expression became grim. “And, I’ll pay a visit to this Monsieur”—he took another look at his list of people’s names—“Monsieur Tordeux, Matthieu Tordeux. And ask him what he was up to yesterday in the general vicinity of the presumed crime scene. I’m assuming you haven’t got round to it yet.”

Braz looked utterly shamefaced.

“Back to the Scotsmen: we obviously need, as quickly as possible, the call records from their phones. Landlines. Mobiles. And access to the email accounts.”

“Of course, boss.” Riwal’s nodding indicated that it had long since been on his radar.

“Right. Off you go then. We have no time to lose. Get in touch as soon as there is anything.”

Dupin turned away.

“And another thing. Melen is to bring Madame Bandol up to speed on the latest.”

They both stared at Dupin, Riwal even more astounded than Braz. The commissaire was notorious for preferring not to let anyone in, not even his inspectors, let alone “outsiders.”

“She is to share everything we know with her.”

Dupin couldn’t resist a grin.

---

“My father is in the oyster beds. Down in the river. You’ll find him there.”

Dupin guessed Kolenc’s daughter—she had introduced herself as Louann Kolenc—was in her mid-thirties, a short, slender woman with delicate, soft facial features, but undoubtedly a bundle of energy. You could see it in her sparkling blue eyes. Thick, shoulder-length black hair. Very friendly. A small smile.

“I’m happy to come with you.”

She was wearing dark blue jeans and a plain V-neck sweater in the same color, and mid-length rubber boots.

“I’ll find my way there, thanks.”

Dupin was standing in the inner courtyard of the old manor house. Everything around them was made of stone; centuries of atmosphere. A few camellia bushes in full bloom, deep pink with an intense smell. A tank about five meters wide and three meters deep containing green-and-blue boxes full of oysters. A half-open wooden sliding door that revealed a glimpse of the workroom.

The young woman was standing at a kind of wooden counter—clearly a workspace—with a few boxes on it. Next to them were round raffia baskets in various sizes. And two towering piles of brown algae. The stuff with the little round lumps that went “plop” if you stood on them. They were hollow, only containing water—Dupin had found them interesting even as a child, during holidays by the sea; they exploded like snowberries used to do on the way to school back home.

“If you go down this road, then left and past the garden of the château with the high stone wall. That’s where the oyster tables start. Lots of rows of them. The ones slightly farther back in the river, those are ours. That’s where he should be.”

“Do you work in the family business too?”

Louann Kolenc gave Dupin a piercing look. But she was still friendly. Then she pointedly took one of the raffia baskets and put it directly in front of her.

“My father and I think Madame Bandol really did see a dead body. We don’t think she’s crazy.”

“She did. We’re sure of it now.”

Dupin wondered whether Monsieur Kolenc had confided in his daughter about the truth of the Bandol sisters.

“Madame Bandol is passionate about oysters. She is tireless in doing her bit for the prosperity of Port Belon,” she said, and laughed.

Dupin understood. “I had that impression already.”

The young woman took a couple of oysters out of the blue box and tapped them against each other. She saw Dupin’s astonished face.

“Listening to the oysters, we call it: écouter l’huître. You can hear if they’re alive. If they’re good or not. These ones are alive.” She placed them in a raffia basket.

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied a perplexed Dupin.

“I’ve helped out since I was six years old. I’ve done it on a regular basis since the death of my mother. My whole life. This is a wonderful job, you—”

“Monsieur le Commissaire!” Riwal was standing at a narrow wooden gate that separated the inner courtyard from the street, breathing hard. He must have sprinted again. “New information. There’s news!”

“I’m coming.” Dupin was already moving. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Kolenc.”

“Good luck!” It sounded genuinely encouraging.

A few moments later, he and Riwal were through the gate.

“The wife. They’ve spoken to Mackenzie’s wife. Only on the phone for now. She’s probably quite far away from them. The wife says she doesn’t know anything.”

“What did they tell her about her husband?”

It was extremely difficult to convey. Both pieces of information. That he was dead was, strictly speaking, still an assumption (even though it was certain for Dupin). But on the other hand, it was very probable that he was a murderer—that he had taken a secret trip to Brittany during which he had committed a murder.

“For the time being they’ve just said what has been established beyond doubt. That her husband has gone missing in Brittany. That he was here and has now disappeared. They haven’t mentioned probable cause yet. Mackenzie’s wife is of course beside herself with worry.”

“And she didn’t know anything about this trip?”

“No, she claims her husband told her he needed to go to Glasgow urgently. He has a share in an oyster bar, if I’ve understood correctly. He goes away for a day or two now and again. She presumed he went alone; he didn’t mention Smith anyway.”

Riwal seemed strangely weary in comparison with earlier, and also a little as if there was something on his mind.

“And she knows Smith?”

“Yes, she knows him by sight. She met him at the oyster farm a few times. He was one of the people who helped out during the season or on other occasions. She didn’t know anything more about him. And she says her husband can’t have known him very well either.”

“He didn’t know him very well, but spontaneously takes a secret trip to Brittany with him.” This had not been a question. “And the wife can’t make any sense of what her husband might have been doing in Brittany either?”

“No. She says she was only peripherally involved in her husband’s business dealings.”

“Well, then probably nobody will be able to tell us. Or want to.” Dupin rubbed his temple.

“He traveled to Cancale every two or three years, she says. To one of the numerous oyster fairs. He got to know an oyster farmer from Cancale there. The two of them had formed a loose friendship, she says, and were considering launching something together businesswise. But that hadn’t been fleshed out as yet. After staying in Cancale, Mackenzie then always traveled to Holland and Belgium for a few days.”

At least there was a known connection to Brittany. And again: oysters.

“The last trip was just under three years ago. In theory it would have been time for another one—but she didn’t know anything about a planned trip.”

“Do we have the oyster farmer’s name and details?”

“It’s all there.”

“Anything else? Does she have no idea at all what might have been going on?”

“Not the foggiest, according to the policeman who spoke to her on the phone. He’s on his way to see her right now to speak to her in depth. A colleague is also making inquiries.”

“Does the policeman find the woman credible?”

Dupin wasn’t pleased about the situation. They were completely dependent on other people, on the police in Oban and Tobermory; Dupin would have jumped at the chance to speak to Mackenzie’s wife in person. It all went against his instinct: a significant portion of the investigation would be out of their hands, a situation that the commissaire couldn’t stand on principle.

“He didn’t say it in so many words, but I suspect so.”

This wasn’t a particularly helpful statement. But what could they do? Riwal couldn’t change anything about the situation either.

“Get in touch with the man in Cancale immediately,” Dupin said. “No, I’ll call him myself. I’ll need the name and number.”

“I’ll send both to your phone. You’ll have them right away.”

“Any news on Smith?”

“Not yet. They haven’t managed to track down the director of the Shelter House yet. She was probably the only one he spoke to now and again.”

“Don’t tell me she’s missing too?” said Dupin.

“They’re assuming that she drove to Fort William to do a few errands. She does this once or twice a month.”

“No mobile?” Dupin felt uneasy.

“No mobile reception. Northern Scotland!” Riwal said with emphasis, clear reproach in his voice.

It took a Breton of all people to say that.

“Do we have access to their communications yet?”

“Smith didn’t own a computer, but he did have a prepaid mobile, although he probably didn’t have it on him very often. They’re working on Mackenzie’s documents. It’s taking a little while. Mobile, landline, computer. I…” Riwal’s eyebrows knitted; he didn’t go on talking.

“What is it, Riwal?”

“The medical examiner was trying to get through to you. Then she called Nolwenn at the funeral.” Suddenly Riwal’s voice almost seemed to crack. “Next to the first line of the tattoo, she has found the beginnings of a second one, she—” Riwal broke off again, as if he wanted to check something in his head, then he got out his phone. “Here, take a look.”

He held the little screen out to Dupin. “The second tattoo. Smith’s left upper arm.”

There wasn’t much that could be made out. A line, tapering at the top, grazed skin, hematomas. He had almost forgotten this second tattoo.

“I know this symbol. A mythical symbol. It’s the tribann.” Riwal was pale; his lips had almost disappeared.

Dupin looked at him: “Yes?”

“Three beams, sunbeams, coming from a central point.”

“What does it symbolize?”

“It goes back to Edward Williams, the founder of the Welsh Gorsedd of Bards. Early nineteenth century. The three beams symbolize the virtues of love, justice, and honesty. It’s called”—Riwal’s forehead was becoming more and more furrowed—“the magic mark.”

Dupin remained focused. Using the first tattoo, they had found out the man’s identity, and hence the second man’s identity too. Perhaps the second tattoo would lead them to the “story of the case.” Or at least put them on the right track.

“Who uses it?”

“Apart from the Welsh bard society, there’s also the society from Cornwall, it’s called Awen there, and the Scottish one—and the Breton society as well. The Goursez Breizh.”

“A bard society?”

“A druidic society.”

This answer did not help.

Dupin had of course heard of the modern—“contemporary”—druidic societies. He had had to unpick many of his prejudices in recent years—most of the existing societies followed a strictly humanistic religion and were a little like freemasons’ lodges. The druids were—from a historical point of view—the sages and philosophers of Celtic culture, but also the scientists, doctors, and above all the guardians of history and tradition. Systematic druid training took twenty years. Riwal had explained it in detail during one of his quiz rounds at headquarters; even Caesar had written about these druids with great appreciation. In accordance with strict philosophical beliefs, you had to make a mental note of everything, all knowledge was preserved only orally and passed on; written knowledge was regarded as inferior because it let things become fixed and static and thus killed the essence of them. Storytelling became the highest form of science. Being a druid thus meant one thing above all: telling stories to pass on knowledge. Only if you grasped that, Dupin had learned, could you understand Riwal. Or Nolwenn. The love of storytelling was something fundamentally different to just talking. “Real” storytelling that deliberately blended history and mythology reached the status of a fine art—it was no coincidence that Celtic culture had produced some of the most powerful literary stories in the Western world and in all of European literature: King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, Tristan and Isolde, The Holy Grail, Perceval.

“You’re saying Smith belonged to a druidic society? He was a druid?”

“Lots of the members have the symbol as a tattoo. I think so. It’s possible. The druidic societies have been very popular again in the Celtic nations since the seventies.”

Dupin needed to be careful or the conversation would drift into obscurities. Although Riwal was not a member of any of these societies—thank god—he knew all about them.

“And what does this Goursez Breizh do?”

“The aim is to promote and preserve Celtic culture and the Breton language. Goursez means throne. It’s a Celtic neopaganist movement.”

“Do you think Smith could have come to Brittany in his capacity as a druid, on some kind of druidic matter?”

“The societies work together very closely, you know: Intercelticism. There are joint activities. Not just the big gatherings.”

Riwal had not embellished these topics much by his standards; in fact he hadn’t embellished them at all. They had been dictionary entries instead. But he was known for his passions for the supernatural, fantastical, and also the occult. He still seemed strangely reticent. He usually loved these kinds of stories, but he appeared to find the idea that something druid-related could actually become part of a case extremely distasteful.

“So are there druidic societies around here?”

“Of course.” Riwal sounded outraged now. “Throughout Brittany! There are local, regional, and national societies, all-Brittany ones. As early as 1850, the famous linguist and classical scholar Hersart de La Villemarqué founded the Breuriez ar Varzed association, Bards of Brittany. He was so famous, the Brothers Grimm proposed him as a corresponding member for the Berlin Academy of Arts! In 1899, a delegation set off to the Eisteddfod in Wales; at this big Celtic festival, under the symbol of Excalibur, King Arthur’s sword, a Breton Gorsedd was founded. Today it’s called Breuderiezh Drouized, Barzhed hag Ovizion Breizh, the Brotherhood of the Druids, Bards, and Ovates of Brittany. Most of the local and regional associations are part of this association. But not all of them, of course, there are significant differences. Philosophical differences.”

That was enough for now, Dupin felt.

Riwal’s expression darkened again. “The mythical symbol is increasingly being sported by the druids. Based on the order of the freemasons, there are three ranks: the ovates who wear green robes, the bards in blue, and the druids in white. Perhaps he really was a druid.”

“What could be going on here? If this is to do with druids, I mean?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Dupin left it at that. Everything was so speculative anyway. For now at least.

“Tell our colleagues in Scotland to look into whether Smith really did belong to a druidic association.”

“Maybe it was just a decorative tattoo. It’s a very popular symbol.”

This was a topsy-turvy world. Riwal was making an unusually strenuous effort to play down the significance of the druidic symbols and all things fantastical. Something about it truly seemed to frighten him.

“We’ll see. I’ll go and speak to Monsieur Kolenc now, down in the oyster beds.”

Riwal looked very relieved.

“We’ve made one of the wooden tables outside the château into the command center; La Coquille is too busy. It’s where you eat the oysters outside and look at the Belon, you—”

“I know the tables, Riwal, even though I don’t eat oysters.”

It was a good place for a provisional command center. Dupin was notoriously inclined to use unusual places to work—outdoors, in cafés, restaurants, or bars—the main thing was not working in the commissariat.

“Even better. We’ll be sitting there if you need us. Magalie Melen is there too.”

“See you soon, Riwal.”

Dupin walked down the dead end toward the quay and the oyster banks in the Belon, while Riwal turned right. To the command center.

Dupin had never tried the “Queen of Seafood.” He thought the outside of the shellfish was very pretty—the dark, creviced, sharp-edged shell in distinct gray shades that made the oysters look like bizarre stones. On the inside the shells were even prettier: iridescent mother-of-pearl. Dupin had particularly liked collecting them as a child, along with the ormeaux, and piling them up by the dozen. He was definitely fond of the oyster as a creature. Dupin had read that they led a simple, but admirably peaceful life in their protective shells: either they were resting (or sleeping)—or they were eating. Doing just these two activities—some reproduction also happened once a year—they eked out their modest, contemplative existence. An exceedingly comfortable existence to Dupin’s mind. They didn’t even need to move to eat; the food came to them. Plankton delicacies were washed directly into their shells without any effort on their part. Dupin also thought highly of oysters because Aphrodite had come out of an oyster, the most beautiful of all women and the goddess of love. And because they called for such excellent wines. And frankly he even believed the stuff about the health benefits, on the whole at least. And also that they tasted exquisite, in theory. Like the sea refined—a truly lovely thought, Dupin had to admit.

But the commissaire had never brought himself to eat a single one—although he had been firmly planning to several times. But it wasn’t the idea of eating a living organism that bothered him, not at all; he managed it with other bivalves with no trouble. What had stopped him at the very last moment was the sight of it: the sliminess and the gooeyness of the whitish-green jelly. And it didn’t help that absolutely everyone said that once you’d eaten a single oyster, you couldn’t help but be addicted to them for life.

---

The air tasted like a salty sea floor; it smelled most intensely at times like this when there was low tide, sunshine, and gentle wind. Dupin liked this. You could smell everything the sea was made up of. Sunshine and warmth made it evaporate and hover, creating a fleeting ocean of almost infinite numbers of water vapor particles.

The current was visible as the Belon flowed through the bizarre landscape of white, dazzling silvery expanses toward the sea in a twisting, not very wide channel. Even at low tide it was impossible to tell how much water really belonged to the river; even at the lowest point of low tide, huge quantities of seawater were flowing away from the riverbeds and banks. To the right and left of the channel, the oyster tables jutted out of the silver expanses everywhere in long rows, the tables à claire-voie. Slender structures made of dark brown rusty metal rods, thin, grooved, and perhaps half a meter high, fitted with more supporting rods at the top, each ten or fifteen meters long. Steel centipedes. And there they lay on the tables: the large, coarse-meshed, flat bags called poches with the oysters growing inside them. Masses of brown algae had become tangled in the tables at high tide.

Dupin had followed Kolenc’s daughter’s instructions and had turned left at the little quay and walked down the gently sloping ramp—which was currently dry—into the riverbed. A handful of people were visible in the vast landscape. Dupin headed for two men working at the tables near the water channel. He walked across the muddy seabed and the stones, crushed shells, and small sandbanks. After just a few meters, his shoes were dirty up to his ankles and completely soaked through.

“Monsieur Kolenc?”

Dupin called vaguely in the direction of the two men. The taller of the two turned round to him.

Dupin walked toward him. “Monsieur Kolenc?”

The man nodded.

“I’d like to speak to you. Commissaire Georges Dupin.”

Baptiste Kolenc did not betray any surprise. He looked perfectly cheerful. “Because of the dead body from the parking lot?” he asked.

Dupin would have put Kolenc in his early sixties. A tall but well-built man, broad shoulders, large jet-black eyebrows, dark eyes, thick short gray hair, and a distinctly receding hairline. He had extremely friendly features and an open smile like his daughter’s that took over his whole face. He was wearing some of the yellow workman’s oilskin pants, held up by wide blue suspenders and a light gray sweatshirt covered in splashes of sludge.

“The dead body from the parking lot. Yes. A Scottish oyster farmer from the Isle of Mull, we now know, he probably farmed other bivalves too, but mainly oysters, but we don’t yet have any idea what he was doing here. Why he came to Port Belon. He made a … stop-off in the Monts d’Arrée and then came here.”

“An oyster farmer?” Kolenc asked in astonishment.

“Apparently they farm oysters in northern Scotland too,” Dupin said carefully. He didn’t know if this sounded like sacrilege to a Breton oyster fisherman.

“I know there are a few farmers up there.” It didn’t sound scornful. Kolenc carried on removing algae from the rods on the oyster bank. Then he picked up one of the large bags, shook it hard, set it down on the right, on the left, gave it another vigorous shake as if he wanted to make sure that the oysters were really tumbling over each other, and then put it back in its place the other way up with a deft movement. The oysters already looked big, and there must have been quite a few kilos of them.

“They love nestling up to each other. You’ve got to shake them regularly so that they don’t grow together or form shapes that are too crooked,” Kolenc murmured when he saw Dupin’s gaze.

“Ryan Mackenzie is his name. Does his name mean anything to you?”

Kolenc was holding the next sack, his eyes fixed firmly on the task. “Never heard of him. Should I have?”

“I had hoped he might be known here. Or that you’d have some idea why a Scottish mussel and oyster farmer might come to Port Belon?”

“Business? Maybe he has his oysters refined here. That wouldn’t be unusual, lots of people do that, including some overseas farms. It wouldn’t have been about the sale of seed oysters.”

Dupin had already heard this term in connection with oysters, refinement. Magalie Melen had talked about it earlier too—but he didn’t really know what it meant.

“What do you mean by that, Monsieur Kolenc?”

Dupin fished out his Clairefontaine and the Bic.

“He could bring his fully grown oysters here to the Belon for a few weeks, for refinement in the nutrient-rich fresh and salt waters. Then they can be called Belons. And sold as such. That’s common.”

Dupin’s brow furrowed.

“Belons are amongst the most famous oysters in the world. You can imagine how coveted a label it is. With oysters, the provenance determines the price.”

“They just lie around in the water here for a while, once they’re ready, and are then traded as Belons?” It sounded dishonest to Dupin.

“It’s … all right.” Kolenc shrugged.

“What do you mean by ‘all right’?”

“In the space of a few weeks an oyster renews itself physiologically from the ground up. It’s entirely replaced. So it takes on the classic Belon character in terms of taste and color here.”

For a Breton, Kolenc was astonishingly talkative, practically chatty.

“Do all oyster farms do that here, including you?” Dupin still found the idea dubious somehow.

“You don’t know much about oyster farming, do you?” The question had not been phrased in a malicious way, but Kolenc did now sigh audibly.

Dupin didn’t have the slightest clue about oyster farming; of course, quite a few people had told him about it on quite a few occasions over the last five years, but, of course, he had often not listened; generally that was one of his greatest talents: pretty elegant “not-listening” when something didn’t interest him.

“You need to know the differences between reproduction, farming, and refinement.”

“Really?”

Dupin particularly wanted to understand refinement.

“Reproduction only takes place in a few areas. In Brittany, for example, it takes place in Cancale or in the parks between the Couesnon and the Loire. Then farther downstream by the Atlantic, in the Arcachon Bay. The creuses come to us at eighteen months for farming, including refinement. That takes another eighteen months. We get the plates once they’re fully grown—just for refinement. For proper refinement.”

“And how long does that take?”

“Different lengths of time. Everyone decides for themselves. We say six months.”

“Is there a minimum?”

“It’s strictly regulated. Fifteen days. What you really have to know the differences between are farms who cultivate the oysters in their own parks and refine them properly and then finally sell them as their own oysters from here, and the farms,” Kolenc sounded scornful now for the first time, “who do nothing more than refine other people’s oysters for the minimum time—and then send them back. They do nothing more than rent out their parks, the spaces in the water here. Including to foreign companies.”

“Do you know of farms round here that refine oysters from Scotland? In the proper way or in the minimal way?”

This was the point Dupin was essentially interested in. Possible connections to Scotland. Direct, indirect, it didn’t matter. Refinement would be, if he understood correctly, a plausible reason why a Scotsman, a Scottish oyster farmer, would actually come to Port Belon.

“No. But it’s possible. We only refine our own oysters.”

He sounded proud. Kolenc turned aside and got out a steel brush. He began to brush the bags down vigorously, dirt, shells, and scraps of seaweed falling away.

“Is it big business? Refinement in general?”

“It is indeed. The oysters come from many European countries. I’ve heard they even come from Japan and China. But most of them are from France, from the less famous oyster regions.”

“Who does that kind of business here?”

“In Port Belon, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“The trader, Madame Premel. And Matthieu Tordeux, one of the three farmers. You’ll need to ask them about business ties to Scotland. Just like us, the Château de Belon doesn’t do it.”

Dupin had heard of those two before, too.

“You’ll just have to watch out, there’s no love lost between Tordeux and Premel. Apart from them, some of the big farms in Riec do it. They have much bigger nurseries all the way along the stretch of the river between here and Riec. It’s four or five kilometers; they have factories everywhere there.”

Pretty little Riec-sur-Belon was the oyster capital on the river. Just a few minutes away from Port Belon by car. Dupin was fond of it. There was a wonderful bakery there, a well-stocked newsagent, and a lovely market.

“You said something about…” The commissaire searched for a term he had just noted down. He generally made a lot of notes—although usually just single terms. You never knew when it might come in handy. “Seed oysters. About seed oysters, you said this couldn’t be about them. What does that mean?”

“Seed oysters are the oyster babies. As I mentioned, reproduction only happens in a few areas. From there, they are in turn sold to other areas for farming and refinement. In Scotland, for example, the oysters don’t spawn. The water is too cold. There’s no reproduction there.”

“Where do the seed oysters here in the Belon come from?”

“Some are supplied from other countries, mostly from Holland, the largest seed oyster producer in Europe. Lots come from the Arcachon Bay too. We only get our seed oysters from Brittany. And the plates that come here already fully grown, ours are from Brittany too. They love the Belon.”

“And this is big business too—the seed oyster business?”

“Oh yes.”

“And the plates, what kind of oysters are they?”

Kolenc’s eyebrows went up. This was quite clearly the question of a rank amateur.

“You don’t even eat them?”

“No.”

It took a moment for Kolenc to respond. He seemed torn between bafflement and disgust.

“The huîtres plates are the indigenous ones, the original European oysters. Almost extinct. They are flatter, rounder, smoother, smaller on average.” Kolenc sighed again. “And the creuses—they are, as their name implies, deeper, longer, more dome-like. Originally a Pacific oyster. The creuses make up the lion’s share of the market, throughout Europe and around the world. Like the château, our farm specializes in European oysters, but we also cultivate creuses—most other businesses only cultivate creuses.”

“And in Scotland?”

“Both kinds. Like in England. But the European oysters only make up a very small proportion of production everywhere. Of the forty-five thousand tons of oysters that Brittany puts on the market every year, only a thousand tons are huîtres plates.” Kolenc seemed pensive now. “Perhaps this Scotsman just wanted to buy oysters.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s quite simple. That he buys finished oysters from the Belon, imports them to Scotland, and sells them on there. Some farmers are also traders. Or he puts them directly on the market himself. Perhaps he has specialized in the plates, they love them in Britain. And he gets them from the Belon. They’re the best.”

This was of course conceivable. It would be completely plausible, just like the refinement theory. A plausible reason for Mackenzie’s connections to Brittany—and for business trips to Brittany.

“And the plates—those are the better ones?”

Kolenc looked amused.

“It’s a question of taste. We think so.” Kolenc smiled. “But not all creuses are the same. With oysters, everything depends on the local composition of the water they live in. It depends on the plankton, for instance, the various species of plankton available—we call them the ‘green flavors’—or on the makeup of the minerals, principally the salt content, of course. Oysters do nothing more than concentrate the taste of the water they live in. They are pure sea.” Kolenc’s voice took on a poetic tinge, which was an amusing contrast to his down-to-earth nature. “Just as the climate and soil of a cultivating area determine a wine and make it unique, so it is with the water and the taste of the oysters. It’s terroir for wine, merroir for us. So the creuses from the Belon are of course wonderful too.”

Dupin had never looked at oysters this way before. It was a lovely idea: that oysters allowed you to taste a very specific sea, a very specific place, very specific water. Yes, like wines. Dupin realized he was digressing.

“So you don’t know this Scotsman—Ryan Mackenzie?”

As he had earlier, Kolenc looked confused. It was an abrupt change of topic.

“No. But do ask the others. And in Riec.”

“Does anything at all occur to you about what might have happened here? I mean why in the oyster world such”—Madame Bandol’s word came to him—“incidents might come about? And serious conflicts too—going as far as murder?”

Kolenc’s expression became very serious. “No, no idea, but this much is for sure: there’s a lot of money at stake. Along with image, ambition, greed. Oysters may be the most contented, amicable creatures, but people are not.”

Dupin knew what Kolenc meant. That’s how it was. Everywhere.

There was one thing that still interested him: “What do you mean when you say there’s no love lost between them: Monsieur Tordeux and this trader?”

“They were married once, for half a year.”

A succinct explanation.

“And it didn’t turn out well.”

“Not at all well. It looked like true love at first. She wasn’t running the business at the time, it still belonged to her father. She’s more than twenty years younger than Tordeux and has long since remarried and had two daughters. Tordeux has become a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor.”

“I see. And now they’re fighting?”

“They’ve just gone up against each other. There was an oyster farm for sale near La Forêt-Fouesnant and both of them wanted it. Tordeux got it. They”—he seemed to think it over—“always clash at every opportunity actually, even at our association meetings—they never seem to happen without a fight.”

Both the Amiral and Henri with his Café du Port sourced their mussels and oysters from a farm near La Forȇt-Fouesnant. But the business in question must have been a different one; Dupin would have heard about a sale. He would ask Henri or Paul.

“Otherwise, since we’re already on the subject—any other rifts here in the area? With or without Scottish involvement?”

“Not that I know of. We all get on well with each other. Not that they’re friendships. But we respect one another.”

“Do you think—”

“Monsieur le Commissaire!” Riwal was running toward them and shouting at the top of his lungs from far away. It was starting to resemble a slapstick comedy.

“I’m coming.” Dupin turned to Kolenc. “Thank you, you’ve been so helpful.”

“Armandine Bandol said you two were a team.” Kolenc laughed; he seemed to like this idea. “Maybe I’ll be your consultant,” he said, and then added: “Armandine likes you. She trusts you.”

Dupin understood what he meant. He was pleased that Kolenc was protecting Madame Bandol’s secret.

“An extraordinary woman!”

“So come by if you’d like to know more about oysters.”

“I will—see you soon, Monsieur Kolenc.”

Kolenc turned his attention back to the oyster tables and with a vigorous movement he tore a thick cluster of brown algae off the supporting rods.

While Dupin was saying good-bye, Inspector Riwal had set off back to the bank. Dupin caught up to him before the ramp up to the quay.

Suddenly the commissaire stopped walking.

Without any explanation, he turned around and walked briskly back to Kolenc, who was watching him curiously.

“Just one more question. Perhaps it’s slightly off topic. A building contractor has a house here in Port Belon.”

“Pierre Delsard. Yes. A pompous show-off.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Delsard isn’t here often. He comes with friends or ‘business partners’ and throws huge parties. On the days when these parties are happening, there are Porsches, Jaguars, and Range Rovers parked here. From all over Brittany. And from Paris, of course. There’s a steady stream from the best traiteurs in the region. Oysters, rare mussels, lobster, champagne, foie gras.”

Dupin’s mouth automatically watered. He hadn’t eaten for far too long.

“Where’s his main home?”

“In Lorient. His company is there too. They say he has invested in an oyster farm or two. For fun. Because he doesn’t know what to do with his money.”

“Here in Port Belon?”

“I couldn’t say. Nothing is official knowledge. Ask Tordeux. He’s a good friend of his.”

“Do you think he got into business with Monsieur Tordeux?”

Those would be confusing entanglements—the building trade and oyster industry. Which Dupin had not considered before.

“I don’t know, Tordeux acts aggressive; he’s constantly expanding his business. Besides the farm near La Forȇt-Fouesnant, he bought a business in Cancale recently,” Kolenc said.

“Cancale?”

“Yes.”

Kolenc added, “It’s not that unusual. Cancale is by far the largest Breton oyster location for everything, including seed oysters. Lots of larger oyster farms have a site there.”

“I see. Where does the building contractor source his oysters from—for all those parties?”

“I assume his mate supplies him.”

“Thanks again, Monsieur Kolenc.”

Kolenc’s open smile was back. “That’s what consultants are for.”

Dupin turned round once and for all. Riwal was waiting for him on the quay.

“News on Smith and Mackenzie. Most importantly: the director of the Shelter House has turned up again; she was shopping in Fort William as suspected.”

Dupin was relieved to hear this.

“The director of the hostel knew that Smith was in fact an active member of a druidic society in the past, but”—there was noticeable relief on Riwal’s face—“definitely not for the past several years. The group is called Seashore Grove and is a direct member of the Scottish Gorsedd. At most, Smith still went to special celebrations, but even then, not on a regular basis. So it’s unlikely that this is about a druidic matter.” He had uttered this sentence with emphatic certainty. “And nobody knows anything about Mackenzie having any interest in druidic matters.”

Dupin was torn, but he let the subject drop for now.

“Go on.”

Riwal looked downright grateful. They walked along the quay, turning right and going up the road.

“Smith has been a guest in the Shelter House for twenty-seven years. He’s actually from the Isle of Skye. A complete loner, according to the director. No family ties or other strong social bonds—he never spoke about them anyway, and in the hostel they never heard of any. A reserved man, he generally spent his evenings alone, a lot of alcohol, but no medical problems as yet. And a good eater.” Riwal’s description was thorough. “There’s a man around his age in the house whom he chatted to now and again, but he doesn’t know anything relevant either, our colleagues have already spoken to him. The two of them told each other tales of the high seas. Talked about old times, fishing, rugby, Celtic sports, bagpipe competitions. That kind of thing. Smith often went fishing and every now and then he brought the cafeteria a big fish. All in all, a guy who wanted to be left alone. On occasion, when he had had too much to drink, he lost it. Over small things. But that didn’t happen often. He was very amenable, really.”

“Physical violence, bodily harm?”

“No. It descended into a brawl once, but nobody was hurt. It happens more often with other residents. The other thing the director had to report was this: he had been involved in a bank robbery that went wrong.”

That was a major crime, at any rate. Riwal mentioned it last and almost in passing.

“When was that?”

“In 1970. He was nineteen.”

“That’s almost half a century ago.” Dupin’s interest was waning. “Has he come to the attention of the police again since then?”

“No.”

Dupin was noting everything down; the notebook was filling up.

“And his casual jobs?”

“Only very seasonal, never anything permanent. As we already knew: as a young man he had been a deep-sea fisherman, on the big boats far out in the North Atlantic, the truly wild sea.” Riwal’s respect was palpable. “But the director didn’t know any more details about that.”

“And his links to Mackenzie?” Dupin asked impatiently.

“I was just coming to that. It seems he has always worked for Mackenzie, a few weeks here, a few months there. Seven years ago he worked for him for nearly twelve months straight, then suddenly it was less; it was only weeks at a time in recent years. The Shelter House residents have to document their working circumstances precisely, that’s one of the requirements for being admitted. It’s all there.”

“What happened? Why did he work there so much less often as time went on?”

“We don’t know. Perhaps because of the devastating events in oyster farming at the time. In 2008, the huîtres plates across Europe caught a brutal bacteria that almost wiped them out. Widespread oyster death. Or because of the major economic crisis—businesses collapsed all over the place.”

“Here in the Belon too? I mean, did the oyster death happen here too?”

“Everywhere. There’s another wave now. At this very moment.”

Dupin gave an involuntary start. “Right now? Here in Port Belon?”

He looked around, an absurd reflex. Nobody had told him about this yet. They had all seemed so relaxed.

He and Riwal had arrived at the tables outside the château some time ago. At their “command center.” They had chosen the last table, away from the others. There was nobody there apart from them. Braz and Melen seemed to be out on duty.

“It’s not in Port Belon yet. It started in the Arcachon Bay and is just arriving in the Île d’Oléron now. The border of Brittany. Catastrophic. And a complete mystery. An unknown bacteria. It’s been killing off oysters wholesale for a while now. Mainly the plates. It strikes with terrible force and it strikes the fully grown animals. Up to two-thirds of the oysters are affected.”

Riwal had sat down, but Dupin stayed on his feet. He knew that Riwal knew what he was talking about when it came to oysters. Apart from the obligatory langoustines, he usually brought a dozen oysters to the commissariat for lunch and complained vociferously about the price every day—in Paris, Dupin knew, it was four or five times as much!—and then he and Nolwenn set about them with relish. Riwal naturally put his never being sick down to this daily oyster consumption. And of course, oysters were a symbol of Brittany and that meant it had to be defended.

“And it could strike here too?” Dupin’s question sounded unintentionally melodramatic.

“Any time. At any second.” Riwal’s answer was equally melodramatic.

Dupin didn’t have a clue how this could be connected—but perhaps it was no coincidence that the Scottish oyster farmer and his seasonal worker had set off for their trip to Brittany right at this moment. At a moment when—possibly—a fresh disaster was happening in the oyster world.

A single high-pitched note was audible, but only just. A text message. Dupin got his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans and looked at the screen. Claire. The promised details for their meet-up. The corner of Rue de Kergariou and Rue du Sallé, 6:30. That was it. Riwal blinked curiously at him.

“Back to Smith. What else is there on him?”

“That’s all for the moment. Our local colleagues are trying to find out whether there might still in fact be family members whom they have to inform.”

“When did Smith last have a job with Mackenzie?”

“Over the last Christmas and New Year’s holidays. That’s the high season in oyster farming. For three weeks.”

“And not again after that?”

That was almost four months ago.

“And Mackenzie. What news is there on him?”

“The policeman is with Mackenzie’s wife right now. We’ll hear about that soon. I had given him a quick call because of the druidic issue. Riwal pulled a face. “Our colleagues have looked up what they can find on his company. He has tried to expand a few times. He set up the company thirty-five years ago, he had a branch in Kirn, but he sold it again two years later. Then he bought a smaller oyster farm in Lochgilphead ten years ago. And after that he opened an oyster bar in Tobermory where he offered his own oysters and mussels to eat or buy. Six years ago he deregistered these two businesses again.”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t clear from the official documents. The recession, I suspect. Tourism must have severely declined in northern Scotland too. Or the impact of the oyster death at the time; even if Scotland was spared, he definitely wouldn’t have got any more seed oysters. Or both of those reasons.”

“So in the end he only had one business left?”

“Mackenzie did in fact invest in a bar in Glasgow last year called Oyster Heaven—he’s a co-owner. His oyster farm on the Isle of Mull and this bar, those were his two current businesses.”

Mackenzie was someone who had obviously always kept trying. Had tried to build himself something bigger. And kept failing. Due to adverse circumstances perhaps, Dupin thought.

“We need to know as soon as possible whether Mackenzie imported oysters from the Belon. Or whether he had any refined here. Whether he specialized in European oysters. Tell our Scottish colleague to grill his co-workers.”

“We’ll do that, boss.”

“Are our colleagues working on Mackenzie’s business records yet? They ought to be logged…”

“If they even existed—and were legal. If not, they definitely won’t be on the books. And also not if he was only just setting it up. Perhaps that’s why he came.”

Dupin was walking up and down in front of the tables. The panorama was enchanting. In front of the magnificent manor house, straight across the Belon, stood a handful of extremely weathered long wooden tables with benches. Lined by old, wildly overgrown oak trees was a view of the Belon estuary, shimmering an emerald green in the afternoon sun.

“So does it happen often, such a large-scale oyster death?”

Dupin was still, he realized, preoccupied by the blight issue. The potential catastrophe.

“Not on the horrific scale of 2008, but on a smaller scale, it happens over and over again. In 1920, an infection wiped out ninety percent of the huîtres plates in Europe. Up until the end of the nineteenth century, it was the only species of oyster in Europe, from the Norwegian fjords to Gibraltar, apart from smaller cultures of the Portuguese oyster. Even in the years before the infection, it had been badly affected by the excessive rise in consumption, after the Sun King really made it into a delicacy again, which it had previously been amongst the Greeks and Romans.” Riwal’s eyes gleamed. “In the Middle Ages, oysters were just for poor people, they were out of favor. But Louis XIV later had every guest at his sumptuous parties served exactly one hundred oysters. His chef could never source enough of them.” Riwal suddenly sounded glum. “And the chef threw himself into the Seine because of a delayed oyster delivery. He—”

“Riwal—the oyster death!”

This was not the time for historical digressions. It had also sounded a little macabre; Riwal seemed fully capable of understanding the motive for this desperate act.

“The millennia of European oysters were followed by the great half century of the Portuguese oyster.” Dupin almost burst out laughing at Riwal’s words. “The year 1868 is the crucial date. A Breton ship loaded with six hundred thousand Portuguese oysters sought shelter in the Gironde estuary from a terrible storm that wasn’t letting up. At some point, the captain figured the oysters were spoilt. He had them thrown into the water—and some were still alive.” Riwal had begun to speak very quickly—he was aware that Dupin would interrupt again otherwise. “They quickly spread out all the way along the Atlantic coast. When the disease almost obliterated the European oysters, people were glad to have them. The Portuguese oysters were more delicate and could be sold all year round because of their spawning habits!”

“Kolenc talked about a Pacific oyster,” Dupin said.

“In around 1970, the Portuguese oyster caught two deadly viruses one after the other and was almost wiped out itself. Luckily an oyster farmer had brought a small culture of the Pacific oyster from British Columbia and Japan a few years before, which was immune to the viruses. The ‘giants.’ More were soon sourced and people began to farm them. They are the most robust kind of oyster. Tragically, there was another terrible virus lurking in some imported specimens, which almost completely eradicated the by then slightly regenerated cultures of European oysters.” Riwal took a deep breath for his finale: “The Pacific oyster makes up over ninety percent of the world market today; the European oyster makes up point two percent.”

Dupin was—whether he liked it or not—impressed. Clearly the history of oysters was an extremely violent one—a history of mass death and disaster. And, like everything else in the world, a history of coincidences.

“At some point, the European oyster will die out completely,” Riwal said wistfully. “It has just received the award for Mollusk of the Year, an important award!”

Dupin almost laughed, but Riwal was serious.

“The award is for mollusks whose survival is under threat and who have an important ecological function. The Desmoulin’s whorl snail, the great gray slug, the mouse-eared snail, the thick-shelled river mussel, the door snail. In this way, they inform the public about select species and try to bring more attention to mollusk-related issues, they—”

“Riwal! We are not at the university!” There were some moments when you had to step in. Although Dupin could easily see why mollusks with names like these needed someone to champion them.

“Kolenc didn’t mention anything about a potential epidemic. Or that they could possibly be on the brink of a catastrophe here in Port Belon.” The commissaire was pensive. “But it could actually mean the end for the farms. Including his.”

“There are many reasons the bacterium might stop before the river. Just a few currents would need to change. And it would all be irrelevant to the Belon.”

“Riwal, do you think that the plates taste superior to the creuses?”

For a moment there was astonishment on Riwal’s face, then joy. Unalloyed joy at Dupin’s unexpected interest in oysters. For years they had all—Riwal, Nolwenn, but also Paul Girard from the Amiral, and Henri—tried in vain to give Dupin an understanding of oysters.

“There is something uniquely nutty about the plates, something delicate, something subtle, and there’s an undercurrent of saltiness. Here in the Belon anyway. They taste of the extraordinary water they live in. A mixture of river flavors and sea flavors.” Riwal’s face was rapt now, transformed like a wine critic’s at a tasting. “The river flavors are reminiscent of cucumbers, melons, or fresh soybeans—on the other hand, they have that very specific metallic clarity of the iodine flavor. Which the oysters from the refining pools in Marennes-Oléron, for example, have almost none of, although they are of course fantastic. With the oysters from the large sea bays or the open sea, the iodine component is even more pronounced. It all just depends on…”

“… merroir,” Dupin finished his sentence.

Riwal nodded appreciatively.

“You have to close your eyes if you’re eating oysters. Smell, taste, feel. The sea, the place! Only philistines wash oysters down.” These words were resonant with anxious disgust. “You’ve got to chew them slowly and pay attention to the flavor with all of your senses. And anyone who really wants to do that will avoid any added flavors like lemon, pepper, or vinaigrette. The water is as exquisite as they themselves are. Another bad habit is eating oysters ice cold, that damages the flavor!” Dupin would need to intervene again; Riwal was digressing. “They taste best at a temperature of between eight and twelve degrees, like the young, lightly sparkling Muscadet with its mineral taste and the flavors of apples and citrus fruits that you drink on the side!”

“You can’t beat a Muscadet,” Dupin blurted out. His mouth was watering, but not because of the oysters.

“A wine that can stand up to oysters is important and it depends on flavor, region, and species of oyster. But not all white wines are appropriate by a long shot. For Belon oysters, the Muscadet is the absolute perfect wine! But what also goes well is a Chablis. A Pouilly-Fuissé. A Puligny-Montrachet. Why not? Excellent!”

“All right, Riwal. All right!”

Suddenly a pleased, delighted expression appeared on Riwal’s face.

“Do we have an oyster case, Monsieur le Commissaire—what do you think?”

Dupin furrowed his brow. At some point Riwal, Nolwenn, Kadeg, the whole commissariat, and last but not least the Breton press had started to refer to the cases from the last few years like this. The “art case,” the “island case,” the “salt case.” Absolutely ridiculous. When he heard this, he feared the worst for the party the day after tomorrow; it occurred to him again that he needed to elicit a promise from Nolwenn that there would be no speeches. Or any kind of funny retrospectives. Or amusing anecdotes.

“Riwal!” Dupin was desperate to get back to the investigation now. They needed to concentrate.

“We need to know whether any of the other oyster farmers knew Mackenzie. All along the Belon. Whether anyone has done business with him.”

“Absolutely, boss.”

“We should build up a picture of who on the Belon maintains business ties with Scotland. No matter what kind. There won’t be that many. Call in our two colleagues from Riec. Make inquiries at every farm.”

The staffing situation was still poor. Riwal might have been back but Dupin could have done with Kadeg and Nolwenn.

“I’ll take on the farms here in Port Belon.” Dupin looked at his watch. He still had about an hour, then he needed to leave to get to Quimper more or less on time—for his mysterious plans with Claire. His instinct told him that he should under no circumstances risk being late. During their first relationship, he had been far too late far too often. Or hadn’t turned up at all.

“Did you get through to the man in Cancale, Monsieur le Commissaire?”

This was important. Dupin hadn’t tried again yet.

“I’ll do it immediately. On my way to see Monsieur Tordeux.” Dupin leafed through his notebook. “Ah yes—at Super de Belon.”

“Okay. I sent the name and number of the man in Cancale to your phone. You ought to have everything.”

“See you later, Riwal.”

“Another thing, boss.” Riwal seemed embarrassed all of a sudden. “This business with Kadeg. Just briefly, so that you’re aware: internal affairs is having him painstakingly show them everything on the site right now. The sand samples. To get a complete picture of our undercover operation. Nolwenn just let me know.”

“From the funeral?” Dupin stopped moving.

“Yes. Aunt Elwen was already in the ground, don’t worry.”

“And when will we see Kadeg?”

“This evening, I think. Or else tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Riwal.”

Dupin left the tables at a brisk pace. He had just turned the corner when Magalie Melen suddenly appeared in front of him. This was inconvenient.

“Commissaire—Madame Bandol is asking when you’re seeing each other again today. She has been trying to call you.”

“Has she recalled new details? Did something else spring to mind?”

That could happen at any moment.

“I don’t think so. It was about her next ‘meeting’ with you, she said. And how you propose to progress with the investigation in general?” Magalie Melen had no doubt repeated Madame Bandol word for word.

“Tell her that unfortunately I won’t make it today anymore. Unfortunately. That I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

Dupin really was sorry.

Something else had occurred to him during his conversation with Kolenc. He had even made a note of it:

“What exactly has happened to this madame who owns the château?”

“Morocco, Agadir. She’s away until the end of the week. With her whole family. Her husband and two children. They’ve been gone since Sunday of last week. They take two weeks’ holiday a year. Traditionally always in the weeks before Easter.”

“And who’s staffing the tastings there now? If you want to eat oysters at those tables?”

“Her niece. Late twenties. She’s actually a baker. She comes here every year for these two weeks. But only does the tastings here on-site. And reads a lot. Things aren’t very busy round here yet, as you can see. And then there’s also the three employees who look after the oyster beds. They come from Riec.”

“You know the owner?”

“Quite well.”

It sounded more like “very well.”

“Suspicious in any way?”

The young policewoman remained unfazed. “I don’t think so. No.”

“Call her in Morocco—and inquire about Mackenzie and Smith. And Scotland in general—about any possible connections to it.”

“Will do.”

“I’ve got to get going.” Dupin hurried on.

A call and a visit were still doable—he would no longer manage the conversation with the trader before Quimper. He actually really needed a coffee. The commissaire emitted a loud, deep sigh. It could be heard far and wide.

---

“Hello?”

The phone had rung for a long time—Dupin almost hung up again.

“It’s Commissaire Dupin here. Commissariat de Police Concarneau. Am I speaking to Monsieur Cueff?”

“Speaking.” An irritated tone of voice.

“We’re investigating a murder case, monsieur. A man you know disappeared last night.”

“You’re pulling my leg, right?”

“No, Monsieur Cueff. It’s about Ryan Mackenzie.”

“Ryan Mackenzie?” There was concern in his voice.

“Yes. It’s highly likely he was murdered in Port Belon.”

“Highly likely?” A legitimate question, expressed with undisguised condescension. “Do you mean it’s highly likely he was murdered—or do you mean it’s highly likely he was murdered specifically in Port Belon?”

“Both.”

This was correct. And it ought to have been enough. There was quite a long silence and Dupin didn’t intend to break it.

“That’s crazy. He called me just last week. Wednesday afternoon.”

“He did what?”

“I hadn’t heard from him for a good year, I’ve known him for almost twenty years, we—”

“What did he want?”

“He told me that business was good and that he might want to come by in the near future to discuss the idea of taking a share in the company. His last visit was two or three years ago.”

“He wanted to come to Brittany?”

This was getting more and more interesting.

“To see me in Cancale. Yes. So?”

“What were these plans about a share? How far did they progress?”

“It was still just an idea. Nothing more. He wanted to buy in to my oyster farm. Potentially twenty percent of it or so. He’d had the idea a long time ago, I was very interested.” What Cueff was saying was very informative, in contrast to the undisguised reluctance audible in his voice. “But the considerations never progressed very far.”

“Why was he interested in it in the first place, do you think?”

“Breton Oysters is an attractive business in Britain. Plus he would have had a reliable supply of seed oysters.”

It was a good thing Dupin had spoken to Kolenc in some detail; he was up to speed.

“And how long have you known him exactly?”

“Since 1997, I think. We met at a fair for European oyster producers here in Cancale. He was sitting at our table, next to my wife and me. He has visited us every few years since then, whenever he made a trip to the Continent.”

“Did he mention anything about an imminent trip to Brittany he was planning? Soon, this week?”

“No. He…” Cueff hesitated, an uncertain hesitation. “Nothing. He only said he wanted to come soon, without mentioning a date. He was going to get in touch again.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“No hint, nothing indirect or implied?”

“No.”

“Did anything seem unusual during the phone call?”

“He was in a very good mood. The call lasted maybe three minutes. No. You now know pretty much every word we said to each other.”

Dupin had reached the quay. On the left-hand side, the little white building directly beside the high, overgrown stone wall of the château was easy to see from the ramp. A neat white sign that read Super de Belon in enormous blue lettering pointed the way.

“A share in a business like this, what kind of figures are we talking about?”

“We didn’t get as far as figures in our considerations at all.”

“How much is your farm in Cancale worth?”

It took Cueff a while to answer. He seemed to be considering whether he should answer at all.

“Right now you’d pay a million for a business like mine.”

“Do you own other businesses? Or shares in businesses? In Port Belon, for example?”

“No.”

“And the name ‘Seamus Smith’ probably doesn’t mean anything to you either?”

“No.”

“That’s it for the moment, Monsieur Cueff. Just one more thing: where were you when Ryan Mackenzie’s call came through?”

“At home.”

“A landline call?”

“I barely use the landline. A mobile call.”

“Were you home alone?”

“I was working in the office. Yes.”

“Nobody saw you?”

“Not till that evening.” The displeasure in Cueff’s voice grew again and he didn’t try to hide it. “When my wife and son came in around half past eight.”

“Thanks very much. We’ll be in touch again soon.”

No response from Cueff. Dupin didn’t wait long. He hung up.

It was just a few more meters to Tordeux’s farm.

The same outsized sign as at the quay hung resplendent over the entrance to the building: Super de Belon.

Dupin dialed Riwal’s number and he answered on the first ring.

“Boss?”

Dupin launched in with no preamble. “This man from Cancale, Nicolas Cueff. Speak to the police in Cancale. We need information about him and his business activities. Anything we can get access to. And I want someone to go over right now and talk to him in detail. They should have him tell them everything in meticulous detail, every aspect of the conversation with Mackenzie. Go over his alibi with him again. And most importantly: the policeman who is with Mackenzie’s wife is to ask her specifically whether she knew about her husband’s plans to invest in Cueff’s oyster farm. And in particular, about how he had apparently just taken up this idea again and called Cueff because of it last week—it would certainly have meant quite a large financial investment.”

“All right, boss.”

“Riwal, is Nolwenn back?” It made Dupin nervous when Nolwenn wasn’t in the office during a case. Her presence didn’t just mean great help and support, but also moral and psychological stability, and also a kind of superstition that everything would turn out well.

“The funeral meal ought to be over soon.”

“Thank god,” Dupin blurted out. “See you soon.”

---

The river had risen again slightly, the channel widening. Right next to Tordeux’s building was a long oyster pool. Next to that was a bright red tractor, the shovel facing upward, just above the ground. Two men in the apparently obligatory yellow oilskin pants were busy loading large red sacks full of oysters onto the shovel. Dupin strode up to them, wading through deep mud again. His shoes would not dry out again today.

“Monsieur Tordeux?”

They clearly hadn’t heard Dupin coming, both men turning round with a start at the same time.

“Inside,” said one of the two men with a vague gesture. A moment later they were fully focused on the sacks again.

Dupin turned on his heel without saying a word. The door—which was more like a gate—was standing wide open.

“Monsieur Tordeux?”

Not waiting for an answer, Dupin went inside. A sparse room stretched out in front of him. The walls had been roughly plastered and whitewashed in days gone by, becoming brown and gray. The room was crammed with junk and mountains of oyster sacks in untidy piles. In the far right-hand corner, which you could only get to by walking in a zigzag, he spotted a crude set of wooden steps that looked like the result of DIY carpentry. There was a single small window, the light was mainly coming through the open door.

“Up here.”

Monsieur Tordeux had taken his time with his response.

Dupin worked his way over to the stairs. The steps were twice as high as normal steps, so it was practically mountain-climbing.

Everything was different upstairs. The contrast was enormous. You were suddenly standing in an exquisite designer room. Luxuriously furnished. Windows on three sides—the largest looking out onto the river—and most importantly, an enormous skylight made of aluminum that showed off a considerable amount of sky. Next to the large window with the river view, a snow-white table stood in the middle of the room. It looked expensive, with an equally expensive stainless steel lamp on it, a large flat screen, and an elegant white chair behind it. There were two chairs in front of the table. Perfectly fitted steel shelves on the walls, white paneling. In the other corner of the room was a black leather sofa with a low, matching coffee table.

“Monsieur Vannec?”

Tordeux didn’t stand up till the last second and was now walking purposefully toward Dupin, holding out a friendly hand to him. Medium height, slim, lightly tanned, short black hair discreetly gelled back, a silvery shimmer on the sides, an elegantly narrow face—perfectly shaved—dark gray slacks, light gray shirt, gray tones that went too well with his hair to be a coincidence, three shirt buttons open, studiously casual. Perhaps late fifties or even early sixties; it was hard to say—he had stayed young without appearing to be making a desperate effort to do so.

For now Dupin didn’t intend to clear up the obvious misunderstanding, letting Tordeux talk.

“You’re absolutely right to come to me. Belon oysters! There’s nothing better! It’s great that you found us okay. We’ll make you an excellent offer. Do sit down!” He pointed to one of the two chairs.

The expert approach of a shrewd salesman. Dupin stayed standing.

“Commissaire Georges Dupin—Commissariat de Police Concarneau.”

Tordeux looked surprised for just a moment and then smiled in amusement. Self-assured.

“I was expecting a new customer. A restaurateur. He was meant to be here at five,” he replied, “but of course it’s a pleasure to welcome the police too.”

Dupin was not in the mood for joking.

“Do you maintain business links to Scotland, Monsieur Tordeux? To Scottish companies?”

“To our sister nation?”

Dupin did not answer.

“Yes, with a trader in Edinburgh. And a farmer in Dundee.” Tordeux spoke in a pointedly casual way.

“Edinburgh and Dundee?”

A hit on the first try. Scotland, two links. Albeit eastern Scotland.

“Yes.”

“One of your business partners is called Ryan Mackenzie, I take it.”

It couldn’t hurt to give it a try.

“Ian Smollet. That’s the name of the trader in Edinburgh. I sell our delicious plates to him. And James MacPhilly is the farmer in Dundee—I refine his oysters into superb Belons. I see them both, I’d say, every two years. The business is worth it. Edinburgh is a fantastic city, they cultivate an exquisite flavor there!”

Dupin had fished his notebook out of his pocket. “You don’t know a Ryan Mackenzie, Monsieur Tordeux—I’m asking you straight out. You’ve never met him? Never heard of him?”

“Definitely not.”

“He was the victim of a murder yesterday, very near here.”

“So it’s true then. There’s been some unsettling news going round since last night. And you mislaid the corpse. That must be seriously annoying for you.”

“Seamus Smith? Do you know him?”

“Same thing. Never met him, never heard the name.”

“And your trader and your farmer—are they in contact with one of them?”

“You’re kidding me! Do you think I know all of their business partners? Who are these two gentlemen you’re asking about, are they oyster farmers too?”

“One of them is, yes. Ryan Mackenzie.”

“My partners aren’t accountable to me. And just for context: I maintain business relationships with sixteen European countries.”

“And how long have you had ties to Scotland?”

“Twenty years, I think. At least twenty years.”

“Was either of the two—your Mr.,” Dupin checked the names, “Mr. Smollet and Mr. MacPhilly—here in Brittany recently?”

“Most recently, I saw them both at the beginning of last year. In January and March maybe. They were here briefly. There’s nothing more to tell.”

His answers came very casually.

“But you’re in touch regularly? By phone, email.”

“You don’t give up—what are you actually trying to get at?”

A smug smile suddenly flitted across Tordeux’s lips. For a split second.

“I’m investigating. So?”

“Of course we stay in touch. There are regular deliveries. The trader gets a shipment of plates every two weeks. The farmer sends me quite large quantities of his oysters twice a year. And I send them back to him.”

Again, it was like water off a duck’s back with Tordeux.

“Do you fear the outbreak of an oyster infection here in the Belon, monsieur? That the catastrophe from Arcachon will spread as far as here?”

“We’ll see.”

He didn’t seem surprised by the question. He didn’t seem worried by the topic at all. Or he was hiding it very well.

“Is there talk of that round here yet?”

“Ask the others. I’m certainly not talking about it.” Tordeux’s eyes flashed suddenly. “Who supplies the commissariat in Concarneau with oysters? I’ll make you an unbeatable offer.”

Dupin wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a joke.

“I hear you’ve just bought and expanded a farm near La Forȇt-Fouesnant?”

“That’s right. And two years ago in Cancale. Yes, you’ve got to position yourself well strategically! And business is good. If you work hard for it.”

“And why so extraordinarily good? We’re talking about significant investments here.”

Tordeux looked Dupin right in the eye. “We’ve increased turnover here by a factor of twelve in ten years. Increasing year on year. And we’ve saved capital.” He spoke in a pointedly calm voice.

“Pierre Delsard. The building contractor. A good friend of yours, apparently. You supply him with oysters and mussels.”

“A very good friend. And a very good customer. Yes.”

Dupin felt it was almost provocative, how willingly Tordeux gave information.

“Monsieur Delsard didn’t go into business with you, by any chance? As the financier? A silent partner?”

The answer came promptly; Tordeux didn’t betray any emotion: “No. I do my own thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he said, and burst out into loud laughter.

“Financially, is your business based more on farming or refinement on the whole?”

“Refinement.”

Dupin glanced at his watch. He would need to get going soon.

“And now for the most important question, Monsieur Tordeux.” Dupin paused for a few moments, as if he was waiting for something. “What were you doing yesterday at the scene of the crime at the time that it was happening?”

The question caught Tordeux by surprise—there was a flicker of shock on his face.

He made a big effort to make his tone breezy and sarcastic. “So that’s how it is. I’m your suspect. I would never have thought you capable of so much humor—Parisians are normally more on the grumpy side.”

“That’s right, Monsieur Tordeux,” Dupin said sharply. He was fed up with the rhetorical dancing around. “I alone decide who is under suspicion. You’re absolutely right to worry. So?”

“Oh, so you can be a bit more aggressive. I’m glad. That’s important in your profession. So, my official statement for the record: I own a gîte rural, a kind of guesthouse, inherited from my aunt, around a kilometer from the parking lot, and there’s only one way to get to it: via the road with the little dead end to the parking lot off it. I came via that street. A completely legal action, as far as I know. Around four forty. Because I had something to do at the gîte. And I saw old Madame Bandol with her dog. She was coming up the path from the Belon. And that was it. As befits an upstanding citizen, I accurately reported this to the police when a colleague of yours asked me whether I had by any chance been in the area in question at the time in question and whether I happened to notice anything.”

“To summarize: at the time of the crime you were at least in the vicinity of the crime scene. What did you need to do in your gîte, monsieur?”

“I was expecting guests.”

“And you do all of that yourself?”

“Of course I’ve got someone who looks after the building.” Tordeux was acting almost indignant. “Making the beds, cleaning, and so on. But there are things I need to do there too.”

“Do you have many guests?”

“There could be more, if I wanted. I just do it on the side. I mainly rent to friends and acquaintances.”

“And what were these things that you had to do?”

“I had the key.”

Dupin had been thinking more of the heating or something along those lines. “The key?”

Before Tordeux could respond, the commissaire carried on: “We’ll get in touch again very soon, Monsieur Tordeux. Then you’ll tell us the rest. A colleague will speak to your guests too.”

Dupin turned around and headed for the stairs.

“I’ll be here.” Tordeux seemed completely calm, not a trace of irritation. “And have another think about the supply to your commissariat. Your festive occasions, receptions. There must have been plenty of them since you’ve been there.” This didn’t sound sarcastic in the slightest. “I make the best offers. Real Belons!”

Concentrating hard, but moving quickly, Dupin climbed down the neck-breaking steps.

It was 5:45.

Outside the exit, he could see a short, dumpy man approaching the stone building, keeping close to the wall and wearing an ugly pale yellow suit. Making an effort not to get too close to the mud. It looked ridiculous. Presumably the restaurateur whom Tordeux was expecting.

Dupin hurried on.

He could see Riwal at the turnoff for their command center. The inspector noticed him too, although Dupin had been trying hard to scurry past.

Riwal immediately rushed over to him.

He got started before Dupin could even say that he really didn’t have the time right now.

“Boss, the policeman who drove over to Mackenzie’s wife has just called, we spoke in depth. Our colleagues—”

“And?”

“Jane Mackenzie has confirmed she didn’t know what her husband was doing in Brittany. She—”

“I’ll call you from the car soon, Riwal, I mean, straightaway, in a minute.”

He wanted to hear the details of what the Scottish policeman had to report from this conversation.

“From the car?”

Dupin hadn’t told anyone about his “field trip” to Quimper.

“In a minute.”

“There’s more important information, the phone records belonging to—”

“In a minute, Riwal. I promise! Tordeux has two Scottish business partners, by the way. In Edinburgh and Dundee. An oyster farmer and a trader. Have them checked out by the Scottish police, Tordeux is to give you their contact details. Find out whether they were in touch with our two Scotsmen.”

Dupin was already walking on, but he turned round again briefly.

“And work out where I can find this trader. Tonight.”

---

It was 6:37. Dupin was almost on time. And nervous. Why was Claire acting so mysterious?

He was already at the Place Laënnec that he liked so much, at the imposing cathedral. He would be there any moment now, at the corner of Rue de Kergariou and Rue du Sallé, a little cobblestoned street with quite a steep rise to it—hilly, medieval Quimper had a good number of them—with old houses in shades of pale beige, ochre, and gray that made the light glow in an atmospheric way.

Riwal had been reporting to him in great detail for almost the entire journey.

The conversation between the policeman from Tobermory and Mackenzie’s wife had ended up taking a long time; the policeman had had to stop a few times. Jane Mackenzie had been in a miserable, nervous state.

She definitely didn’t know of her husband having any business ties to Brittany. Her husband had apparently spoken to her about the idea of getting into business with Cueff, but her impression was that this had remained vague. Most importantly, she had had no idea that her husband got in touch with Cueff last week or that he was considering this issue again at all. Mrs. Mackenzie didn’t have much of an overview of the business or finances. She outlined the history of the farm for the policeman in broad brushstrokes, including various attempts and plans for expansion, along with the setbacks. Apparently it was indeed the great oyster death in 2008 that led to the sale of the other companies, combined with the poor economic situation. The Mackenzies’ company had experienced many highs and lows. Her husband dreamed of building something big, and despite all of the adversity, never gave up. Ryan Mackenzie had told his wife he was going to drive to Glasgow and possibly stay overnight—and he really did have a meeting with his business partner that he had arranged three weeks ago. They had found an email in Mackenzie’s outbox canceling it with no explanation. It must have happened in the days leading up to that: something in Ryan Mackenzie’s life that made him—along with Smith—plan the fateful Brittany trip. Something that possibly began with the call from Smith.

According to Jane Mackenzie, Mr. Mackenzie was a “good man through and through.” Riwal had noted several phrases and read them out: “introverted, honest, and had no enemies.” She couldn’t—it was always the same old story, Dupin had heard it often enough—for the life of her imagine that he would have been caught up in something bad. He had had trouble with alcohol when he was young, but not for a long time now. She had got to know him when he was thirty and she was twenty-two. Jane Mackenzie had confirmed again that Smith and her husband, as far as she knew, hadn’t known each other well. That her husband had felt “somehow sorry” for him and gave him work now and again.

Dupin had wanted clarifications and more details, even asking questions as if Riwal were Jane Mackenzie. It had quickly descended into the ridiculous.

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.