The Third Day

Salou was already there when Dupin walked into the Central. He was alone, no team with him. He was standing at the end of the bar and looked shattered. Dupin walked over to him.

‘What’s the news? What’s going on?’ asked Salou.

Dupin had expected Salou to take a more aggressive line with him. He had been convinced Salou would consider it an affront to be called in at this hour for no apparent reason. Not that Dupin was overly upset about having called him in so early. But Salou actually looked more nervous than anything else. Dupin had to focus, this was important.

‘I want you to tell me how long the painting over there by the door has been hanging in comparison with the others. Or have they all been hanging here for the same length of time? Is there any trace evidence on this painting or the frame?’

‘How long the painting has been hanging here? You want to know how long this cheap copy has been hanging in this room? That’s what I came here for?’

Dupin walked over to the wall very calmly and positioned himself in front of the painting. ‘I’m talking about this painting in this frame in comparison to the others. And yes, I want to know whether this painting has been hanging here as long as the others.’

‘You’ve already said that. I have no idea what you’re trying to get at. What’s your hunch?’

Salou deserved an answer. But Dupin had no desire to give away even the slightest bit more. ‘I want to know whether this painting here could, potentially, have been hung in the last few days. Surely that’s not too difficult. This place must be dusted on a regular basis. Since the last dusting all of the paintings must have a certain –’

‘I am quite familiar with how to do my job. Nothing in this room changed between yesterday and today. Nothing at all. And apparently not for a long time before that either. We compared the current room with photographs from recent years. We looked at the paintings too. They’re hanging in the same arrangement as they have been for the last few years at least.’

‘I know. No, I mean very specifically this painting.’

‘And why do you want it compared to all the others? This is a nonsense task.’

‘One or more paintings might have been replaced in the last few days.’

‘I still don’t know what you’re driving at, particularly as this is the most idiotic of all the paintings here. Gauguin never painted a piece like that; some amateur came up with it. It doesn’t get much more stupid than that. A mangled imitation of the Vision after the Sermon.’

Dupin couldn’t hide his surprise at Salou’s knowledge of Gauguin. ‘So you know a lot about art?’

‘Gauguin is my great passion, the whole artists’ colony movement, I –’ Salou broke off. He seemed to be asking himself why he was telling Dupin this. ‘That’s really neither here nor there of course. I’m asking you this formally and officially: is it essential for the Pennec murder case to know whether this painting was hung here for the first time a few days ago?’ He was confrontational again.

‘Absolutely, this question is of the utmost importance.’ Dupin was sure that Salou wouldn’t accept that from him and would take the way he’d phrased it as a further provocation – but it was true. That’s exactly what it was.

‘Then we’ll get to work immediately, I’ll call my team.’

Salou had excellent self-restraint, Dupin had to admit that.

‘You don’t know of any painting like this painted by Gauguin either?’

‘No. As I said, the imitator has made ludicrous mistakes. A complete misrepresentation.’

‘But overall. In theory. What do you think, couldn’t this be a painting by Gauguin?’

‘That question doesn’t make any sense.’

Salou looked the Commissaire in the eye. He thought about it. Then he said: ‘Well in a way, I suppose it’s possible he painted it. It looks like a Gauguin.’

Now Dupin was confused. He felt very awkward – he had been readying himself for an attack. ‘Thanks. I mean, thank you for sharing your opinion.’ He cleared his throat.

‘All right then. I’m going to call my colleagues now.’ Salou reached into his jacket pocket. Without another word he left the room, clutching his mobile in his hand. Dupin didn’t say anything either.

Dupin walked into the breakfast room a little before eight. He had asked that the other guests not be allowed in until half past. Marie Morgane Cassel was already sitting at one of the little tables, right in the corner by the window, a grand crème in front of her. There was a big basket on the table full of croissants, pains au chocolat, brioches and baguettes, along with various jams and butter. There was also a whole gâteau breton with its distinctive taste – extremely salty butter and a lot of sugar. There was even a huge basket of fruit and some yoghurt. Madame Mendu had made a real effort. In the midst of all these delicacies lay an open laptop.

‘Good morning, Madame Cassel. Did you sleep well?’

The professor smiled pleasantly at Dupin, her head tilted slightly to one side. Her hair was still damp; she must have just come out of the shower.

‘Good morning. I’m not a good sleeper actually, never have been.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘But it’s not too bad. It was a very quiet night here, if that’s what you mean. I was able to do my research in peace.’

Marie Morgane Cassel didn’t look at all tired – on the contrary, in fact. She looked wide awake.

Dupin sat down at her table. ‘Did you find anything?’

‘There are no indications of a second Vision after the Sermon, a second painting that dealt with this theme, or even that Gauguin had worked on a different version.’ She was really on top of things. ‘But, in theory, it’s not impossible.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘For one thing, Gauguin certainly did occasionally undertake multiple studies of a single subject if it was something that preoccupied him. Sometimes he did several paintings of one subject, which varied in certain things, motifs or viewpoints. There’s a huge number of sketches, studies and even smaller preliminary studies for most parts and motifs of the The Vision. Many elements were varied across these. I’ve looked at everything again very carefully and found something quite astonishing.’ She was beaming now.

‘Look at this. I found something in the special archive of the Musée d’Orsay. A scientific databank, they scanned in all of Gauguin’s material recently, a lot of the personal stuff too, which had been unknown or little known.’

She turned the laptop around. Dupin looked at the screen. There really wasn’t much to see in the image.

‘This is a sketch, fifteen centimetres by twelve. The quality of the scan isn’t very good here. But you can see everything that matters.’

There were patterns all down the left hand side and along the bottom of the painting. They looked three-dimensional but were in fact just flat and white, heavily contoured in black. Right in the middle there was a tree trunk looming steeply upwards, with a few hints of branches along the top towards the right. But the most striking thing about this sketch was the colour. The whole background was a garish orange, as though it were the base colour of the piece of paper.

‘He tried it out. Gauguin tried out this orange. It’s unbelievable.’

Dupin wasn’t sure what Madame Cassel meant.

‘Now that I’ve seen this, a painting like the one hanging here in the restaurant – I mean a potential original of this painting – has become a bit more, how should I put it, more conceivable.’

‘A lot more conceivable?’

Suddenly there was a loud knock. Dupin wanted to respond with a grumpy ‘Not now’, but Labat was already standing in the room. He was completely out of breath and deathly pale. His voice shook strangely.

‘There’s,’ he gasped for breath, ‘there’s another body.’

For a moment neither Dupin nor Madame Cassel knew whether to laugh. Labat’s entrance had looked like a bad scene in a bad play.

‘You’ve got to come immediately, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

Dupin leapt up in the same theatrical and absurd way that Labat had burst in, and still didn’t know what to say. ‘Okay, yes. I’m coming,’ he murmured.

The corpse was in bad shape. The arms and legs stuck out unnaturally from the body; the bones must have been broken in many places. His trousers and jumper were ripped in some places, tattered, like his skin and the flesh on his knees, his shoulders, his chest. The left hand side of his head had caved in. The storm-tossed cliffs were treacherous at this part of the coast. Towering upwards, thirty or forty metres above sea level and dropping away steeply, so rugged, so sharp-edged and cavernous with so many interlocking crags that even a short fall was disastrous. Loic Pennec must have hit a few of the narrow ledges before eventually landing on the huge rocks right at the breakwater. Nobody would ever know whether he had survived the fall, spending hours and hours simply waiting for help to come. The heavy rain and the storm had swept away the blood and everything else along with it. The sand was dyed red between the large stones.

The wind came in brutal gusts, whipping the rain in front of it over and over again. It was half past eight but not yet light. The sky was a dramatic black, and huge clouds swarmed above the surface of the sea. Pennec was lying perhaps two hundred metres from Plage Tahiti, Dupin’s favourite beach, with its two small islets just off the coast like a landscape painting. The beach was around ten minutes from Pont-Aven by car. Just yesterday holiday-makers had been enjoying a perfect summer’s day, children playing in the calm, blue-green water and on the fine, dazzlingly white sand. In good weather it looked just like a bay in the South Seas. Today it looked like the End of Days.

A small path led up through the cliffs from the east end of the beach and then wound along the coast in crazy loops (an old smuggler’s path as the locals so proudly claimed), to Rospico and on to Port Manech. The area was sparsely populated, a nature reserve zone. A breathtakingly beautiful path. Dupin sometimes came for walks here.

Salou and Dupin had come straight here. They had taken Dupin’s car. Le Ber and Labat had followed in a second car and arrived at almost the same time.

A jogger had found Pennec and called the police. The two officers from Pont-Aven had set out immediately and had been first on the scene. They were now securing the path above, which you could barely make out any more from down here, the clouds were so low in the sky. Monfort had waited for Dupin in the car park and led them to Loic Pennec’s body.

There were four of them standing around the body. Le Ber, Labat, Salou and Dupin, already soaked through after the walk from the car park. It was a gruesome scene. Salou was the first to say something. ‘We should secure the forensic evidence on the path now. We can look for traces of a second person straight away.’

‘Yes we need that confirmed as soon as possible.’ Dupin had to admit Salou was right. Everything depended on whether there had been a second person.

‘We have to hurry. Most of the evidence will have been swept away already, if it wasn’t stamped right down into the ground. I’ll have my team come down.’

Salou turned around and skilfully, but with evident care, began climbing back up over the rocks. The rain and the spray had made everything extremely slippery. Le Ber, Labat and Dupin stayed by the body, silent again, just standing and looking as they had before, as though they were holding some strange vigil.

Labat was the first to snap out of it. He made an effort to sound professional. ‘You should inform Madame Pennec of her husband’s death, Monsieur le Commissaire. That’s definitely the most important thing.’ He looked vaguely upwards, to the spot where Salou had disappeared. ‘We should cordon off this whole area.’

‘Fucking hell.’ Dupin had been talking to himself, but very loudly. He ran his hand right through his horrible hair, which was wet and plastered to his head. He needed to be alone. To think. Things had taken a serious turn. Not that it had been an innocuous case before, but now it had gone from being a backwater affair – which had initially seemed to be about inheritances or maybe serious illnesses – to being a violent case. A case of completely different proportions. Especially with this fantastical sum, the forty million which might be the basis of the case. And the second death. If Dupin had felt that everything in some vague way had become strangely surreal in the last two days, this bizarre murder in this perfect summer idyll, everything had taken on a sudden, inescapable and brutal reality with this second body.

‘I’m going to make a few calls. Stay here at the scene. Both of you. And get in touch straight away if there’s news.’

Not even Labat protested. Dupin had no idea where he was going, especially not in this rain. He clambered a short distance across the rocks along the shore, which was impossible to do without looking ridiculous. It wasn’t easy to stay upright on the slippery rocks and stones, but he had no desire to take the direct route up and meet his colleagues again. Only at the next big rock ledge did he climb up onto the coastal path. Then he walked a bit further and turned left when the path forked, the right fork leading to the car park, the left towards the deserted beach below.

Even when he strained his eyes, the other end of the beach and the islets that lay so picturesquely off the coast were only dimly visible. His jacket, his polo-shirt, his jeans, everything was saturated and water was running into his shoes. The rain was being blown sideways by the storm coming off the sea and mixing with the bursts of spray. Powerful waves, three or four metres high, rolled relentlessly onto the beach, breaking on the sandbank with ear-splitting crashes. Dupin had gone so close to the water that the waves were lapping his shoes. He took a deep breath and started walking slowly along the beach.

Was it murder or suicide? Loic Pennec was dead. Two days ago someone had murdered his father. And now the son too? Dupin had to think clearly. He had to concentrate now. Concentrate fully. Take things step by step and not let himself get confused. Not by the second death. Not by the commotion that would break out now. Whether this was an accident, murder or suicide, there was going to be a huge scandal and he didn’t even want to think about what would happen when word got out. He had to know the reason. What had set everything off? He had to work quickly. Had there really been a genuine Gauguin hanging in the restaurant? That was the first question. He had to know. Know for sure. But how could he find out? And if it was a genuine, undiscovered Gauguin, then the question was who would have known about the painting? About the forty million euro? This was the crucial question. Who did Pennec tell? And when? Sometime in the last few days when he knew he was going to die? Or years ago? Decades ago? Had he even told anyone? His son must have known. And Catherine Pennec too. Or had the son not known anything either? It was obvious old Pennec hadn’t had a very close relationship with his son, however much Loic Pennec tried to hide it. And what about Madame Lajoux, his – Dupin was sure of it – lover? And Fragan Delon? And Beauvois who had advised him on all things art, whom Pennec seemed to have trusted? And the question was an even broader one. What about André Pennec? Or might an outsider have recognised the painting as an original? And what had set everything off now, at this specific point in time? The single unusual thing that had happened in the last week was that Pennec had found out that he was likely to die in the near future.

Dupin had almost reached the other end of the beach, where a small road became a slipway for launching boats into the water. On the right hand side, a little higher up amongst the old dunes was a pretty little hotel called the Ar Men Du; for Dupin’s money, it had the best restaurant on the coast. This was a special place. Here, in Finistère, there were a few spots where you could really feel it: the edge of the world. Yes, this is where the world ended, on this craggy, wild ledge. There was nothing but the endless ocean in front of you, an expanse so large that you couldn’t see it all – but you could definitely feel it. Thousands of kilometres of water, the open sea, not a scrap of land, nothing.

Dupin urgently needed to make a quiet phone call. It wasn’t possible out here, but in this weather nobody would be in the Ar Men Du. He could sit in the bar; the hotel guests had their own breakfast room. He would make his call and drink coffee.

The owner of the Ar Men Du was Alain Trifin, who had been running it for some years now. It used to be a dive but Trifin had seen its potential and made something of it. Dupin liked him a lot; he had a dignified, intelligent, laconic manner, and his conversations with Dupin were short but genuine. Dupin rarely went to the Ar Men Du, but whenever he did it struck him that he should do so more often.

Trifin smiled when he saw Dupin coming in, soaked from head to foot and dripping. Dupin stood in the doorway while Trifin disappeared into the kitchen without a word and emerged with a towel a moment later. He was tall with thick, short hair and prominent, well-defined features, a very good-looking man.

‘Dry yourself off first, Monsieur Dupin. Coffee?’

‘Thanks – yes please.’

‘I take it you’d rather be alone.’ Trifin pointed to the table in the corner, right by the big window.

‘There are a few calls I need to make. I –’

‘Nobody will disturb you here.’ He glanced out at the lashing rain as though by way of explanation.

Dupin dried his head and face, took off his jacket, ran the towel over his clothes once and laid it on the chair before he sat down. A little puddle had formed in the spot where he had been standing. Trifin signalled to one of the two waiters.

A moment later Trifin was standing at the huge espresso machine. A very young waiter brought the coffee, trying to be as discreet as possible. He moved as though his greatest ambition was not to be noticed by Dupin.

Dupin dialled Le Ber’s number and it rang for a long time before he picked up. At first the only thing Dupin could hear was a horrible hissing sound. Then he heard Le Ber’s distorted voice which was almost impossible to understand, even though he was shouting.

‘Hang on, Monsieur le Commissaire, hang on,’ nothing for a few seconds and then Le Ber was back, ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, I’ve come a bit closer to the rocks, but that’s not helping either. The wind is coming off the sea. I’ll go back to the car.’ He hung up before Dupin could say anything.

Dupin looked out the big window towards where Le Ber would now have been visible, had the weather been better. It was even darker now, and water was running down the window panes in steady streams.

The coffee was wonderful. If it hadn’t been for this tragedy, this brutal crime, this whole case, it would have been extremely cosy, being warm and dry in here while the storm raged outside. But he couldn’t appreciate it right now.

It took much longer than he had expected for Le Ber to call back. This time Dupin could hear him loud and clear.

‘I’m sitting in the car. I’ve spoken to Salou again. He has been able to pinpoint the place where Loic Pennec fell. Salou thinks he probably wasn’t alone.’

‘He wasn’t alone?’

‘There are potential traces of a second person. Salou says it’s incredibly difficult to make out, and the rain has already washed away a lot of the trace evidence.’

‘Can we assume this information is reliable yet?’

‘Tell Salou to let me know as soon as he is sure.’

‘Le Ber, I want to know who painted the copies that are hanging in Central, especially the painting next to the restaurant door. We need the name as soon as possible. This is the only thing we should be concentrating on right now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I just said.’

‘You want to know who painted the copied paintings in the restaurant?’

‘Yes, that one in particular.’

‘Now? You mean right now?’

‘And the second body? Within the space of three days, somebody murders Pierre-Louis Pennec and then they probably murder his son. Almost wipes out the whole family. The forensic –’

‘I need the painter who did those paintings.’

‘Shouldn’t I stay here? At the crime scene?’

‘We also urgently need to get hold of the member of staff Monsieur Pennec spoke to at the Musée d’Orsay.’

‘He’s on holiday until the end of next week. Labat spoke to his secretary yesterday but she wasn’t able to reach him. Apparently, Pennec spoke to the secretary on the phone when he rang the Musée d’Orsay last week, but the secretary doesn’t have a clue what it was about or what Pennec wanted, she just transferred his call.’

‘We’ve got to find him. What’s his name?’

‘Labat knows.’

‘It doesn’t matter for the moment. What’s important is that we find him as soon as possible. And I want to see Madame Cassel.’

Le Ber seemed confused. ‘Madame Cassel? Now?’

‘Get me her mobile number. That’s enough to be going on with. I forgot to make a note of it.’

‘Who is going to give Madame Pennec the terrible news? You should do it, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘Labat can do it. He should get going immediately, right now. I’ll drive over to Madame Pennec later. Tell him to let her know I’ll be coming.’

‘There’ll be trouble, you know.’

‘He should get going straight away. She shouldn’t just find out any old way. And of course we’ve got to know as much as possible about Pennec’s walk. When he set out, where he was going – and why? Was he on his own?’

‘I’ll let Labat know. But it’s going to be difficult, I mean after delivering news like this –’

‘Call me as soon as you have anything. The most important thing is to locate the man from the museum… And the copyists.’

Dupin hung up. The rain had eased off all of a sudden. To the west, way out over the sea by the towering black cliffs (the Men Du from which the area and the hotel took their name), a crack had opened in the clouds. A sun beam fell theatrically through it, tracing a dazzlingly bright, perfect circle on the otherwise deep black sea.

So there were vague indications of a second person. Dupin hadn’t bought the idea of an accident in any case. There was more to it than that. He felt around for his notebook, which had been some-what protected in his breast pocket. He dried it as best he could with a napkin, but it hadn’t got too wet. He made a few notes.

His mobile rang; Le Ber again.

‘The name of the man from the Musée d’Orsay is Charles Sauré. He’s the director of the collection. I just spoke to his secretary again – we managed to get her personal number. Monsieur Sauré has a house up in Finistère, in Carantec.’

‘In Brittany? He has a holiday home here in Brittany?’

‘Isn’t that a strange coincidence?’

‘I don’t know about that, Monsieur le Commissaire – lots of people from Paris have holiday homes in Brittany. Especially these intellectual types.’

‘True. And he’s staying there at the moment?’

‘That’s what his secretary thinks.’

Dupin knew Carantec, a very pretty village on the north coast. A bit gentrified but not unpleasant, not too chic. He had been there twice, the last time was the Easter before with Adèle – her grandmother lived there.

‘Do we have his number?’

‘Just a landline. His home number.’

‘Have you tried it yet?’

‘Call it out to me.’

‘0-2-9-8-6-7-4-5-8-7.’

Dupin made a note of the number in his notebook.

‘What does “director of the collection” mean?’

‘I’ve got to speak to Madame Cassel.’

‘0-6-2-7-8-6-7-5-6-2.’

‘Have her brought to the Ar Men Du.’

‘You’re in the Ar Men Du? In that restaurant over there?’

‘And you want Madame Cassel to come and see you there, in the Ar Men Du?’

‘Okay. I’ll arrange it.’

‘I’ll wait here. Oh yes, I’ve got to see Madame Lajoux this afternoon. And old Delon. And André Pennec, in the hotel. And we might need a few police officers for searches. Find out who’s on duty.’

‘Searches?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘You should be keeping us in the loop.’

Dupin hesitated. ‘You’re right. I will. As soon as I can. Is Labat at Madame Pennec’s?’

‘He should be there by now, I reckon. He… he protested very strongly.’

‘I know… I mean, I can imagine.’ Dupin added pensively, ‘I’ll go and see Madame Pennec myself later.’

He motioned to the waiter to bring a second coffee. The waiter had understood immediately, just as he was beginning to make the signal. He had to speak to Charles Sauré. It could be very important. A few large raindrops had fallen from his hair onto his notebook, a few lines had run and then he had smudged them with his fist. He had trouble deciphering the numbers; his notebooks always looked pathetic after two or three days on a case – even without rain.

Dupin dialled Sauré’s number. A woman answered.

‘Bonjour, Madame. This is Commissaire Georges Dupin from Concarneau.’

There was a short pause before the woman’s voice answered quietly and very cautiously: ‘Oh my god. Has something happened?’

Dupin knew all too well the fear it caused when the police called out of the blue and didn’t immediately say why they were calling.

‘I’m so sorry to be calling like this, Madame. No, nothing has happened. Nothing at all. There’s no reason to be concerned. I just have a few questions for Monsieur Charles Sauré. It’s not about him at all, it’s just that he might be able to help us with certain information.’

‘I understand.’ Her voice sounded noticeably relieved. ‘I’m Anne Sauré, Charles Sauré is my husband. He’s not at home at the moment. But he’ll back soon. By twelve at the latest.’

‘Do you know where he is right now?’

‘In Morlaix, picking up a few things we needed.’

‘Does your husband have a mobile?’

‘Could you tell me what this is about first?’

‘He was… well, it’s complicated. It’s about his museum, an issue in connection with the museum. I just need some information.’

‘Well he doesn’t have a mobile. He hates all that kind of thing.’

‘Hmmm, I see.’

‘Feel free to call again at twelve. Let’s say half past to be on the safe side. He’ll definitely be back by then.’

‘Thank you very much, Madame. And I’m sorry to have given you such a fright earlier.’

‘Au revoir, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘Au revoir, Madame.’

The gap in the clouds had long since closed up and the storm and the rain had started again.

Dupin made yet another signal to the waiter. ‘Another coffee, please.’ He knew it was his sixth today. But now that he was on a case, this really wasn’t the time to cut down on coffee (although he had been intending to do so for years and Docteur Pelliet had strongly recommended it). ‘And a croissant.’ He was thinking about his stomach again. They had left the Central in such a rush.

His wet clothes clung to his skin. It would take them hours to dry. This was what he got for steadfastly refusing to buy one of those ugly waterproof jackets that almost all the locals had… Nolwenn liked to tease him that it was very unbreton of him. Dupin stared out at the rain, lost in thought. A dark-coloured car came up the sandy path to the hotel car park and stopped right at the entrance. He recognised the policeman. It must be Madame Cassel already. That was quick.

Marie Morgane Cassel got out, looked around, spotted Dupin through the glass and headed for the hotel.

She shook the rain off her coat as she stood in front of his table. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Pierre-Louis Pennec’s son fell from the cliffs… fell or was made to fall, we don’t know which yet. Over there.’ Dupin pointed in the direction of Plage Tahiti.

Madame Cassel turned pale. She placed her hand to her right temple. ‘How awful! I don’t envy you.’

‘Thanks. I mean, yes. It’s a terrible thing. And it’s going to cause such an uproar, it’s absolutely dreadful.’

‘I can believe that. Did you want to talk about the painting a bit more? Is that why you wanted to see me again?’

‘I wanted to ask you whether you would have time to come with me to an interview? I have to go to Carantec to see the director of the collection at the Musée d’Orsay.’

‘The director of the collection? You mean Charles Sauré?’

‘He was the one who spoke to Pennec. We haven’t managed to interview him yet so we have no idea what they discussed. I want to hear it from Monsieur Sauré myself.’

‘And how can I help you?’

‘What does the director of a museum collection do?’

‘They’re responsible for its artistic direction… the question of what paintings the collection has, buys, sells. All in close cooperation with the president of the museum of course.’

‘Would Pennec have gone to him in connection with this painting? If it were a genuine Gauguin, I mean.’

‘Why would he have gone to him if he knew it was genuine? I mean, it wouldn’t have been to verify it.’

‘That’s just it.’

‘And so that’s what you’re trying to find out?’

‘Yes and I need your help to do it. The whole art thing –’

Marie Morgane Cassel seemed to be thinking it over. ‘I have no idea how I could be of any help to you. And I need to be back in Brest by five. There’s a big conference for art historians all weekend. It’s not really my type of thing, but I’m giving a lecture today.’

‘I would really appreciate it… Charles Sauré is going to tell me things I don’t understand. I have to know whether it’s a genuine Gauguin – that’s the most important thing at the moment. We need some solid facts here. And we can make sure that you get to the university by five, that won’t be a problem.’

Madame Cassel moved towards the door. ‘Shall we take your car?’

Dupin had to laugh, just like he had last night. ‘Yes, let’s take my car.’

It had been an exhausting, nerve-wracking journey. The type of journey Dupin hated. In ‘this weather’ the tourists obviously hadn’t gone to the beach. They’d decided to go on ‘day trips’ instead, spending the day in the city doing sightseeing, grocery shopping, souvenir-buying. This was why there was such overcrowding on the N165, the southern section of the legendary route nationale that went right the way round the wild, rugged half-island. Brittany had no motorways after Rennes although the route nationale was a sort of motorway, with its four lanes and a speed limit of 110. The traffic was ‘slow to halting’, which was the technical term used by ‘107.7’, the national traffic broadcaster. Everyone trusted it implicitly, from the Canal Coast to Champagne, from the Côte d’Azur to Brittany. First the traffic was halting until Quimper, then halting until Brest. And then halting to Morlaix. For the entire journey.

Under normal circumstances (so for ten months and twenty days of the year) the journey would have taken a good hour, but today it took two and a half. They arrived a little before one o’clock. Marie Morgane Cassel and Dupin hadn’t spoken much. Dupin had had to make a string of phone calls. Le Ber twice, Nolwenn once (she was already up to speed; Dupin was always baffled as to how she managed it) then Labat and Guenneugues (it was as excruciating as ever; Dupin had claimed the connection was bad a minute in, said ‘I can’t hear you any more, can you hear me?’ a few times and then hung up). Labat had been at Madame Pennec’s house. It had been a depressing conversation according to Le Ber. She hadn’t heard the news so he had to break it to her. She collapsed and as a precaution Labat had called for help; her GP had come to the house and given her a sedative. What time Loic Pennec had set out, whether he had been alone, whether he had met up with anyone, there was no way to ask any of these questions under the circumstances. Nolwenn’s had been the only cheering phone call – she had found out Charles Sauré’s exact address. Dupin didn’t want his visit to be announced.

Dupin didn’t like the north coast very much. It rained all the time. The weather was considerably worse than on the south coast, where you often had high pressure areas coming in from the Azores. Like a good ‘southerner’, Nolwenn recited the numbers for him on a regular basis: 2,200 hours of sunshine per year in southern Finistère versus just 1,500 in the north. On top of that, the coast was rugged and stony for the most part and even where there were sandy beaches these tended to be narrow. And low tide revealed kilometres of grey-brown rocky ground covered in seaweed so that the beaches turned into ludicrously narrow strips of sand marooned in gigantic wastelands of seaweed. It was impossible to get to the sea, impossible to go swimming. Carantec was one of the exceptions in the north – it had a marvellous beach, even at low tide, dozens of islets just off a wide, placid bay. The whole village had atmosphere, it was authentic. There was an old town, a lovely little section of the headland with narrow, winding alleyways which somehow all led to the sea, even if people sometimes wondered how that could be possible. The Saurés’ house lay in the centre of the little village, near the little harbour and two or three wonderfully unpretentious restaurants (Dupin had fond memories of the entrecôte in one of them). They parked on the main square and the house was a stone’s throw from there. The storm still hadn’t died down and it was raining, just as it had been for the whole journey, nowhere had been spared. Dupin’s clothes were still damp. He was well aware he didn’t look like your average commissaire at the best of times, but he looked the part less so than usual right now.

He rang the doorbell twice, quickly and firmly. A short, thin man opened the door, mischievous, intelligent eyes, thick, unkempt hair, a large faded blue shirt, jeans.

‘Bonjour. Monsieur Sauré?’

Sauré’s tense face spoke volumes. ‘And to whom do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Commissaire Georges Dupin, Commissariat de Police, Concarneau. And this is Professor Cassel, from Brest.’

Sauré’s demeanour became more conciliatory, if only a little bit.

‘Ah yes, the Commissaire. You spoke to my wife on the phone. Weren’t you going to call me? My wife said you were going to call half an hour ago.’

Dupin hadn’t given a moment’s thought to how he would explain that he was suddenly standing at the door without warning and hadn’t phoned as arranged, so he just glossed over it. ‘We have some important questions and your knowledge could really help. As we understand it, you spoke to Pierre-Louis Pennec on the phone on Tuesday. I’m sure you’ve heard about his murder.’

‘Yes, it’s terrible. I read about it in the paper. Please do come in, we can continue our discussion inside.’ Monsieur Sauré stepped aside, let Madame Cassel and Dupin in, and quietly shut the door.

‘It’s along here. We’ll go into the sitting room.’

The house was much bigger than it looked from the outside and very tastefully and expensively furnished. Modern, but not clinical. Old and new confidently combined, everything in the colours of Brittany, the dark blue, the light green, the radiant white – the Atlantic colours. Cosy.

‘You must excuse me for not welcoming you more politely. I wasn’t expecting your visit and as I said, my wife told me you would be getting in touch by phone. She’s doing the shopping at the big Leclerc, we’re having guests tonight. But I could always offer you something – would you like a coffee, a glass of water?’

‘I would love a coffee, thank you.’ Madame Cassel had answered before Dupin could react. He would have preferred to get right down to business.

‘And you, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

‘The same for me. Thanks very much.’ He might as well have a coffee now; he hadn’t had one for hours anyway.

‘Do sit down, I’ll be right back.’ Sauré pointed to the low sofa and the two matching armchairs, everything arranged to face the incredibly large windows that framed a view that was breathtaking, even in this weather.

Madame Cassel had chosen one armchair, Dupin the other. They were sitting far apart.

‘It’s spectacular. I would never have thought the sea was so close.’ Dupin gazed into the distance, to the black horizon, almost invisible now. They sat in silence, staring out of the window.

Sauré came back with a pretty little wooden tray.

‘Madame Cassel is a professor at the University of Brest, an art historian. Gauguin is one of her specialities, she –’

‘Oh, but I know who Madame Cassel is, Monsieur le Commissaire.’ Sauré practically sounded offended. He turned to Madame Cassel.

‘I am of course familiar with some of your publications, Madame Cassel. Excellent. You are very well regarded in Paris. It’s a great pleasure to be able to make your acquaintance finally.’

‘The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Sauré.’

Sauré had sat down exactly in the middle of the sofa, so that he was equidistant from Dupin and Madame Cassel.

Dupin decided to be direct. ‘What did you think when you heard about the existence of a second version of the Vision?’

He spoke very calmly. Marie Morgane Cassel’s head still whipped around in his direction. She looked at him in astonishment. Charles Sauré stared at Dupin, his expression unchanged, and answered in a relaxed, clear voice.

‘You know about the painting… Of course you know about the painting. Yes, it’s stupendous; I can’t believe this has happened. A second Vision.’

Now Madame Cassel’s head whipped around to Sauré. She looked absolutely flabbergasted. ‘There’s a second version of Vision after the Sermon?’

‘A second painting? A large Gauguin that nobody has known about until now?’ You could see the goosebumps on her skin.

‘I saw it. I don’t mind telling you that in my opinion, it is even more wonderful than the painting we know about. Grittier, bolder, more radical. The orange is like one huge block. It’s incredible. Everything that Gauguin wanted, everything that he was capable of – it’s all there. The struggle is at once more clearly a vision and more realistically an actual event, just like the nuns who are standing there watching.’

It took a moment for Dupin to grasp what Sauré had just said. ‘You did what? You saw the painting yourself?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen it. I was there. On Wednesday. Pierre-Louis Pennec and I met in the hotel that afternoon.’

‘You’ve actually seen the painting?’

‘I stood in front of it for half an hour. It’s hanging in the restaurant, right behind the door. It’s hard to get your head around it, a genuine Gauguin, a completely unknown painting –’

‘And you’re sure that it’s real? That it’s really by Gauguin?’

‘I’m confident it is. Of course it’s going to have to undergo a string of scientific tests, but in my view that will just be a formality. There’s no doubt in my mind that the painting is genuine.’

‘The painting that you saw is definitively not a copy?’

‘A copy? What do you mean? Where did you get that idea?’

‘I mean the painting is not the work of an artist painting in Gauguin’s style? Like all those imitators?’

‘No, absolutely not.’

‘How can you be so sure of it?’

‘Monsieur Sauré is a luminary. There’s nobody in the whole world better qualified to judge, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

Sauré couldn’t hide a flattered smile. ‘Thank you very much, Madame.’

Dupin had decided not to mention anything about the copy that was hanging in the restaurant right now. Madame Cassel seemed to have caught onto this.

‘Why did Pierre-Louis Pennec call and ask you to come? What did he want? Could you talk us through what happened, from the very beginning?’

Sauré leaned back. ‘Of course. Pierre-Louis Pennec called me for the first time on Tuesday morning. Around half past eight or so. He asked whether he could have a confidential conversation with me, it was about a rather important issue. That’s how he put it. Absolute confidentiality was very important to him. I was on the way to a meeting so I asked him to call me back late morning. And he did.’

‘So he called you back, rather than vice versa?’

‘Yes. Late morning. He came to the point very quickly: that his father had left him a Gauguin, one which art historians had known nothing about up till now, that he had kept it for decades, but that he wanted to leave it to the collection at the Musée d’Orsay. As a gift.’

Dupin sat up straight. ‘He wanted to leave the painting to the museum? Just donate it?’

‘Yes. That’s what he wanted.’

‘But the painting was immensely valuable. We’re talking thirty, forty million euro.’

‘Indeed.’ Sauré was completely calm.

‘How did you react?’

‘At first I wasn’t sure what to make of the whole thing. It sounded fantastical of course, but then again it was too fantastical to be made up. Why would someone make up a story like that? Worst case scenario, I said to myself, someone just wants a bit of attention. Monsieur Pennec wanted to meet as soon as possible.’

‘Did he say why this had to happen so quickly?’

‘No. He was actually rather formal, which I found agreeable, and I thought it inappropriate to ask him personal questions. We have dealings with a lot of very strong-willed people in the art world. And a straightforward donation to the museum is fairly normal.’

‘But surely the value of this donation is not normal. Surely the museum doesn’t get a donation like that every day.’

‘Monsieur Honoré must have been dumbfounded,’ Madame Cassel chimed in.

Charles Sauré looked a little disapprovingly at her. Turning back to Dupin, he added: ‘The president of the museum. One of the most renowned and influential figures in the art world. I haven’t spoken to Monsieur Honoré yet, I haven’t found the right moment. I didn’t want to jump the gun; that would have been a reckless thing to do. I thought I should take a look at the painting first, make sure that this really was a genuine Gauguin. And there was so much to discuss first, the donation, the timing, the conditions. Everything.’

‘So you agreed to meet the next day then?’

‘My wife and I had decided to come here for the weekend anyway and were considering staying for a few more days. Pont-Aven isn’t directly on our way, but it’s not too far. It suited us quite nicely.’

‘And so you met in the hotel itself?’

‘Yes. My wife walked around Pont-Aven for an hour, and I went into the hotel. He was already waiting for me downstairs at reception. He had asked me to come between three and five so we would have some peace and quiet in the restaurant. He came straight to the point in the meeting too. He had already made an appointment with his notary to include the donation in his will. He wanted to hand over the painting the following week. In Pont-Aven, he didn’t want to go to Paris. He had already written a short text for the plaque next to the painting, telling the history of the painting and also the history of the hotel, his father, and of course the great Marie-Jeanne Pennec.’

‘He wanted to make the history of the painting public?’

‘Absolutely. In a humble way. He didn’t want any fuss at the handover, no press release, no official unveiling, nothing like that. Just the little plaque. I told him you can’t just go along one morning and hang a painting like that in a museum like ours without any explanation. The existence of this painting is a miracle, and everyone would ask where on earth it had come from, the academics, the press, the public. Everyone. He wanted to reflect on these things with me one more time.’

Dupin had made a few notes in his Clairefontaine. Sauré looked rather appalled by the sloppy-looking notebook. Dupin simply carried on. ‘Did he tell you the history of the painting?’

‘Some of it. He said his grandmother, Marie-Jeanne, had got it from Gauguin himself. He gave it to her during his last visit in 1894 to thank her for all she’d done for him. Gauguin had always stayed at her hotel, never at Mademoiselle Julia’s. But above all, Pennec said, it was to thank her for looking after him for nearly four months after the fight in Concarneau, when someone seriously insulted his young Javanese girlfriend. He was quite badly injured at the time, but Marie-Jeanne nursed him with love and devotion, day after day, until he recovered. It’s been hanging in that spot in the restaurant ever since… It’s unbelievable when you think about it. Amazing.’

‘You were very close to the truth, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

Marie Morgane Cassel looked very pensive as she spoke. She gazed wide-eyed at Dupin, who couldn’t suppress a quick smile.

‘Did it never occur to you, Monsieur Sauré, that all of this might be extremely relevant to the police investigation… I mean when you later heard that Pierre-Louis Pennec had been murdered?’

Charles Sauré looked at Dupin in genuine astonishment. ‘I’m accustomed to working with the utmost discretion. Monsieur Pennec had asked me to remain utterly discreet at all times. And that’s not unusual for the art world. The majority of things in our world are, how should I put it, very private. Of course I was irritated when I heard what had happened. But even then I felt the most appropriate thing would be to maintain confidentiality. It’s our most important asset. Perhaps the heirs of the painting will appreciate this discretion. It’s an entirely private matter, owning a painting like that with that kind of value, as is the decision to donate. We have a strict code.’

‘But –’ Dupin broke off. It made no sense. It was clear that Charles Sauré didn’t find any of this at all strange, either at the time or now. Neither the fact that he had seen Pierre-Louis Pennec just two days before his murder, nor that he had learned of the existence of a painting worth forty million euro, which – it didn’t require much imagination – could quite clearly have been a motive for the murder he heard about later.

‘When was the handover due to take place?’

‘We were planning to arrange a time over the phone. But as he was walking me out, he was definitely talking about the beginning of next week. He wanted to get it sorted quickly.’

‘I take it Monsieur Pennec didn’t tell you the reasons for his donation?’

‘And that he didn’t tell you anything else that could be significant – or that seems significant to you now after his murder?’

‘It was all about the painting and the plan to donate it. The procedure. I didn’t expect an explanation from him anyway, or a story. I didn’t ask him any questions at all. It wasn’t my place.’

‘I understand. And nothing about Pierre-Louis Pennec struck you in any way? He wasn’t overly anxious… did anything cross your mind after the meeting?’

‘No. The only thing that was clear was that he didn’t want to waste any time. But he didn’t seem rushed or hasty, just determined.’

Dupin’s enthusiasm had vanished. Not that this was all that rare for him, even in the most important interviews and interrogations. But he knew what he wanted to know now.

‘Thank you very much, Monsieur Sauré. You have been extremely helpful. We need to be getting back now, I’m needed in Pont-Aven.’

Charles Sauré looked bewildered at this abrupt end to the conversation. ‘I… yes, well I don’t have anything else to tell you. They weren’t long telephone calls and it wasn’t a long meeting.’

‘Thanks very much… thanks again.’ Dupin stood up. Marie Morgane Cassel seemed just as surprised by the sudden end to the conversation as Sauré did. She jumped up too, somewhat embarrassed.

‘There’s something I’d like to know myself, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘Of course.’

‘Who will inherit the painting? I mean, who owns it after the… the death of Monsieur Pennec? I read something about a son in the paper.’

Dupin saw absolutely no need to inform Monsieur Sauré of the events of that morning. ‘We’ll see, Monsieur Sauré, I don’t want to comment on that right now.’

‘I assume that the heirs will continue with the donation, it was the owner’s greatest wish after all… it’s only right… a painting like that should belong to the whole world.’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

‘Surely he managed to write his wishes about the donation into his will in time? He seemed to be treating it as very urgent.’

That was no doubt about it. Dupin understood what was going on here. ‘I’ll be in touch if you can be of assistance to us again.’

It took Sauré a while to respond. ‘Yes, please do. That would be great. You can reach me here till the end of the week. We’re not planning to head back until Saturday.’

Sauré walked them to the door and bade them a very formal farewell.

At least it had stopped raining, even though the sky still hung low, a dark grey. Dupin needed to go for a little walk, but he wanted to get back to Pont-Aven as quickly as possible.

‘Shall we walk once round the block? Maybe we should walk back to the car a different way.’

‘Good plan.’

The professor still seemed a little stunned.

They turned right onto a little path that ran past Sauré’s house. They could still catch glimpses of the house through the thick, metre-high rhododendron bushes as they walked down towards the sea. They didn’t speak until they’d reached the cliffs.

‘It’s unbelievable. Do you know what this means? This story is going to spread round the world. An unknown Gauguin has been discovered in a restaurant in the middle of nowhere in Brittany. It hung there unnoticed for over a hundred years and is among the most important works in his oeuvre. Its estimated value: forty million euro. Minimum, I would say.’

‘And two deaths. Two so far.’

Marie Morgane Cassel looked ashamed. ‘Yes… you’re right. Yes. Two deaths. I’m sorry –’

‘I understand your enthusiasm. They’re two very separate things. You know, in my job I always see the other side too. The other side of things, the other side of people. That’s what I’m there for.’

They stood there in silence for some time, side by side. Dupin was feeling uncomfortable about what he’d just said. ‘What do you think? Did it sound plausible, what Monsieur Sauré said?’

‘Yes, absolutely. It’s an accurate insight into, how should I put it, the little conventions of the art world, his attitude, his approach. His whole personality. It’s a very peculiar world.’

‘You don’t think Charles Sauré murdered Pierre-Louis Pennec?’

Marie Morgane Cassel looked at the Commissaire, momentarily thunderstruck. ‘Do you think he could have done it, Commissaire?’

‘I don’t know.’

She was silent.

‘But do you think we can now assume that the painting is definitely genuine? Charles Sauré couldn’t have got it wrong?’

‘No. I mean, in theory he could have, of course. But I would trust his judgement – and his instinct. As I said, you won’t find a more knowledgeable expert in the whole world.’

‘Good. I… I trust you.’ Dupin smiled, which seemed to please Marie Morgane Cassel.

‘So we’re dealing with two deaths and the theft of a forty-million-euro painting then. A painting that, officially speaking, does not exist. We only have Sauré’s… let’s say, appraisal, that there is an original and that what’s hanging in the restaurant right now is not just something a copyist dreamt up.’

Dupin paused. His smile had vanished. ‘What proof do we have that the painting that’s hanging in the restaurant isn’t the only one there is? The quick appraisal by Sauré, his confidence that what he saw was an original? That’s not enough. Not enough for a court anyway. Whoever has the painting now, they must be feeling pretty confident. He stole a painting that doesn’t exist – so long as we don’t have it in our hands and scientific experts can’t confirm that it is a Gauguin.’

‘Who actually owns the painting now?’

‘Madame Pennec. It’s all hers since this morning. It’s a very simple inheritance. The hotel belongs to her now and, as there are no other provisions, everything that is in the hotel too. Pierre-Louis Pennec didn’t manage to change the will in the end.’

‘So the donation is invalid?’

‘That will be up to Madame Pennec to decide.’

Dupin’s mobile rang. Labat. ‘I have to take this call. Let’s go back to the car.’

‘Okay. Would it be best for me to go straight to Brest from here?’

‘I’ll give you a lift part of the way… Labat?’

‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire. There are a few urgent matters here. Where are you?’

‘I’m standing by the sea in Carantec.’

‘Carantec? By the sea?’

‘What are you doing in Carantec?’

‘What’s going on, Labat?’

‘You have to get in touch with Salou. He wants to speak to you in person again. As does Docteur Lafond. Both of them are expecting your call… soon.’

Labat waited in vain for Dupin to say something.

‘When will you be at the hotel? We’ve asked Madame Lajoux and Delon to be on standby. We haven’t been able to reach André Pennec or Beauvois yet. Who do you want to see first after your visit to Catherine Pennec?’

‘I need a car,’ Dupin thought for a moment, ‘at one of the big roundabouts in Brest, at the first roundabout if you’re coming from Morlaix, no wait, the Océanopolis would be best. That’s the simplest. The car is for Madame Cassel to get to the university.’

Dupin had been to the Océanopolis in Brest many times and knew it very well. He’d always loved big aquariums, especially the penguins… and the Océanopolis was amazing.

‘Is Madame Cassel with you?’

‘She’s got to be at the university by half four.’

‘You’ve got to bring me and Le Ber up to speed on the progress of the investigation, and soon.’

‘You’re right, Inspector Labat. You’re absolutely right. Speak to you soon.’

They had made good time on this journey because the holiday-makers were still sitting in the crêperies. It took thirty minutes to get to the Océanopolis. The same policeman as yesterday, the one from Brest, was waiting for Madame Cassel in the same car. Madame Cassel and Dupin hadn’t managed to speak all that much this time either. Dupin had been on the phone for most of the journey, just like on their way there. Docteur Lafond, who was working on Loic Pennec’s autopsy, hadn’t said much as usual; but he had confirmed that Loic Pennec died last night, not this morning, that – as far as the evidence went – the fall had been the cause of death, and that, so far, there was no indication of violence against or injuries to Pennec before the fall.

Salou noted that there were footprints within Pennec’s vicinity that were ‘reasonably likely’ to belong to a second person, especially right next to the lethal precipice. But he couldn’t confirm it. The storm and the heavy rain had more or less washed everything away; there was a danger it wouldn’t be possible to confirm the footprints even after further investigation. Dupin didn’t think things sounded half as positive as they had sounded in his first conversation with Le Ber – or else the great star forensic scientist had just been trying to make himself seem important.

So far no members of the public had been in touch to report seeing anything suspicious, either yesterday evening when it happened, or this morning. The officers from Pont-Aven had begun a systematic questioning of all the locals, but hadn’t turned up any leads yet. Dupin hadn’t expected anything else here; this wasn’t a case which would be solved by anything as banal as fingerprints, footprints, textile fibres or random eyewitnesses.

Dupin parked his car down by the harbour a little before four, very close to the Pennecs’ villa. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

It took a long time for Madame Pennec to come to the door. Catherine Pennec was clearly in a bad way; her eyes were glassy, her expression frozen, even her hair, which had been so painstakingly done yesterday, was a complete mess.

‘Excuse me if I’m intruding, Madame Pennec, but I’d like to speak to you if possible. I know this is terrible, it’s a real imposition to be bothering you like this.’

Catherine Pennec looked at Dupin blankly. ‘Please come in.’

Dupin stepped inside. Catherine Pennec went on ahead without saying a word, and Dupin followed. He sat in the same armchair he had sat in only yesterday and the day before.

‘I’ve been given some medicine. I don’t know if I’m in a position to have a proper conversation.’

‘First of all, I’d like to express my deepest condolences, Madame Pennec.’

This was the second time in forty-eight hours that he was offering his condolences to the same person. It was eerie.

‘Thank you.’

‘This is a great tragedy. Either way.’

Madame Pennec raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

‘We don’t yet know whether it was an accident or if your husband was pushed. Or… or whether your husband… whether he –’

‘We might never be able to say with absolute certainty what happened. We don’t have any eyewitnesses yet. It’s impossible to find any significant forensic evidence at the scene now. You saw the rain that came down last night. Everything is tentative so far.’

‘I just want to know whether it was murder. And, if so, you have to find the murderer, you’ve got to promise me. If it was murder, it must be the same person who killed my father-in-law, mustn’t it?’

‘I don’t know, Madame Pennec. We can’t say anything yet. You shouldn’t concern yourself with that right now.’

‘I really hope you make progress soon.’

‘I won’t impose on you for too long. But there are a few things I have to discuss with you. Please tell me about yesterday evening, what time did –’

‘My husband left the house just before half nine. He wanted to go for a walk. He often drives to the coast in the evenings, sometimes to his boat at Plage Tahiti and sometimes he just goes for a walk here in the village. He likes walking, has done for years. He –’ Her voice cracked. ‘He liked the route from Rospico to Plage Tahiti. And in summer, in the tourist season, he would always go walking late at night. He’s obviously been in a bad state since the day before yesterday, and he was hoping it would calm him. He couldn’t sleep the night we heard the terrible news. Neither of us could.’

‘Was he on his own yesterday?’

‘He always went for walks by himself. Even I never went with him. He took his car.’ Her voice became even more solemn. ‘It took him ages to find his car keys. And then he was saying “see you later” at the door.’

‘How long would he usually be gone for?’

‘Two hours perhaps. We left at almost the same time yesterday, that’s why I know exactly what time he left the house. I drove to the all-night pharmacy in Trévignon; my doctor prescribed sleeping tablets for us, both of us. We needed to sleep. We would usually never take anything like that.’

‘You did the right thing. There’s no need to reproach yourself.’

‘I went to bed when I came back; I put his tablets on the bed in his room. They’re still there.’

‘You have separate bedrooms?’

Catherine Pennec looked at Dupin indignantly. ‘Of course. Otherwise I would have noticed straight away that my husband wasn’t back this morning.’

‘I understand, Madame Pennec.’

‘There was absolutely nothing unusual about the situation last night, Monsieur le Commissaire. The walk, the time, the route, nothing out of the ordinary, it was like always… apart from what happened of course.’ Madame Pennec sounded almost like she was pleading with him, beseeching him.

‘I understand. This is so terrible. I won’t impose on you any longer with all of these things. There’s just one more important issue we have to speak about – everything depends on it and you haven’t brought it up yet.’

Madame Pennec looked the Commissaire in the eye. Dupin thought he saw uncertainty in her gaze for a moment, but he might have been mistaken.

‘You mean the painting. You know. Of course. Yes, that bloody painting. It’s all about the painting, isn’t it?’ Her voice was confident.

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘It’s hung there happily for over a hundred and thirty years. And now?’ She broke off for a moment. ‘Nobody ever spoke about the painting, we weren’t even allowed to. You’ve got to understand, it was taboo in the Pennec family. Everything depended on this secret, the whole family depended on it. It had to be kept secret, whatever else happened. Even after Pierre-Louis Pennec died, do you understand? It’s a disaster. That much money is a disaster. They were probably right to keep it so secret. Fate only took its course after Pierre-Louis Pennec had made the decision to donate it to the Musée d’Orsay. You must know about that too?’

Now it was beginning. Dupin knew this stage in every case. At a certain point the first real stories came to light. Up until that moment everyone tried to present seamless, impenetrable fronts so as not to give away anything of real significance. And everyone had their reasons – not just the perpetrators.

‘Yes. We’re aware of your father-in-law’s intention.’

‘He discussed it with my husband just this week.’

‘Pierre-Louis Pennec told your husband about it?’

‘Of course. It’s a family matter, after all.’

‘And how did he react? How did you react?’

She answered very clearly. ‘It was his business. Not ours.’

‘The painting belongs to you now, Madame Pennec. It’s part of the hotel which you and your husband inherited. And now it’s just yours.’

Catherine Pennec didn’t say anything.

‘Will you follow through with the donation to the Musée d’Orsay? It was Pierre-Louis Pennec’s final wish after all, even if he never managed to arrange it legally-speaking.’

‘I’d say so. Right now I’m not able to think about anything beyond today. I’ll deal with it in the next few weeks.’ She looked exhausted.

‘Of course not. I’ve already asked too much of you. You have been extremely helpful. Just one last question: who else knew about the painting?’

Madame Pennec looked at Dupin with some astonishment. ‘I couldn’t say exactly. I thought for a long time it was just me and my husband. But my husband was sure Frédéric Beauvois knew about it too. And I sometimes suspected Madame Lajoux knew. Maybe he told her about it once.’ She paused. ‘I never trusted her anyway.’

‘You never trusted her?’

‘She’s a fraud. But I shouldn’t say things like that. I’m just so worked up. I shouldn’t make comments like that.’

‘What makes you think Madame Lajoux isn’t sincere?’

‘Everyone knew they’d been having an affair for decades, and her swanning around as hotel manager. We knew she was getting money from him. To this day. And that she sent some of the money to her son in Canada. He was a waster whom she spoiled.’

Her voice had hardened for a moment. Dupin took out his notebook.

‘Can you say for sure that they knew about the painting?’

‘No… no, I don’t know. I really shouldn’t be saying anything anyway.’

‘And what about Pierre-Louis Pennec’s half-brother, André Pennec, did he know about the painting?’

‘My husband was sure he did. He once said Pierre-Louis’ father told André. The painting was the great family secret of course. How could he not know?’

Dupin wanted to say that this was exactly why it would have been very helpful for the investigation to have been informed about the painting directly after the murder of Pierre-Louis Pennec – so they would know the motive. He also wanted to tell her how much time they had wasted because of it. And the even more serious issue: that her husband might still be alive if someone had told Dupin about the painting. But it was pointless.

‘And Monsieur Beauvois?’

‘He’s the worst of the lot. My father-in-law was a fool not to see through him, he –’ She stopped herself.

‘He’s a pompous idiot. That ridiculous museum. So much nonsense in one man’s head! When you think about how much money he wheedled out of Pierre-Louis Pennec. All that renovation work at the museum. Why? It’s ludicrous. The museum is third rate and is going to stay that way. Provincial.’ She looked utterly exhausted after this outburst.

‘I really will leave you in peace now.’

Madame Pennec heaved a deep sigh. ‘I hope you find out what happened to my husband soon; it doesn’t make any difference, but it would still help me.’

‘I hope so too, Madame Pennec. I really do.’

She made as though to stand up.

‘No, no, don’t get up. Please. I’ll see myself out.’

Madame Pennec seemed to find it difficult to accept this offer, but she managed it. ‘Thank you.’

‘If you need any help or if you think of anything else that could be relevant… please don’t hesitate. You’ve got my number.’ Dupin had stood up.

‘Thank you, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘Au revoir, Madame.’

Dupin left the gloomy room in a hurry.

Outside again, a warm beam of sunlight fell on Dupin’s face; the sky was a blazing blue, not a cloud to be seen. Although he had experienced it many times in his nearly three years in Brittany, Dupin was always fascinated by how abruptly the weather could turn. It was a sight to behold. An entirely innocent, warm, sunny day, when you would swear that the summer had finally decided to maintain a stable, high pressure front for weeks, could turn into an autumnal day in the space of half an hour, threatening rain and storms, and then you’d bet anything that this was a solidly low pressure front and it was going to plague you for days – and vice versa. It was as though the previous weather had simply never happened. Dupin sometimes thought that he had never known what this thing called ‘weather’ really was before moving to Brittany. And that he had only really understood it for the first time here. It was no wonder the changeable weather was a constant topic of conversation in Brittany. And Dupin was deeply impressed with how accurately some Bretons could predict it – over thousands of years the Celtic inhabitants had made a great art of it. Even Dupin had started trying his hand at this art form. In some ways it had become a little hobby of his (although so far he had only impressed himself with his successes).

Dupin stood outside the door for a few moments, took out his Clairefontaine, and made a series of notes. There were a few things he needed to do urgently. He took his mobile out of his pocket.

‘I’m on my way to the hotel now. I want to speak to Madame Lajoux, then you and Labat. No, you and Labat first, then the others. Did you manage to get hold of Beauvois and André Pennec?’

‘No, neither yet. Beauvois doesn’t have a mobile and Pennec is driving, probably in Rennes on business. His voicemail is turned on. We’ve left him multiple messages asking him to get in touch with us immediately.’

‘Fine. I need to speak to him today no matter what. Same goes for Beauvois.’

‘We’re doing all we can.’

‘One more thing. Check whether Madame Pennec was at the all-night pharmacy in Trévignon last night and if so, when. I need the exact times. I want to know what she bought, how she seemed, everything. Speak to the person who served her.’

‘Is she under suspicion?’

‘I get the feeling nobody has been telling us the truth so far.’

‘We need to discuss things urgently, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Labat, Le Ber and Dupin sat in the breakfast room for half an hour discussing everything very carefully. Dupin had brought the inspectors up to speed. He told them about the forty-million-euro painting that had hung in the same place for over a hundred years but had now been stolen. Labat and Le Ber were silent for long stretches. Dupin could see from their faces that the scale of the case was dawning on them now. And it was clear to both of them that there was one thing they absolutely had to do. They had to find the stolen painting – as proof that it had been stolen in the first place. Maybe it would lead them to the perpetrator. Not even Labat complained when Dupin stood up half an hour later and went to speak to Madame Lajoux.

Madame Lajoux was standing at reception when Le Ber, Labat and Dupin came down the stairs. She looked somewhat intimidated when she saw the three of them.

‘Bonjour, Madame Lajoux. Thank you for making time for us.’

‘It’s so horrible, Monsieur le Commissaire. Now Loic. There’s no end to the tragedy. These are difficult times.’ She spoke in that halting, pained way again.

‘Very difficult times indeed. We still don’t have anything to report about Loic’s death. I’ve got to speak to you again, even if it’s not easy for you. Would you mind if we went into the restaurant?’

She looked uncertain. ‘Into the restaurant? Back into the restaurant?’

‘I want you to show me something.’

The uncertainty in her gaze was growing. ‘I’m to show you something?’

Dupin took out the key and unlocked the door to the restaurant. ‘Follow me.’

Madame Lajoux followed slowly, haltingly. Dupin closed the door behind them. They went towards the bar and just before the bend in the L-shaped room, Dupin stopped. ‘Madame Lajoux, I wanted –’

There was a loud knock at the door. Madame Lajoux flinched.

‘What on earth?’ Dupin was annoyed but he went to the door and unlocked it again. Labat was standing there.

‘Monsieur le Commissaire, Madame Cassel is on the phone. Your mobile is off. She was trying to get through to you.’

‘I’m in a meeting, you know that. Tell her I’ll call her back as soon as I can.’

There was a peculiar look of satisfaction on Labat’s round face. He turned around without a word and went back to reception. Dupin hesitated.

‘Labat… hang on. I’m coming. If you could excuse me for a moment, Madame Lajoux. I’ll be with you again very soon, this won’t take long.’

‘Of course, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

Dupin left the restaurant. Labat was holding the phone out to him at reception.

‘Madame Cassel?’

‘Something else occurred to me. I should have told you it immediately in fact. About the painting, the copy. You wanted to know who copied the paintings, didn’t you? I mean, who painted the copy of the second Vision… Is that still significant?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just a possibility, but still. Copyists sometimes immortalised themselves in the paintings, in very subtle ways. They hid their signatures somewhere. It was a game really. You might just be lucky.’

‘Interesting.’

‘That’s it.’

‘Thanks. I’ll definitely be in touch again, if we find anything I mean.’

‘I’m always here.’

‘Au revoir.’

Dupin hung up. Labat had been standing behind him the entire time. Dupin hated it when people did that. ‘Labat?’

‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

Dupin came right up to him. ‘We’ve got to take a closer look at that painting this minute. Let Le Ber know.’

‘A closer look at the painting?’

Dupin couldn’t be bothered discussing it all again with Labat. In fact he had just realised he didn’t have the faintest idea how they were going to do it. How and where should they be looking for the name? He should have asked Madame Cassel.

‘We’ll talk later. I’m going back to Madame Lajoux… I don’t want any more interruptions, Labat. If there are any, I’ll hold you personally responsible.’

It almost seemed as though Madame Lajoux had been standing stock still the entire time Dupin was gone. She was standing there exactly as she had before.

‘I’m sorry, Madame Lajoux.’

‘Oh no, it’s completely understandable. The police investigation takes priority.’

‘I wanted to ask that you, I’d like to ask you –’ He began to stammer. ‘I wonder if you would excuse me again briefly, Madame Lajoux. This is very rude, but I’ve got to make one more urgent call – I’m sure we’ll have some peace and quiet for our conversation then.’

It was clear Madame Lajoux felt uncomfortable. She didn’t know what to say.

‘I’ll be right back.’

Dupin went around the corner to the end of the bar. He fished his mobile out of his trouser pocket.

‘Madame Cassel?’ He was speaking very quietly.

‘Hello, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

‘Hello. Listen, I need you. You’ve got to help us with the hidden signatures. I have no idea where or how I’m meant to find them. We don’t have the… tools for it.’

Dupin could hear a soft laugh at the other end of the line.

‘I thought you would call again. I think I should have offered straight away.’

‘I’m so sorry, Madame Cassel, I – we are being guided entirely by your art expertise in some aspects of this case, I know you’re at your conference, I’m –’

‘I need five minutes to get ready. I can leave right now… I’ll drive my own car, if that’s okay.’

‘I’m so grateful to you for doing this. We’ll be expecting you. It’s now,’ Dupin looked at his watch, ‘it’s quarter past seven now. So… well, we’ll be expecting you.’

‘See you soon, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

Dupin went back to Madame Lajoux.

‘You have my full attention now, Madame Lajoux. I really must apologise.’

‘As I said, your investigation is the most important thing, Monsieur le Commissaire. We all want you to catch the murderer as quickly as possible. He’s been free to walk around for three days. That’s not right.’

Her voice had taken on the same mournful rhythm which Dupin recognised from their previous conversations. He waited a few seconds, then he spoke firmly. ‘You can tell me now, Madame Lajoux.’

Madame Lajoux flinched, avoiding his gaze.

‘I… I don’t know what you mean. What can I –’ She broke off, a resignation in her face and in the way she held herself. It was some time before she could look Dupin in the eye again. ‘You know, don’t you? You know.’ She almost burst into tears and for a moment she seemed to be in danger of losing control completely.

‘Monsieur Pennec wouldn’t think it right, any of this. He would be so unhappy. He didn’t want anyone to know about the painting.’

‘Madame Lajoux, we’re talking about more than forty million euro. About the probable motive for Pierre-Louis Pennec’s murder.’

‘You’re wrong,’ she sounded incensed now, ‘we’re not talking about more than forty million euro – we are talking about someone’s unequivocal final wish, Monsieur le Commissaire. The fact that the painting is hanging safely here, without anyone knowing about it. It belongs to the hotel and its history –’

‘He wanted to present the painting to the Musée d’Orsay as a gift. With a donation plaque making the story of the painting public.’

Madame Lajoux looked aghast. Either she was an extremely good actress or her true emotions were revealing themselves. ‘What? He wanted to do what?’

‘To give the painting to the Musée d’Orsay. He got in touch with the museum last week.’

‘That’s… that’s –’ She broke off.

Her features hardened. ‘Nothing… it’s nothing. If you’re sure it’s true. We should just go along with what he thought was right.’

‘Does it seem – how should I put it – inappropriate, to you?’

‘The museum thing. The donation.’

‘No, no. It’s just… oh, I don’t know. In many ways it was the secret at the core of everything. It’s all so strange, so wrong. I don’t know.’

‘How long have you known about the painting?’

‘Thirty-five years. Monsieur Pennec let me in on it early. In my third year.’

‘Who else knows about the painting?’

‘Nobody. Just Beauvois – and his son of course. Monsieur Beauvois was Monsieur Pennec’s art expert you know, Pierre-Louis asked his advice on everything to do with painting. I told you that already. Monsieur Beauvois advised him on the renovations here too and answered all his questions to do with the air-conditioning. So that the painting would be kept in ideal conditions. A man of great integrity, with high ideals. He takes all of this to heart, all of the tradition. Not because of the money. Monsieur Pennec knew that.’

‘And why did Monsieur Pennec have the Gauguin hanging here all those years?’

‘Why?’ Madame Lajoux looked appalled, as if this question was somehow improper. ‘Marie-Jeanne Pennec hung it there. Oh yes. The Gauguin always hung there. That’s where it belongs. Pierre-Louis could look at it every evening when he was at the bar. It embodies the entire legacy. Pierre-Louis would never have dreamed of keeping it any other way, or of removing it from the hotel, not in a million years. This was the safest place for it, right here.’

This was the answer Dupin had expected and Madame Lajoux was, however strange it sounded, probably right. Quite apart from the sentimental reasons for this location, maybe it really was one of the most inconspicuous places for something like this.

‘And who else knew about the painting?’

‘His half-brother. I don’t know whether he confided in Delon, I don’t think so. It was a genuine secret.’

Dupin almost laughed; this was too funny. Pierre-Louis’ son, his daughter-in-law, André Pennec, Beauvois, Madame Lajoux… and the painter who made the copy that was hanging there now, maybe Delon… that meant that in Pierre-Louis Pennec’s inner circle, everyone had known. And then there was Charles Sauré too.

‘At least seven people, perhaps eight, knew about the painting and that it was worth forty million euro. Most of them could see the money hanging there every day.’

‘Well when you put it like that it sounds awful. As if one of those people murdered Pierre-Louis… is that what you think?’ Madame looked like she was preparing to be outraged again.

‘And who knows who those people told, in confidence… who knows who else knew all about this?’

Madame Lajoux looked sadly at Dupin. There was a hint of mistrust in her gaze. ‘You’ve got to admire the way Pierre-Louis Pennec dealt with the difficult mission his father entrusted him with, and how he dealt with the hotel and the painting. He did it all in the most wonderful, impressive way. That much money can destroy absolutely everything. Bad things can happen.’

It was on the tip of Dupin’s tongue to ask what could be worse than murder or probably even two murders. ‘What do you think happened then, Madame Lajoux? Who murdered Pierre-Louis Pennec? And who murdered Loic Pennec?’

Madame Lajoux glared at Dupin for a few moments, openly hostile, her whole body ominously tense, as though preparing to attack. But then she looked away and her shoulders fell in resignation. She walked very slowly over to the painting and stood in front of it. ‘The Gauguin. After the break-in I was so afraid that it had been stolen. All would have been lost.’

Dupin didn’t fully understand her last comment, but he had a vague inkling of what she meant. Initially he had decided he wouldn’t mention the theft of the painting, even if this was ridiculous in many ways, something which Labat had – strongly – argued. And it was ridiculous, because they were throwing away an important point in the interviews. But he just had a feeling about it.

Madame Lajoux was still standing there, motionless.

‘Do you know who I don’t trust, Monsieur le Commissaire? André Pennec. He’s an unscrupulous character. I think Pierre-Louis Pennec hated him. He would never have said it, but I could sense it.’

‘It can’t have been easy for him, being excluded from the inheritance by his own father and seeing Pierre Louis-Pennec inherit it all – especially the Gauguin obviously. And then his brother excluded him from the inheritance in the same way.’

‘We basically never saw him. He only ever phoned. But I can believe it, oh yes. Even his dodgy lawyer friend couldn’t help him.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Don’t you know? André Pennec had hired a lawyer who was supposedly going to call the provisions of their father’s will into question. It infuriated Pierre-Louis. They didn’t speak for ten years after that.’

‘When was that? What year?’

‘Oh it’s a long time ago now. I can’t be certain when it was any more. It was around the time they had a political dispute, or just afterwards.’

‘So do you think the dispute had less to do with politics?’

‘Well not quite. Monsieur Pennec hated the whole Emgann thing. It was definitely a bit of both.’

‘Do you believe André Pennec to be capable of murder?’

Madame Lajoux hesitated, an inscrutable expression on her face. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s cruel. I don’t think… I don’t think I should be commenting on this matter, Monsieur le Commissaire. I hardly know him personally.’

‘You yourself have come into an impressive inheritance, Madame Lajoux.’

Madame Lajoux looked shocked. ‘You know about that? Is it okay then, is it decided? I feel very awkward about all of this, you know.’

‘Our concern is the murder, Madame Lajoux.’

‘Yes… Yes… Does anyone else know?’

‘My inspectors. But you needn’t worry. It’s their job to remain silent.’

‘This really isn’t easy for me.’ She was pale. ‘Do you know about the letter, too?’

‘Have you read it?’ Her voice shook.

‘No, no. Nobody has read it. That’s beyond the remit of the police. I would need to get a judicial order. But I…’

‘You… you know about… about our relationship?’ Her eyes filled with tears, her voice so faint it was almost inaudible.

‘Where, how could you, I –’

‘It’s okay, Madame Lajoux. It’s your life. It’s not my business or anyone else’s. Only insofar as it is relevant to the case. I only need to know about the nature of your relationship with Pierre-Louis Pennec to build an overall picture for myself.’

‘It wasn’t an affair, not one of those nasty little relationships. I loved him. From the beginning. And he loved me, even though it was impossible for us to be together properly. He didn’t love his wife, not any more. Perhaps he never did. I don’t think he did. They were so young when they met and married. She was never interested in the hotel. Not in the slightest. But he never blamed her for it. He was a noble man. We could never be seen together, do you understand? Never. Everything was… it was utterly pointless.’

‘All of that, Madame Lajoux, that’s your own business.’ Dupin had said this more harshly than he had intended, but Madame Lajoux didn’t notice at all. ‘How was your relationship with Loic Pennec?’

‘My relationship with him?’

‘Yes. What did you make of him?’

‘Me? Pierre-Louis Pennec always wanted his son to take over everything, to become a great, powerful hotelier like himself, like his father and his grandmother. He didn’t like Catherine, he –’

‘So you’ve said… but what did you think of the relationship between father and son?’

‘He might have been a little disappointed in his son, I suppose. Loic had it easy. I couldn’t understand it. His path was sketched out so beautifully. But it takes real strength to carry out a duty as onerous as running the hotel. You have to make it your entire life’s work.’ Her voice had become bitter. ‘You have to be worthy!’

‘Yes. Worthy of living up to a calling like that.’

‘Did you and Loic often speak to each other?’

‘No.’ The answer came very brusquely.

‘But he was often here.’

‘Yes. But he only spoke to his father. He wasn’t part of the hotel, you know. He was an outsider here.’

‘Is it true that Monsieur Pennec sometimes gave you certain sums of money, over and above your monthly salary?’

Madame Lajoux was looking indignant again. ‘Well yes. Listen, I’ve sacrificed my whole life for him and the hotel. Those weren’t favours, it wasn’t because I was his lover. I put everything I had into this hotel. Everything. What are you implying?’

‘What kind of sums were they?’

‘Ten thousand euro, usually. Sometimes less. Once or twice a year.’

‘And you transferred this money to your son in Canada?’

‘I… Yes, to my son. He’s married. And he’s self-employed. He’s building up his business at the moment. I… I supported him, yes.’

‘All of the money?’

‘Yes. All of the money.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Forty-six.’

‘How long have you been transferring these sums of money?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘And you have absolutely no idea what happened to either of the Pennecs?’

Madame Lajoux seemed relieved that Dupin had changed the subject. ‘No. Emotions always run high here, but murder…’

‘Why do you think that the donation wouldn’t have been the right thing to do?’

She looked very unhappy again. ‘He didn’t say anything to me about it. I didn’t know. He should have –’ She broke off.

‘I have to ask you another question. And I ask that you don’t take it personally, this is police procedure. We can’t leave any stone unturned at this stage.’

‘I understand.’

‘Where were you yesterday evening?’

‘Me? You mean where was I personally?’

‘I worked until half seven, there was a lot to do, you know, it’s all a terrible mess. Someone has to keep their eye on everything. The guests are worried. I think I was home by around eight o’clock. I was absolutely exhausted and went to bed soon after. I showered, brushed my teeth…’

‘That’ll do, Madame Lajoux. When do you usually go to sleep?’

‘For the last few years I’ve been going to bed early, around half nine. I have to get up very early after all. Half five every morning. I had a different rhythm when I used to sleep at the hotel.’

‘Thank you, Madame Lajoux. That’s as much as I need to know. Did you see anyone as you left the hotel?’

‘Madame Mendu, I think. We bumped into each other briefly downstairs.’

‘All right. You should be getting home now.’

‘There’s still a bit to do tonight.’ Something seemed to be making her very self-conscious. ‘I –’ She broke off again.

Dupin understood. ‘I’d like to assure you again that everything we’ve discussed will remain between us, Madame Lajoux. Please don’t worry. Nobody will hear anything about this.’

She seemed somewhat relieved. ‘Thank you. It’s very important to me. People could get the wrong idea you know. That would be unbearable, especially when I think about Monsieur Pennec.’

‘Thanks very much again, Madame Lajoux.’ Dupin went towards the door. They left the restaurant together, Dupin locked up again and they said goodbye.

Labat and Le Ber were nowhere to be seen. He needed one of them. Madame Lajoux had almost disappeared up the stairs by the time he realised there was one question he still needed to ask.

‘Excuse me, Madame Lajoux – I have one last question. There was that man you saw in front of the hotel on Wednesday, who was talking to Pierre-Louis Pennec… do you remember?’

Madame Lajoux turned around with astonishing speed and sprightliness. ‘Oh yes, of course, your inspectors asked me about that too.’

‘I would like you to look at a photo and tell us whether it’s the same man.’

‘Absolutely, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘One of my inspectors will show you the photo.’

‘They’ll find me in the breakfast room.’

‘Thanks again.’

She disappeared up to the first floor.

Dupin stood outside the main door and took a few deep breaths. It made for a jolly scene, the square and the narrow streets were glittering with tourists. Dupin turned right, heading for his little alleyway. There was nobody around.

It was eight o’clock. He had lost all sense of time, which always happened to him when he was on a case, but today it was also because daylight hadn’t really started until the afternoon. It was so hot now that it seemed as though the sun was trying to make up for what it had missed out on that morning. He had a feeling this was going to be a long day. His third long day.

Dupin walked to the end of the road without thinking, then turned right in the direction of the river and crossed the bridge to the harbour. This had already become something of a ritual for him. That’s how it always was – without meaning to, he returned to the places he liked. He dialled Le Ber’s number.

‘Where are you?’

‘At the chemist in Trévignon, I’m just leaving.’

‘Madame Pennec was here yesterday evening, around quarter to ten, she bought Novanox. Nitrazepam. She had a prescription for a high dosage. She was in the chemist’s for about ten minutes. She was served by a member of staff called Madame Kabou, who was there this evening too. I’ve just spoken to her.’

Dupin managed to get out his notebook with his left hand. ‘Good. Now we need to know what time she got back.’

‘To her house?’

‘How are we meant to find that out?’

‘I don’t know. We probably won’t… There are still a few more things to be done, Le Ber. Find out what time Madame Lajoux left the Central yesterday. Make sure you speak to Madame Mendu.’

‘I really need to see Monsieur Beauvois. Have you found him?’

‘Yes, he was in the museum. There was a long art society meeting there today and he had other things to do, too. Phone calls, something to do with donors.’

‘Okay. I’ll visit him later; I’m going to see Delon first. Tell Beauvois nine o’clock or thereabouts at the hotel. We’ll give him a call. Has André Pennec turned up again?’

‘We got through to him in Rennes, via his office. He’ll be back late. He knows that you want to see him urgently.’

‘Call him again. Set up a meeting. Is Labat at the hotel?’

‘Tell him to look up the Musée d’Orsay online and show Madame Lajoux a photo of Charles Sauré. I’ve already told her about this.’

‘The director of the collection?’

‘Yes. I want to know if he was the man she saw talking to Pennec outside the hotel.’

‘I’ll let him know.’

‘One last thing. Madame Cassel is just about to arrive at the hotel. I want you to go into the restaurant with her if I’m not there. She may need your help. She has to take a look at the painting.’

‘The copy of the Gauguin?’

‘Yes. We may be able to find a clue to the copyist. She’s already on her way.’

‘Fine, no problem.’

‘Speak to you soon.’ Dupin hung up.

A group of kayaks came into the harbour and stopped on the far side, underneath one of the big palm trees. Loud, cheerful voices and exhilarated people; a merry mixture of colours, the boats yellow, red, green and blue.

The quickest way to get to Delon’s house from here would definitely be just to walk diagonally over the hill, but Dupin still found the labyrinth of little streets quite daunting. He took the route past the Central, even though it meant he had to push his way through the crowds.

Dupin knocked on the heavy old wooden door. The little window next to it was wide open.

‘Please come in. The door isn’t locked.’

Dupin opened the door and stepped inside. It seemed very cosy, just as it had the last time he was here. The ground floor of the pretty old stone house was one big room − sitting room, dining room and kitchen all in one. It wasn’t unlike Beauvois’ house, perhaps a little smaller, and yet it seemed completely different. The atmosphere was different.

‘I was just about to eat.’

‘Oh I’m sorry. I’ve come at an extremely inconvenient time. I didn’t even let you know I was on my way.’

‘Won’t you join me?’

‘I just have a few questions; I don’t want to keep you too long.’

Even Dupin himself didn’t know whether that meant yes, I’ll sit down with you, or no, I’d rather stand, I’m not staying long anyway. He sat down. On the old wooden table, almost exactly in the centre of the room, lay a plate of langoustines, a dish of scallop rillettes, some mayonnaise and a bottle of Muscadet. Next to these was a baguette (a ‘Dolmen’, Dupin’s favourite kind). He noticed all these details because he suddenly felt ravenous.

Delon had gone over to the old cupboard next to the stove and fetched a second plate and glass without a word, placing them on the table in front of Dupin, who was very grateful. He hadn’t even needed to say anything. He took a little bread and some langoustines and began to peel them.

‘Pierre-Louis came here too sometimes. We’d sit just like you and I are sitting now. He liked being here like this: a baguette on the table, a few simple things.’

Delon laughed fondly, affectionately. In comparison to his taciturn behaviour the day before yesterday he seemed positively talkative.

‘I take it you know about the painting?’

Delon answered in the calm way he had been speaking all along. ‘It never interested me. He was glad it didn’t.’

Dupin had been expecting this answer. So seven people, at the very least, had known about the painting.

‘Why didn’t it interest you?’

‘I don’t know. Everyone flitted around him because of the painting.’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘Everyone saw the money. That some of it could belong to them one day, or even the whole painting… I think he could see it sometimes. That much money changes everything.’

‘What did he see?’

‘That they all wanted the painting.’

‘And who wanted the painting?’

Delon looked at Dupin in astonishment. ‘Everyone. His son, his daughter-in-law, Lajoux, I don’t even know who else knew. Beauvois did for sure. So did his half-brother.’

‘But he never intended to sell it.’

‘No, but it was there, always there, do you understand? And everyone thought to themselves: who knows? Who knows?’ Delon sounded mournful all of a sudden.

‘And do you think one of them could turn out to be the murderer?’

Again Delon looked shocked, but spoke in an even tone. ‘I think any of them could.’

‘You believe all of these people to be capable of murder?’

‘How many millions is the painting worth?’

‘Forty, maybe more.’ Dupin looked at Delon and waited for a response. Delon reached for the Muscadet and filled both glasses.

‘There aren’t many people I could honestly say would never become a murderer for that kind of money.’ There wasn’t a trace of cynicism or resignation in his voice; he acted like he was just calmly stating an established fact.

Dupin essentially agreed.

‘They were all waiting for him to die at last. They were all thinking about this day, the entire time. No doubt about it.’

There was a long silence. Both of them ate.

‘Everyone wanted the painting… and nobody was going to get it. Did you know about Pierre-Louis Pennec’s plan to present it to the Musée d’Orsay as a gift?’

Delon hesitated a little for the first time. ‘No. So that’s what he was planning, eh? It’s a good idea.’

It was on the tip of Dupin’s tongue to say that it was precisely this good idea of Pennec’s that might have triggered the events culminating in his murder. When he found out about his serious heart condition, he had turned to the Musée d’Orsay immediately… and somebody must have known exactly what he had done, someone who wanted to prevent the donation being made. Someone who had to act before it came to that.

Dupin was silent. Delon was absolutely right. In itself, it was a good idea.

Delon looked serious now. ‘He should have done it before. The donation. No doubt about it. I was always afraid that even more people would find out about the painting. If more than two people know something, eventually everyone will know it.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Pennec was never afraid. It was odd. He wasn’t afraid of anything.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a motive – a particularly strong one I mean?’

‘When that much money is involved, doesn’t everyone have a particular motive?’

Dupin felt as though any of Delon’s comments this evening might have come straight out of his own mouth. ‘What did you make of the relationship between father and son?’

‘It was all so tragic.’ Delon topped up their glasses. ‘A great tragedy. Everything. What happened between them, and now his death. He had a sad old life.’

‘What do you think –’ Dupin’s mobile rang and at an offensive volume. Le Ber’s number. He picked up rather reluctantly.

‘Monsieur le Commissaire?’

‘You’ve got to come and take a look at this right now.’ Le Ber was practically falling over his words in excitement.

‘What’s happened?’

‘We’ve taken the painting out of its frame, Madame Cassel and I. She brought special tools with her. We’ve found a signature on the copy.’

‘Frédéric Beauvois.’

‘Beauvois?’

‘The one and only.’

‘So he did the painting? He copied it?’

‘Yes. We found the signature in the tree, up in the branches, very well hidden but still clear. We’ve compared this signature with the one on some invoices he gave Pierre-Louis Pennec. There’s no doubt about it.’

‘Does he paint then?’

‘Apparently. Madame Cassel thinks it’s an excellent piece.’

‘It seems… I mean, I don’t have a good feeling about this.’

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘About my feeling?’

‘That it’s Beauvois?’

‘Whose signature it is? Yes. Madame Cassel is completely sure. Frédéric Beauvois is the copyist behind this painting.’

‘I’m on my way. Let’s meet at the hotel.’ Dupin thought for a moment. ‘No. Let’s go straight to Beauvois’ house. I’ll leave now. See you there.’

Delon had calmly continued eating during the phone call, remaining thoroughly unconcerned.

‘I’ve got to go, Monsieur Delon.’

‘So I thought.’

Dupin stood. ‘Don’t get up.’

‘No, no, I should.’

Delon walked Dupin the few metres to the door.

‘Thank you for the excellent meal. And for taking the time to speak to me too, of course.’

‘You didn’t eat much.’

‘Next time.’

‘Au revoir.’

Dupin tried to get his bearings. It couldn’t be that far to Beauvois’ house, but he found the narrow, crooked little streets and alleyways of the old town confusing. Dupin decided to go down the main street instead. It took him five minutes. When he arrived, Le Ber was already waiting for him, standing a few metres down the road from the house. The door to the front garden was closed.

‘Ring the bell.’

Nothing happened. Le Ber rang a second and third time.

‘Let’s go to the museum.’

‘Are you sure he’s there?’

‘We might as well try it. Where’s Madame Cassel?’

‘At the hotel. I asked her to wait there.’

Dupin smiled. Le Ber looked at him in bemusement.

‘Is there something wrong, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

‘No, no. Nothing at all.’

They hurried back down the lane, past the Central and Place Gauguin and up the road to the museum. It was less than a hundred metres from the hotel. The entrance was in the modern part of the building, an ambitious, ugly, white, concrete-steel-glass construction which had been built onto the old Julia Hotel.

The door was locked. Le Ber knocked loudly. Nothing happened. He knocked again, more firmly this time, but still nothing happened. There was no doorbell. Le Ber took a few steps back. To the left of the museum was an art gallery, the first in a whole string of them, one gallery after another – perhaps ten or fifteen crammed together, stretching the whole way down the little street. A few steps to the right of the entrance was another door in a gloomy, concrete alcove. This one was heavy and made of steel – it looked like it might be the door to the technical hub of the museum.

‘I’ll try this one.’

Directly beside the door – strangely low down – there was a very plain doorbell that they might easily have missed. Le Ber held it down three times in a row. A few moments later there was a loud noise from the museum. It sounded like a door banging.

‘Hello? Police! This is the police. Please open this door!’

Le Ber was yelling. Dupin almost laughed.

‘Please open this door immediately.’

Dupin was just about to tell him to calm down when the door opened, just a crack at first, but then in one swift motion it was thrown open wide. Frédéric Beauvois was standing in front of them, smiling and friendly.

‘Ah – the Inspector and the Commissaire. Bonsoir, Messieurs. Welcome to the Pont-Aven Museum.’

Beauvois’ remarkable friendliness threw Le Ber off. Dupin took over the talking.

‘Good evening, Monsieur Beauvois. We’d like to have a word.’

‘Both of you?’

‘Well then it must be important. So many police VIPs. Shall we go to my house? Or to the hotel?’

‘We’d like to stay here in the museum. Do you have a room where we could chat for a little while?’

Beauvois seemed irritated for a split second, but immediately composed himself again. ‘Of course, yes, there is a conference room; we can sit there. I’d be delighted. We use it whenever one of our clubs has a meeting. It’s along here. Up the stairs.’

Le Ber and Dupin followed Beauvois. Le Ber hadn’t said a word yet.

The stairs led to the first floor. They went along a long, narrow corridor which led to an equally narrow door. Beauvois opened it with a flourish and went into the room. Even inside, the new part of the museum was not particularly attractive. The design was very functional but the room was surprisingly large, a good ten metres wide. Some battered-looking desks were set out in a big U-shape.

They sat at one of the desks in the corner.

‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ Beauvois was leaning back in his chair. He looked completely at ease.

Dupin’s forehead creased. A question had already crossed his mind on the way to the museum, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why had Beauvois signed the painting, thereby running the risk of incriminating himself? What was that about? He was an intelligent man. It didn’t make any sense. It seemed to indicate that Beauvois might not even be guilty, despite his name clearly being on the copy.

‘We have a search warrant, Monsieur Beauvois.’

Dupin had spoken in an icy tone. Le Ber looked incredulously at the Commissaire. Of course they didn’t have a search warrant, but Beauvois was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to check. He ran his hands through his hair several times and shook his head a little, pursing his lips. He seemed to be thinking hard. A minute passed before he spoke in an extremely friendly way.

‘Come, gentlemen. Come with me.’

He stood up, waited for Dupin and Le Ber to do the same (which they did after a moment’s hesitation) and then briskly retraced his steps. Along the corridor, down the stairs. He opened a door that Le Ber and Dupin hadn’t noticed before, opposite the main door, directly to the left of the stairs. It led to the basement of the museum. Beauvois turned on the light. He was still leading the way with determined strides.

‘This is our storeroom, gentlemen. And our workshop.’

They entered a very large room.

‘Some of the members of our societies are passionate painters…and, I can say this in all modesty, some of them are very talented. There are some remarkable pieces here. But come along.’

In the far corner stood several long, narrow tables. Le Ber and Dupin had to work to keep up with Beauvois’ pace. He stood in front of one of the tables. They positioned themselves on either side of him without even thinking about it.

Beauvois reached for one of the switches dangling from the ceiling. Powerful spotlights came on and it was a few moments before they could see properly again.

The first thing they saw was the garish, almost blinding, orange. Then the rest of the painting. It was right in front of them. They could have reached out and touched it. Intact. And overwhelming.

It was another few moments before Dupin and Le Ber could grasp what they were looking at. Le Ber murmured so quietly it was almost impossible to understand: ‘I knew it.’ And then after another little pause, ‘Forty million euro.’

But before either of them could say anything else, Beauvois had reached for a knife lying in amongst the wild profusion of thick pencils, various paintbrushes, scrapers and other painting tools – and thrust it into the middle of the painting. Dupin tried to grab hold of Beauvois’ arm at the last second, but it was too late. It had all happened incredibly fast.

Beauvois deftly cut a little square out of the painting. Then he held the square of canvas up to the harsh light.

‘Gilbert Sonnheim. A copy. Do you see? An insignificant painter from the artists’ colony, from Lille, less gifted, a syncretist. But by Teutates, he was a good copyist! An excellent piece.’ Beauvois seemed manic.

Dupin’s thoughts were racing at a monstrous pace, darting here and there – he felt dizzy. Beauvois held up the piece of canvas as if he were taking an oath, his eyes blazing.

Dupin was the first to find his tongue again. ‘You replaced a copy with a copy. I think you wanted to steal the painting and replace it with your copy so that nobody would notice it was gone. But it had already been stolen – it had already been replaced with a copy. There are two copies.’

The confusion on Le Ber’s face seemed to grow as Dupin went on – then all of a sudden comprehension dawned.

Beauvois put the piece of canvas back into the painting with meticulous precision. ‘I enjoyed doing it, in fact I was proud to do it.’ His voice was charged with smug, ridiculous emotion. ‘Pierre-Louis Pennec would have been in complete and utter agreement with what I did, he would have welcomed it. He would be spinning in his grave if his son had inherited the painting – Loic would have sold it at the first opportunity. He was waiting for this exact moment. His whole life he was just waiting for his father’s death! The museum was so close to Pierre-Louis Pennec’s heart. This was all so important to him, Pont-Aven, its history, the artists’ colony. That’s the truth, gentlemen!’

‘It was you who broke into the hotel the night after the murder. You swapped the paintings and hung up the copy,’ Le Ber paused a moment, ‘you hung up your copy and then you took down the other copy that was there and kept it. That’s this painting here, the one you cut a piece out of.’

‘Very likely, Inspector. I fell for it. Me, Frédéric Beauvois! But it was dark in the restaurant, almost pitch black. I just had a little torch… and it’s an excellent copy. Not as good as my painting, if I may say so. Up there, in the branches, the brushstrokes aren’t quite right.’

‘When did you do your copy?’ Dupin’s voice was very calm and focused.

‘Oh, decades ago now. Almost thirty years ago. After Pennec took me into his confidence. I became his expert. He was a hotelier you know, not an art scholar, not an art historian. No. But he had a monumental artistic and historical inheritance to look after; there was the hotel of course, but also this exceptional painting. A marvel. It’s Gauguin’s most daring painting; believe me, nothing matches it for sheer boldness. I don’t mean that…’

‘And why did you make a copy?’

‘I wanted to study it out of admiration. Out of pure fascination. I took photographs of it and then painted from them. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but painting is my great passion and always has been. I know my limitations, but I have a certain amount of skill. I –’

‘And your signature on the painting, that was the pride of an artist?’

‘Youthful nonsense, yes. A little vanity.’

It was plausible, thought Dupin. Everything was plausible, as far-fetched as it sounded – and indeed was.

‘Did Pierre-Louis Pennec know about your copy?’

‘No. I’ve kept it to myself all these years. I was the only person who kept looking at it again and again. To see Gauguin and the fantastic power of this painting, its infinite spirit. It defies everything.’

‘Did you know there might be another copy?’

‘No. Never.’

‘And Pierre-Louis Pennec, did he ever say anything about a copy?’

‘How did this one here come about?’

‘I can only speculate, Monsieur le Commissaire. When Gauguin left Pont-Aven for good and moved to the South Seas, it was by no means the end of the Pont-Aven School. Many painters stayed here for years, as did Sonnheim. Obviously more and more artists of little significance came here. Maybe Marie-Jeanne herself commissioned Sonnheim to do the copy. That wouldn’t have been unusual. She had paintings by so many artists hanging in her restaurant, originals at first, but then she gradually replaced them with copies, just like Mademoiselle Julia did in her hotel. Perhaps Marie-Jeanne was intending to keep the original somewhere safe and needed this copy to replace it. But I’d like to emphasise this is all pure speculation.’

‘So this copy is over a hundred years old too? It’s almost as old as the painting itself?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Where was it kept all this time?’

‘Again, I really couldn’t say. Pierre-Louis may have inherited it along with the original. There’s that little room next to his one at the hotel with the photo archive in it, Pierre-Louis kept some copies there because there wasn’t space for them in the restaurant; we spoke about those copies a few times, he was considering leaving them to the museum. He always talked about there being a dozen of them. I’ve never seen them, but perhaps he kept this copy there too. Or else it wasn’t in the hotel at all… and someone else had it?’ Beauvois paused. ‘Maybe even he didn’t know about this copy, that’s a possibility too. Who knows?’

‘Indeed, who knows? But somebody had it… or knew about it and could get their hands on it.’ Dupin was irritated now, and sounded very determined.

Beauvois was still thinking everything through. ‘The murderer must have swapped it for the real painting the very night they committed the crime.’

Dupin was sure Beauvois was right. That’s how it must have been. Sauré had seen the original hanging in the restaurant just the day before the murder, in the same spot it had occupied for the last hundred years.

‘What did you intend to do with the painting, Monsieur Beauvois?’

Beauvois’ voice rose dramatically again. ‘It would have benefited the museum and the society – every last penny of it.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I need hardly add that none of it would have been for me, for my own purposes. That money could have achieved something. A proper museum expansion, a new centre for contemporary painting. So much could have been achieved! Pierre-Louis Pennec didn’t want the painting to go to his son and daughter-in-law. Pierre-Louis was intending to give the painting to the Musée d’Orsay as a gift.’ He presented this last sentence as his trump card.

‘We know about that, Monsieur Beauvois.’

‘Of course you do. He had been considering it for a long time but not actually doing anything. Then last week he asked me how to go about it. All at once, out of the blue. He was very determined. And he wanted it taken care of quickly. I recommended Monsieur Sauré to him, a brilliant man, the director of the collection at the museum.’

‘Did you introduce Monsieur Pennec to Charles Sauré?’

‘He had no idea what to do. He always relied on me in these matters.’

‘And did you speak to Monsieur Sauré also?’

‘No, I just gave Pierre-Louis his name and number; I offered to speak to him, but Pierre-Louis wanted to do it himself.’

‘Did you know that he and Sauré met up? That Sauré was in the hotel and saw the painting?’

Beauvois looked surprised. ‘No, when was Monsieur Sauré here in Pont-Aven?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘Where were you last Thursday evening, Monsieur Beauvois? And yesterday evening?’

‘Yes, you.’

Beauvois leapt up from his chair and then sat back down again, his back ramrod straight and his tone of voice abruptly altered. He spoke sharply, but still very smugly. ‘That is grotesque, Monsieur. You can’t suspect me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Dupin recalled the short phone call Beauvois had had during lunch yesterday, and how coldly he had spoken all of a sudden. ‘I decide whom we suspect, Monsieur Beauvois.’

Dupin was sick of this. Everyone in this case saw themselves as the selfless protector of Pierre-Louis Pennec’s wishes, as some noble hero. That’s what whoever murdered him would be claiming too. And everyone had lied outright in their initial interviews. They had been keeping the most important fact from him this whole time. Everyone had known about the painting and had been aware that other people knew too. But everyone pretended that this somehow wasn’t relevant.

‘What are you basing this ridiculous suspicion on?’ ventured Beauvois.

Dupin looked amused. ‘Perhaps you were also in possession of a second copy? And thought up a very cunning trick. Steal the painting and cover it up with some story about replacing a copy with another copy.’

For the first time Beauvois looked genuinely uncertain. He stammered. ‘That’s absurd. I’ve never heard anything so absurd in my life.’

Le Ber laid it on thick now: ‘Quite apart from any other suspicious activity, you have committed burglary, Monsieur Beauvois. This isn’t some trivial matter. You smashed in the window of a restaurant, got inside in a remarkably professional way and intended to steal a painting worth forty million euro.’

Dupin was very pleased with Le Ber’s contribution. Beauvois was so sure he had the moral high ground that even the break-in didn’t seem to matter to him.

‘This is all utterly ridiculous, Inspector. So what exactly did I do then? All I have is this worthless copy here, nothing more. What kind of crime is that? Attempted serious theft?’

‘So, Monsieur Beauvois. Where were you last night and Thursday night?’

‘I’m not going to answer these questions.’

‘Obviously that’s up to you, Monsieur Beauvois. You can call in a lawyer.’

‘I will. This is a disgraceful turn of events. I was well aware the police can be seriously lacking in tact sometimes, but –’

‘Inspector Le Ber will accompany you to the station in Quimper. We’re going to do this by the book.’ Dupin’s mood had darkened.

‘You can’t be serious, Monsieur le Commissaire!’ Beauvois was becoming more and more frantic.

‘I’m completely serious, Monsieur Beauvois. And I find it ridiculous that you would doubt it.’ Dupin turned firmly on his heel. He had to get out of here. ‘I’ll have a car sent for you, Le Ber.’ He was already on the stairs and hadn’t looked back.

‘Monsieur le Commissaire, there will be serious –’

‘I’ll ask the officers to send the car very quickly, Le Ber. It won’t take long.’ Dupin could still hear Beauvois’ muffled complaints. But he was already upstairs, opening the heavy main door and going outside.

The sun had just set behind the hills, the sky a deep pink. Dupin was exhausted. He still didn’t know what to make of Beauvois. Not even now, after this whirlwind of events. A horrible man, but that didn’t matter. Did he know the whole truth now? Or had Beauvois just spun them some ridiculous story? A story that was intended to cover up a different one? Beauvois was on a sacred mission… and he was cunning. Nothing in this case was as it seemed, that was the rule. It was all so difficult. Anything was possible, he had to think creatively. The murderer had been in possession of a copy of the painting, a copy that was painted only a few years after the original and which had been unknown until now. But Dupin hadn’t asked anyone about a copy yet, and nobody volunteered information around here. Nobody.

But what worried Dupin most of all was the shadowy thought playing on his mind again, something from the conversations he’d had that day. Something wasn’t right. Something crucial. He hadn’t the slightest idea what it was, however hard he thought. But maybe it was just because of the bewildering whirlwind of events that day or how tired he was. And he was still hungry; he really hadn’t eaten much at Delon’s.

Dupin hadn’t taken the most direct route back to the Central, choosing to walk through the streets of galleries instead, turning right, going down the steps, along the narrow lanes and up to the top of the hill. He leafed through his Clairefontaine over and over as he walked along, almost tripping a few times. Nothing had caught his eye that was able to relieve his shadowy feeling of unease, nothing at all. So he called Labat and explained what had happened (Labat always remained unimpressed by incidents like this). They had sent Le Ber a car from Pont-Aven; Monfort was driving. Beauvois was on his way to Quimper, there was a chance he would talk there.

Labat had given Dupin a quick update on the latest news. Madame Lajoux had identified Sauré as the man whom she had seen speaking to Pennec in front of the hotel. No matter how much Labat pushed him – and this was the type of thing Labat usually excelled at – André Pennec would not confirm what time he would be back from his ‘official business’ in Rennes that evening. Labat had informed him that they would be waiting for him at the hotel and assumed that he would arrive before midnight. Dupin had tasked Labat with checking out Pennec’s entire stay in Rennes and reconstructing his day exactly, down to the very minute. And Madame Cassel wanted to speak to Dupin again, Labat didn’t know what about.

Dupin wanted to be alone for a while longer so he went down to the harbour and just stood there, staring at the boats without really taking anything in. Then he walked to the hotel, spoke briefly to Labat again and went upstairs to the first floor. Madame Cassel was sitting in the breakfast room, in the same place as this morning; it seemed like days ago to Dupin.

‘Bonsoir, Madame Cassel. We are very grateful for your help, the lead you gave us was significant. We’ve been able to clear up the break-in at the crime scene.’

‘Really? I’m so glad. What happened?’

Dupin hesitated.

‘Sorry for asking such nosy questions. My curiosity is of course less important than police confidentiality.’

‘I understand. Really. I’m glad that I could help.’ Madame Cassel looked tired; she too had been ‘on duty’ for twenty-four hours.

‘Well… you know, I… you should know, you could –’

Dupin felt he owed her an explanation or two. Marie Morgane Cassel looked at the Commissaire in amusement.

‘Are you hungry, Monsieur Dupin? I’m starving.’

‘Hungry? Yes, to be honest, I am hungry, very. I didn’t manage to eat today, I… I have to wait for someone anyway and they’re not going to be here before midnight.’ He looked at his watch, ‘There’s an hour and a half to go.’

‘There was something else I wanted to tell you. It’s to do with the painting and Charles Sauré.’

‘Sounds good. Let’s talk shop and eat something while we’re at it.’

‘Great. I’m sure you know where to go around here.’

Dupin thought about it. ‘Tell you what. Do you know Kerdruc? It’s only two or three kilometres down the river, five minutes by car. There’s a pretty little harbour and a fantastic, very traditional restaurant; you sit right beside the river.’

Madame Cassel seemed a little surprised at how enthusiastic Dupin was. He hadn’t the slightest desire to set foot in one of the touristy restaurants again, and the same went for Beauvois’ mill. He wanted to get out of Pont-Aven.

‘Wonderful. I can’t stay long, I have a lecture tomorrow morning at nine. But it would be great to eat something. And that sounds lovely. Kerdruc.’

‘We’ll take my car.’

Marie Morgane Cassel stood up and they walked over to the stairs together.

Labat was standing at reception. ‘You’re going out again?’

‘We still need to discuss something, Madame Cassel and I. Call me as soon as André Pennec gets here.’

Labat looked glum. ‘André Pennec could turn up early, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

‘Then call me when he’s here.’

The landscape became more and more enchanting as the narrow little streets at the edge of Pont-Aven gave way to thick woodland. The trees were dripping with mistletoe and ivy, overgrown and moss-covered. Some of the trees here had entwined as they grew, forming a long dark green tunnel. Now and then the Aven shimmered between the trees on the left hand side as though it were electrically charged, a pale silver colour. The last of the day’s light bathed everything in its glow, lending the landscape even more of a fairytale atmosphere. By now, Dupin knew this landscape and this atmosphere very well (Nolwenn called it the ‘Breton Aura’). He always thought that if you were to meet a dwarf or an elf or some other mythical creature in this kind of light, you wouldn’t even bat an eyelid.

Kerdruc was picturesquely situated where the flat hills along the Aven fell away; the streets wound right down to the river. Some beautiful old stone houses and even a few imposing villas were scattered amongst the lush greenery. Palm trees, dwarf fan palms, larches, pines, lemon trees, rhododendrons, beeches, hydrangeas, high beech hedges, bamboos, cactii, laurels and bushy lavender shrubs all grew in wild profusion. The plants could not have been more typically Breton. Just like in Port Manech down by the mouth of the Aven, you felt like you were walking into a botanic garden. The Aven lay wide and majestic in the valley, halfway to the open sea.

The street turned into a pier. A dozen coastal fishermen had moored their traditional colourful boats here; a few of the locals had left their motor launches and a few holiday-makers their sailing boats. The tide was coming in, the water already high, the waves long and flat.

Dupin parked at the pier. There was space for maybe ten cars here, but no more. The little restaurant’s tables and chairs were right at the harbour and some were alarmingly close to the water. A dozen old sycamore trees lined the little quay. It was quiet now.

They sat down at one of the tables by the water. A waiter appeared immediately, wiry, short, quick as lightning – Dupin liked that in a waiter. The kitchen was about to close. They ordered straight away, without much discussion. Belon oysters harvested from the river a few hundred metres away, followed by grilled monkfish with fleur de sel, pepper and lemon, washed down with a chilled, very young red wine from the Rhône valley.

‘It’s beautiful here, insanely beautiful.’ Marie Morgane Cassel let her gaze wander.

Dupin thought it felt a bit surreal to be sitting here like this; neither the setting nor the food could be more beautiful, more romantic – and this was the evening of a day that had seen a second death and an arrest in the midst of a tortuous murder case. But she was right, this truly was beautiful.

Madame Cassel tore him from his thoughts. ‘I got a call this evening from a journalist friend in Paris. Charles Sauré went to a friend of hers whom he apparently knows very well. He told him about the Gauguin. It’s going to be an exclusive in Le Figaro.’

‘Yes. They’ll probably run it tomorrow. An article and an interview.’

‘As a lead story?’

‘Presumably. I did tell you this would make international headlines. Every newspaper is going to be writing about it. Could you… suppress it?’

‘Do you mean could we, as police, prevent the newspaper reporting it?’

‘No.’ Dupin propped his head against his hand. Now there was the press too. The only thing that had been missing. He had sunk so deep into the strange world of this strange case. But it was obvious; as soon as anything about the existence of the painting and its incredible history was leaked, it would make for sensational news, especially in connection with a murder, or maybe even two. That was just the bare bones of the case and things didn’t come much more thrilling than that. ‘What on earth is he going to say?’

‘No idea. That’s as much as my friend knew.’

Dupin was silent for a few moments. ‘Why? Why is Sauré doing this? This afternoon he was talking about discretion the whole time. He said he didn’t even go to the police when he heard about Pennec’s murder in order to maintain confidentiality.’

‘It’s a huge coup for Sauré, probably the biggest of his life. He is the person who discovered an unknown Gauguin, perhaps the most important painting of the artist’s whole oeuvre. What’s in it for him? Kudos, fame, honour. It’s about his career. You know that.’

‘Yes. You’re right.’

She really was. By now the food had arrived. Everything looked wonderful. Dupin felt positively sick with hunger. They stopped talking and began to eat.

Madame Cassel was the first to break the silence: ‘This is going to make everything more complicated for you, isn’t it? The whole world will be watching your investigation.’

‘I hope Sauré will keep the “case” out of it as much as possible. But yes, it is going to make everything more complicated. I prefer it when it’s not clear who knows what.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘How do you sell a painting like that anyway?’

‘You’ve got to know the right people… or get to know them. After that it’s much easier than you’d think.’

‘And where are these people? Who are they?’

‘Well, they’re private collectors. Crazy, powerful, rich. They’re all over the world. They belong to a loose circle of collectors, although officially it doesn’t exist, of course.’

‘And they would never associate with the police.’

‘There’s a lot of illegal stuff going on in that world. For a passionate collector, it’s basically immaterial where a painting came from or how it became available. Everything is done very “discreetly”.’

‘We’ve got to find the painting before it comes onto the market. It’s our only chance.’

‘Definitely. Do you think it’s still here… I mean in Pont-Aven or this general area?’

‘We saw a second copy of the painting this evening.’

‘What? A second copy of the second Vision?’

‘Yes, painted by an imitator from the artists’ colony. Gilbert Sonnheim. The copy was probably made just a few years after Gauguin painted the original.’

‘I know Sonnheim. It wasn’t unusual for “students” to copy large paintings by their masters in order to study them. Even in the artists’ colony.’

‘And people commissioned copies too.’

‘That wasn’t unusual either. People who owned a painting like that often had copies made.’

‘We just don’t know yet.’

‘And who had this copy?’

‘We don’t know that either. Probably the murderer. On the night when…’ Dupin gave up.

He had been about to tell her the whole story, beginning with their visit to Beauvois, but he had no idea what or how to tell her. He was no longer capable of speaking concisely or coherently tonight. It all seemed absurd, even to him.

Marie Morgane Cassel looked at her watch. ‘Leave it. Another time. It’s almost midnight. I’ve got to get back to Brest. For my lecture tomorrow morning. I’ve still got to prepare a few things. The Fauves, Matisse and the whole gang –’

‘I’ll just pay quickly.’ Dupin stood up and went into the restaurant.

When he came back Madame Cassel was standing at the edge of the pier, looking down at the Aven. The tide was already in and it was extremely dark. The silvery surface of the Aven had shone as brightly as ever until the last scrap of light disappeared but now the silver was gone, replaced by an endless mass of black. One minute there was a silvery sheen and the next minute it had vanished. Above the river and out at sea, all that was left was a darkness you could almost reach out and touch as it swallowed everything in its path.

‘This is a special place.’

Yes, thought Dupin. In a way, he was like a collector of ‘special places’, places that were extraordinary in some way. He’d been doing it for a long time, ever since he was a child and he had made lists of them over the course of many years; now Kerdruc was one. One of those special places.

A few minutes later they were back at the harbour in Pont-Aven and Dupin was parking his car right next to Marie Morgane Cassel’s. Madame Cassel seemed to be flagging. They parted without saying much. Dupin waited until she had turned off onto the rue du Port and was driving away at an impressive speed.

Then he walked back to the hotel. Labat hadn’t been in touch which meant that André Pennec still wasn’t back. He wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t have expected any less of André Pennec. But even aside from the interview with Pennec, there really was a lot to do. The most important thing was to inform the Prefect personally about the article in Le Figaro. He could picture it now; he knew exactly how tense that conversation would be. ‘How is it that every Tom, Dick and Harry of a journalist knows how the investigation is going and I don’t? What kind of investigation are you running, with every little detail of the case getting leaked to the press?’ The Gauguin was too big an issue. He hadn’t been keeping the Prefect – or any of the top brass – ‘sufficiently informed’ of late. He was pleasingly indifferent to such things this evening. He didn’t want to do any more this evening. He couldn’t.

Labat was standing in the entrance to the hotel, staring out into the night. ‘Monsieur Pennec hasn’t arrived yet. He’s not keeping to our agreement at all.’

‘We’ll sort it out tomorrow, Labat. We should all be off to bed now.’

‘We need to go and get some sleep.’

‘Tomorrow, Labat. Bonne nuit.’

Labat made as though to protest again, but he was probably too tired himself. ‘Okay, Monsieur le Commissaire. I’ll call Monsieur Pennec’s mobile and let him know.’

‘Leave it. I’ll call him tomorrow morning myself.’

‘He will think it wasn’t important to us –’

‘He’s going to find out exactly what we think is important.’

‘I’ll just get my things.’ Labat disappeared in the direction of reception. Dupin followed him.

‘Did you know about the little room upstairs next to Pennec’s, where he kept his archive and a few paintings?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Dupin thought it over. ‘No, no… we’ll leave everything till tomorrow. Let’s call it a day.’

Labat actually looked quite relieved. ‘I’m going to head off, Monsieur le Commissaire. Kerbrat can take over the watch tonight.’

‘Yes, he’s an officer from Pont-Aven. One of Monfort and Pennarguear’s colleagues.’

‘All right.’

‘Good night.’

They both left the hotel. Labat turned right, Dupin to the left.

Dupin parked his Citroën in one of the side streets near his flat a little before half twelve. The big car park was already closed because of the Festival des Filets Bleus which would be starting tomorrow. He walked down the street to the waterfront, keeping his house on his left. He stood by the solid quay wall that surrounded the new town for a few moments, looking out at the infinite black of the Atlantic by night. You couldn’t see the sea of course, but you could feel it. In the west was the Phare de l’Ile aux Moutons from the Îles Glénan, a sharp, powerful beam of light, moving in swift but unhurried circles as it pierced the fabric of the night sky.

A quarter of an hour later, Dupin was asleep.