The First Day

“A piece of the Brillat-Savarin, please.”

For a fraction of a second, he had hesitated. But Commissaire Georges Dupin from the Commissariat de Police Concarneau couldn’t help it. He was salivating. It was one of his favorite cheeses. A rare, heavenly soft cheese. Triple crème. It tasted best on a fresh, crusty baguette, still warm from the oven.

To Dupin, cheese was a basic foodstuff—he could forgo many things, if it really came down to it, but not cheese. It probably ranked straight after coffee. And was followed by other unrelinquishable things, like baguettes and wine. Good charcuterie. And entrecôte, of course. Langoustines. On closer consideration, there was honestly so much that it made the definition of “unrelinquishable” seem absurd.

Dupin wandered up and down in front of the cheese stall in the phenomenal market halls of Saint-Servan, a neighborhood to the west of Saint-Malo: “And a piece of the Langres too, please.”

The market was lively but not hectic. It had that particular atmosphere of a week just beginning: the people had energy, and what lay ahead seemed conquerable. The Langres was another of Dupin’s favorite cheeses, an orange-red-toned soft variety made from the raw milk of Champagne-Ardenne cows. It was refined with Calvados for several weeks and had an intense, spicily piquant taste.

“And also,” he feigned hesitation, “a piece of the Rouelle du Tarn,” a goat cheese from the south, aromatically well-balanced, with subtle notes of hazelnut.

Dozens of cheese varieties were displayed here, piled alongside and on top of one another. Cheese from goat, sheep, or cow milk, with a multitude of sizes, shapes, surfaces, and colors. Pure happiness.

The sign above the stand read “Les Fromages de Sophie.” All kinds of cheese aromas hung in the air, mingling with the promising scents from the surrounding stands: fresh herbs, local and exotic spices, hard-cured sausage and pâtés, thick-bellied cœur-de-bœuf tomatoes, raspberries and strawberries, dried and candied fruits, irresistible pastries. An aromatic orchestra of savory and sweet. It made one hungry—for everything.

“Try some of this, monsieur: the Ferme de la Moltais, a Breton Tomme. It’s from the Rennes region, also a cow milk cheese, with astonishingly fruity nuances. It has a slightly firmer, gorgeous texture. You’ll see.”

The friendly young woman with short dark hair, glasses, and a sky-blue scarf knotted around her neck proffered a piece of the cheese. Dupin had wanted to try it even before the cheesemonger’s persuasive efforts—the sight of it alone was enough—but her description made it all the more enticing.

“Take it,” commanded an elderly, impressively white-haired woman who stood behind him in the queue, raising her eyebrows. “You’re standing at one of the best cheese stands in town, young man! And we have a lot of them! Obviously you’re not from around here.” It sounded like an accusation.

The woman had accurately identified Dupin as an outsider, even though the commissaire didn’t have the faintest idea why. Admittedly he was “far up north” here, to the east of the Canal d’Ille-et-Rance, not far from the Normandy border; but Saint-Malo in its entirety belonged to Brittany. However, he had already noted from Nolwenn’s and Riwal’s initial reaction to the news he would be attending a police seminar in Saint-Malo for a few days that the matter was apparently more complicated. The city must have some kind of special status, because both of them—his wonderful assistant and his first inspector—had only visited once, while they’d been to every other place in Brittany, or so it seemed to Dupin, countless times.

In addition, and this was also rather suspicious, the encyclopedic instructions they usually inflicted on him as soon as he had to leave Concarneau for any other location in Brittany had never appeared. Instead, Nolwenn and Riwal had instantly begun to talk about the Creed of Saint-Malo, which had shaped the self-assured city for centuries. Ni Français, ni Breton: Malouin suis! Neither Frenchman nor Breton; inhabitant of Saint-Malo am I!

Malouin. Riwal had briefly explained that the city had been bestowed with fairy-tale wealth between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, initially through the textile trade, and then predominantly through piracy—the corsairs, who were legalized by the French kings. Rich, powerful, and independent. The small city had become a bold maritime power that acted on an equal footing with the other maritime powers of the era. And so the malouinière character had formed: victory-assured, sovereign, proud. To some—like Nolwenn and Riwal—it was more like: arrogant, superior, cocky. What’s more, the willful—scandalous, even—claim of not being Breton was deeply provocative. And yet the flip side, not belonging to the French, prompted the warmest Breton sympathies. The rebellion against all “foreign rule,” the unconditional love of freedom and the defiant will to risk life and limb protecting it, all of this was, of course, deeply ingrained in the Breton spirit, with the result that Riwal, by the end of his uncharacteristically short explanation, had arrived at a bold paradox: that Saint-Malo, precisely because it didn’t want to be Breton, was a “uniquely Breton, downright ur-Breton city.” He had even expressed considerable praise: that the region was—“one has to give it fair recognition”—the culinary heart of Brittany. “A singular epicurean feast! The whole region, that is, including Dinard and Cancale, not just Saint-Malo.”

“This Tomme is aged for ten weeks with secret ingredients!” The cheesemonger interrupted Dupin’s train of thought. “Breton cheese has swiftly gained popularity over the last few years, monsieur. The young affineurs in particular are producing some fantastic creations.”

Dupin really liked trying the offerings at market stands. It was an essential part of visiting the market. By the time he left the Concarneau halls on Saturday mornings, he was always full. Dupin loved markets in general—culinary paradises, which, through the sheer variety of their offerings, the abundance and overabundance, were capable of unleashing a sweet rapture. Stands with kitchen utensils, especially pots and knives, were also an integral component of the rich market culture; Dupin had a penchant for good knives.

The Marché de Saint-Servan in Saint-Malo was a particularly noteworthy market. Not just for its location in the heart of this atmospheric part of the town, but also the exceptionally beautiful building. Dating from the 1920s, Dupin presumed. The floor was laid with large beige tiles, the walkways lined with rust-colored columns. The most impressive feature was that glass had been integrated wherever possible, letting light flood in from all around. The window and door frames were a maritime turquoise green, and there were decorative metal arches in the aisles, including above Sophie’s cheese stall.

“I’ll take a big piece, please.” Dupin was blown away by it.

“Anything else, monsieur?” The saleswoman smiled expectantly. “I also have a…”

Now it was time for the voice of reason.

“No, thank you. That’s it for today.”

She weighed the pieces at an impressive speed and packed them, no less swiftly, into a light blue paper bag with the inscription “Les Fromages de Sophie,” which Dupin took from her contentedly.

He was fully aware it hadn’t been a good idea to buy so much cheese, or to buy any cheese at all, for that matter. They would undoubtedly be given plenty to eat over the coming days. The packed seminar schedule—four pages in landscape format—included a restaurant visit every evening.

Dupin’s mood had brightened significantly while he was in the market; he had begun with two petits cafés in the Café du Théâtre, on the corner of the tree-lined square in front of the market halls. On his arrival at the police school campus at 7:58 that morning, his mood had seemed low, only to sink even further, all the way through to lunch. Still: it was a beautiful summer’s day. Everyone in Concarneau had warned the commissaire of the cold and rain “up north,” even now, in early June, but currently it was twenty-eight degrees, the sun was blazing, and the sky a brilliant, shining blue.

His good mood unfortunately wouldn’t last long. In twenty minutes, he had to be back in the police school. While conferences of this kind were essentially a nightmare for Dupin, this one was sure to be even worse than any that had preceded it. A month before, the prefect had turned up unannounced in Concarneau, and with a beaming smile, had declared to Dupin: “I have news, a great honor for you, Commissaire.” Dupin hadn’t been able to imagine—hadn’t wanted to imagine—what the prefect meant, but had instantly feared the worst. And of course, he’d been right to. In the first week of June, at the École de Police de Saint-Malo, one of the most revered police schools in the country, there would be a “unique seminar.” Every prefect from the four Breton départements—three women and one man—had been asked to select a commissaire to participate alongside them. It really couldn’t get any worse. The unbearable thought of he and Locmariaquer, together, for four whole days, Monday morning to Thursday evening. That was many, many hours. Longer than ever before. Dupin usually managed to keep his encounters with the prefect drastically short. The comfortable special status that Dupin had commanded for a long time, due to an attractive job offer from Paris, had been forfeited last autumn when he’d definitively turned it down—ending, in the process, the prefect’s moratorium on attacks. Their exhausting feud had long since resumed. Locmariaquer’s final sentence sealed the deal: “You should know that this extraordinary seminar is also a recognition of your team’s untiring engagement. Our colleagues in Saint-Malo have created an incredibly appealing accompanying program, you’ll see.”

For the purposes of “intensive team building,” the idea had been to have shared accommodation in the police school. A horror scenario had shot into Dupin’s mind: prefects and commissaires in double rooms or dormitories, certainly with shared bathrooms. After first pondering falling victim to a severe flu-like infection in the coming month—which would have meant house arrest—he had taken immediate action, searching online for a nice, small hotel. It hadn’t taken him long to find one: the Villa Saint Raphaël, a pretty maison d’hôtes in the center of Saint-Servan. Sure, Locmariaquer had been far from happy when he got wind of it, but Dupin accepted that.

He had arrived in Saint-Malo the previous evening, after a relaxing drive through the deserted Breton inland, and had established he couldn’t have chosen better lodgings; his room—directly below the roof—was wonderful, just like the entire Villa Saint Raphaël and its expansive garden. Dupin still wasn’t sure what the “unique seminar” was actually about. Neither the documents sent out in advance nor the truly impassioned introductory words from the host prefect of Département Ille-et-Vilaine that morning had been able to shed any light. The prefect had said something about “improving operative, practical working alliances” between the four départements, adding with a smile that “the most important thing, however, was to get to know one another better in the relaxed atmosphere of Saint-Malo” and to “spend a few enjoyable and constructive days together.” She had meant it seriously. And it fit the genuinely impressive accompanying program, from which Nolwenn and Riwal had surmised that a large part of this, for the proud Malouins, was self-promotion. “They even make a police seminar into a PR show…” A malicious interpretation, in Dupin’s opinion. If Concarneau were the host location, they too would call upon everything the region had to offer. The eternal battle of the Breton tribes: Who was the best, the most Breton of them all? An ancient tradition.

Either way, it was a curious concept: all the prefects and commissaires crowded together in one place. Dupin couldn’t help but think of the Druids’ gathering in Asterix and Obelix.

Sighing deeply, Dupin made his way toward the market exit. “We’ll recommence at two o’clock on the dot!” Locmariaquer had warned him as he left the seminar room. At least it wasn’t far to the police school, whose grounds were as sprawling as a small village. Four hectares, the prefect had explained, in the best of locations, not far from the world-famous old town of Saint-Malo—intra muros—and its equally famous beach.

Dupin’s gaze rested on a stall selling delectable-looking sausage meats. Breton sausages, entire hams, raw, cooked, smoked.

“How can I help you?” asked the tall stall owner.

“I…”

Dupin was interrupted by high, shrill screaming.

It came from nearby, perhaps just a few meters away.

Terrible screams. Screams of pain. Dupin whipped around to look. To his right was an imposing spice stall.

Something was happening toward the back of the stall, next to one of the columns.

The screams of pain stopped suddenly, but were replaced by different ones, of panic. And agitated voices.

Dupin darted toward the scene, ready to intervene. His muscles tensed.

The panicked cries came from two women who had terror etched on their faces. Other market visitors backed away in shock or began to run. Chaos broke out.

All at once, the screams stopped.

On the sparkling tiles—Dupin only saw her now—a woman lay on her right side, contorted, unmoving. Her white linen shirt was stained a deep red at chest height. There were several punctures in the fabric. And the most macabre detail: plunged right into where her heart was, there was a knife.

Dupin was beside her in a flash, crouching down, putting his ear to her mouth, checking her wrist, then her neck, for a pulse.

He pulled his cell phone out of his jeans pocket.

“Commissaire Dupin. I need an ambulance right away, Marché de Saint-Servan, by the big spice stall, close to the exit. A woman’s been stabbed, she’s unresponsive,” he said professionally, “stabbed in the heart.” He glanced around and noticed the stand selling knives, which he had just walked past, right next to the spice stall. “A kitchen knife, it’s still in her body. And,” he hesitated briefly, “send the police.”

---

Dupin had great difficulty finding a pulse—it was incredibly weak.

“A doctor? Is there a doctor here?” called Dupin—still crouched down—as loudly as he could. “I’m a policeman. This woman is seriously injured.”

A few of the market visitors had gathered curiously around him, but no one made any move to help.

Dupin had an ominous feeling. The woman was in critical condition. She wasn’t making a sound.

“She ran out over there. The woman who did it.” A girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, had come over to Dupin and was pointing toward the exit. “She went out there, just now. Then she turned left.”

Dupin quickly got to his feet.

“That’s right.” A short-haired woman appeared next to the girl, perhaps in her forties, presumably the mother. “Two women were yelling at each other. Then one suddenly stabbed the other one. It happened so quickly. She just grabbed a knife from that stall. They were standing here by the column, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. What’re you waiting for, follow them!”

Dupin hesitated; he couldn’t just leave the severely injured victim lying here.

“I’ll take care of her. I’m a teacher and a first-aid helper at our school.”

She was already leaning over the woman.

Dupin rushed off. The police and paramedics were sure to arrive any moment.

He didn’t have a gun. A mistake, but he ran on regardless.

Reaching the exit, he headed left along Rue Georges Clemenceau.

And there, up ahead—a woman, running away frantically.

Dupin quickened his pace.

By the end of the street, he had already gained a few meters on her.

Once again, the woman turned left. Rue de Siam.

Annoyingly Dupin had only a rough orientation of the town, but his gut told him they weren’t far from the sea; the port de plaisance had to be nearby, he had driven past it the previous evening.

The fugitive switched sides of the street. She had noticed her pursuer, and was glancing over her shoulder at regular intervals, all without slowing down.

Now she turned in to a long, straight road.

The distance between them continued to shrink. Dupin had a good chance. He mobilized all his strength. Suddenly, a gap appeared between the rows of houses, giving a broad view of the ocean and marina.

Now Dupin realized what she was heading toward. A parking lot. The road forked and created a long, drawn-out strip, big enough for two lanes of traffic.

The woman ran another few meters, then squeezed into a gap between two cars. The taillights of one of the vehicles briefly illuminated twice.

Another twenty meters. Dupin would have to hurry.

She was in her car already. The engine roared into life.

Ten meters.

The car reversed abruptly. The woman steered sharply to the right. Braked violently. Within seconds, she would switch into first gear.

Dupin had reached the car, a smaller-model Land Rover, dark blue. He knew he only had a fraction of a second. Without hesitating, Dupin reached for the handle of the left rear door.

At that moment, the car lurched forward. Dupin lost his balance and had to let go of the handle; the force of the acceleration pulled him to the ground. As he rolled away to the left, the car tore along the row of parked vehicles.

Dupin immediately got back on his feet, sprinting after it.

At the end of the parking lot, the fugitive would file left into the traffic—and perhaps have to slow down, he hoped.

But it was in vain. The blue Land Rover accelerated and drove straight out onto the street. Now the parked cars blocked his view. He heard a revving engine and, a moment later, loud beeping accompanied by a deafening metallic bang, swiftly followed by another.

Dupin had reached the end of the parking lot and ran onto the street.

All that could be seen of the Land Rover were the taillights. It turned sharply left at the end of the street.

He looked around: there had been a serious crash. One car had clearly tried to swerve around the Land Rover and had driven into the side of the parked cars; another vehicle—this collision didn’t look as bad—had gone into the back of it.

Dupin ran toward the first car. The driver, a man in his mid-thirties, opened the door.

“Are you injured?”

“I—yes—I mean, no. Not injured.”

The man seemed shaken, but unharmed.

A pedestrian, who must’ve seen the whole thing, hurried over and pulled out his cell phone.

“I’ll call an ambulance.”

The cars coming from the opposite direction had stopped too; a few of the drivers got out, ready to help.

Dupin headed straight toward a small Peugeot with promising rally stripes on its side. A young man with closely shaven hair, who had stayed in his car and now rolled down the window, stared up at him.

“Commissaire Georges Dupin,” Dupin informed him without any further explanation. “I need to borrow your car briefly.”

It took the driver a moment to grasp what he was saying. The commissaire’s posture, expression, and tone made it abundantly clear that this wasn’t a joke.

“I…”

“Please get out.” A command, not a request.

The young man looked hesitant, but then did as he was told. Dupin pushed past him into the Peugeot.

“And how do I get my car back?”

Dupin was already at the wheel.

“Pick it up later from the police school.”

He slammed the door shut, started the engine, and floored the gas pedal. A deafening screech pounded his eardrums as the car leaped forward. The police didn’t call these cars “boy racers” for nothing.

The commissaire sped off, turning left at the end of the street. A tangle of streets and alleys appeared, and the Land Rover was nowhere to be seen. Dupin presumed the fugitive would head for the main roads. He followed the widest one. After about a hundred meters, it veered to the left, then continued straight. There were two other cars in front of him, which he decisively overtook in one go; the light, compact Peugeot was unbelievably nimble. Soon Dupin emerged onto one of the larger boulevards and made a split-second decision to head away from the town.

In all probability, what he was doing was pointless, but to stop now would have felt like giving up without a fight.

He steered toward a large roundabout with tall trees in its center. Further daring overtaking maneuvers followed, one of which was a very close call.

Beyond the roundabout, the road widened even more. Dupin had to brake sharply—a traffic jam.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. There was still no sign of the dark blue Land Rover—which, admittedly, could be down to the large school bus a few cars in front of Dupin. The traffic moved slowly; then there was another roundabout. Eventually, a large sign indicated the N176, the “four-laner”—the Breton highway.

For no discernible reason, the traffic jam suddenly cleared. In next to no time, the Peugeot’s speedometer was showing 120 kilometers per hour. In a few moments Dupin would have to decide: Was he heading toward Mont Saint-Michel and into Normandy, in other words, eastward, or toward Saint-Brieuc, westward?

“Damn it!”

As soon as the expletive left his mouth, he thought he saw a higher, dark-toned car some way ahead of him driving along the N176 toward Saint-Brieuc. Dupin kept to the right. All of a sudden, his telephone rang. Not the best timing.

Dupin floored the accelerator, and the engine responded noisily.

The road ran in a gentle curve, and now Dupin could see the car in more detail.

It was the one. Unmistakably. A Land Rover. This time he wouldn’t lose it.

Or would he? As hard as he pushed his foot on the gas pedal, he couldn’t get past 170 kilometers per hour. Little by little, the distance between them increased, and Dupin wasn’t able to do the slightest thing about it.

He had no choice but to watch as the woman in the Land Rover raced away.

“I don’t believe this!” Dupin pounded the steering wheel.

The game was lost. She’d escaped him yet again.

“God damn it!”

The penetrating tone of his cell phone started up again. He rummaged around for it with his right hand. He was still driving at top speed in the fast lane, not wanting to fully admit defeat.

“Yes?” he barked angrily into the phone.

“It’s Locmariaquer.” A markedly displeased tone. “We’ve been waiting for you for eighteen minutes. Group work in twos is planned for this afternoon. When can we expect you to grace us with your presence?”

“I’m…” Dupin contemplated simply hanging up. But that wouldn’t be the smartest move. There was no getting around this conversation; he would have to report what had happened.

“Dupin—your behavior is disgraceful, you—”

“There’s been a serious knife attack. At the Marché de Saint-Servan. Just now. I was”—Dupin had to make it abundantly clear he’d had no choice but to intervene—“sort of a witness to the attack.” But on the other hand, of course, he couldn’t let it seem as though he’d somehow been involved. “But I was there entirely by chance. A woman stabbed another woman. She fled, and I had to give chase, in the line of—”

“Aha!” the prefect interrupted him, his tone now altered, “that must be the incident that called our host and her commissaire away so suddenly. What exactly happened, Dupin?”

“That’s all I know, Monsieur le Préfet,” was Dupin’s honest answer. It always helped a little, bringing the title into play; also, even after nine years, Dupin still couldn’t pronounce the prefect’s name correctly.

“Where are you now?”

“I’m on the N176 toward Saint-Brieuc, Monsieur le Préfet, I took up the chase, but unfortunately,” he had no choice but to let on, “unfortunately I lost the car.”

“You lost it? How?”

Dupin had switched into the right-hand lane and was looking for the next exit. As frustrating as it was, there was only one thing he could do now: drive back.

“I’m in a very small car. It won’t go faster than one seventy.”

“But why? Why are you driving a very sma—”

“I’ll tell you later, Monsieur le Préfet. I don’t have hands-free, I need to concentrate on the road.”

“Right, okay. I’ll see you here shortly then. I—”

Dupin hung up.

He had just thrown the phone on the passenger seat in frustration when it rang again.

An unknown number.

“Yes?”

“This is Commissaire Louane Huppert”—a thoroughly no-nonsense tone—“your colleague from the seminar.”

The commissaire from Saint-Malo.

“I’m listening.”

“I’m at the scene, Commissaire. Where the murder that you just—”

“She’s dead?”

“Unfortunately yes. Blanche Trouin died at the scene. A teacher here says that a commissaire from Concarneau left the severely injured victim in her care and—”

“Was she dead when the paramedics arrived?”

The commissaire didn’t answer his question.

“—and took off in pursuit of the murderer. During which there was a collision between two vehicles. The witnesses reported to my colleagues that it was like something from a movie. The entire neighborhood is in chaos. It—”

“So you already know the victim’s identity?”

“We do, yes. And not only that. We also know who the murderer is.”

Dupin couldn’t believe it. “You know who I was just pursuing in the dark blue Land Rover on the N176?”

“You were what?”

“Who is it?”

“So the story about the ‘borrowed’ car is true? A Peugeot 208?”

“I had a real chance of catching her…” Dupin needed to make the argument for borrowing the car as convincing as possible, of course. But if he portrayed the chance of catching her as too realistic, it would be all the more embarrassing for him. “But then she escaped, after all. Who is it?”

“You let her get away?”

“The car I’m in won’t go above one seventy. You know the victim and the murderer?”

“Toward Saint-Brieuc or Normandy?”

“Saint-Brieuc.”

“Where did you lose her—roughly?”

“By the exit to Quévert.”

“Okay. The victim, Blanche Trouin,” the commissaire at last answered Dupin’s question, “is a well-known chef, she owns a restaurant in Dinard. Le Désir. One Michelin star. She was forty-four years old.”

“And the perpetrator?”

“Lucille Trouin.”

Dupin must have misheard.

“What?”

“Her sister. Two years younger, also a chef, also successful. Her restaurant is in Saint-Malo. No Michelin star yet, but on the brink of getting one.”

Dupin paused. The story sounded too peculiar. He had left the highway by now.

“You realize you had no authority to do what you did.”

It wasn’t even a rhetorical question, but a simple statement of fact.

“I’m thoroughly aware”—in these circumstances, it couldn’t hurt to be especially friendly—“but I wanted to help. I happened to be at the scene. And”—the argument occurred to him only at that moment—“isn’t our whole seminar about intensifying collaborative work? That’s the spirit in which I understood my actions.”

Now he had overdone it.

“So do you know,” he quickly changed the subject, “what happened at the market? Are there clues as to why the sister did it?”

“Dupin”—no Commissaire, no monsieur, nothing—“I’d like you to return to the market immediately. To Blanche Trouin’s spice stall. I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”

“The stall where it happened belonged to the victim?”

The commissaire had already hung up.

Even so: in view of his “unauthorized” actions, the conversation hadn’t gone too badly.

He reached a large roundabout—there seemed to be hundreds of them here—and tried to get his bearings. He needed the fastest route back to Saint-Servan.

The best plan would be to leave the car where the fugitive had parked. Lucille Trouin. Who had stabbed her older sister amidst the hustle and bustle of the market.

What was this? On a purely statistical level, murder within families was admittedly the most common. But what had happened between the two sisters? What terrible tragedy lay behind it?

Less than ten minutes later, Dupin parked the car in the lot by the port de plaisance. The dark blue Land Rover had been right here. Dupin had counted five police cars with their blue lights flashing race past him on the access road, to take up pursuit of the younger sister, even though her head start was surely too much to make up by now.

The market halls were already coming into view.

Dupin reached the spice stall. There was an intense aroma of coriander, ginger, cardamom, caraway seeds, like an especially wildly mixed curry. Everything around was cordoned off; the traders had had to leave their stalls.

The group gathered around the crime scene was impressively large. At least a dozen police officers, the forensics team, paramedics with two ambulances that had stopped right in front of the entrance, and the medical examiner, who seemed a little lost as he waited next to the body. On the very edge of the crowd, Dupin saw the first-aider with her daughter; a policewoman was looking after them.

Commissaire Huppert was standing slightly off to the side, in conversation with a paramedic. She was very tall, almost as tall as Dupin, slim, with dark blond hair tied into a ponytail and highly vigilant, alert green eyes.

“Good, okay. Take the body to the forensics lab.”

The paramedic went over to the medical examiner, and Huppert turned to Dupin: “There’s actually nothing for Forensics to do. We already know everything. The victim. The cause of death, the time of death. Even the murderer. The only things we’re missing”—she took her time formulating her words, utterly prosaic—“are the motive and escaped perpetrator. It’s common knowledge that the sisters couldn’t stand each other. But…” She broke off and looked at Dupin, her expression serious.

“So, Dupin, what did you see? And hear? What can you tell me about the incident?”

“I only heard the screams. I didn’t see the confrontation or the murder itself.”

Dupin concisely recounted what had happened, from the first cries of pain to his pursuit on foot and then in the car. Commissaire Huppert listened attentively.

“The first responder took over here at the scene.” Dupin nodded his head toward her.

“I know. There was nothing she could do. By the time the paramedics arrived, Blanche Trouin was already dead.”

With that final syllable, Dupin’s phone rang. He quickly pulled it out of his trouser pocket.

It wasn’t a good time—but it was Nolwenn.

“Just a moment, I’ll be right back.”

Before Commissaire Huppert could respond, he took a few steps to the side. He spoke in a hushed tone:

“This isn’t the best time…”

“Was that you?”

“What?”

“The chase on the N176?”

“I was only…”

Presumably she had heard about it via the internal police radio—an alert had been put out on the Land Rover, and by now police all across Brittany would know.

“You let her escape?”

Nolwenn had a tendency to criticize Dupin’s actions—but this question sounded unusually sharp.

“I can only tell you one thing,” she said firmly. “Stay out of it, Monsieur le Commissaire! It’s Saint-Malo’s responsibility. They always seem to know better anyway. And they march to a different beat.”

His phenomenal assistant had never demanded he keep out of an investigation before; her feelings toward Saint-Malo seemed more complicated than he’d realized.

“I’m in the middle of speaking with the commissaire, Nolwenn. At the crime scene.”

“Don’t get involved, Monsieur le Commissaire. It’ll be nothing but trouble. Concentrate on the seminar, and then come home.” In a more conciliatory tone, she added: “Or concentrate on the culinary side. The accompanying program includes a few wonderful dinners.”

“I have to get back to this, Nolwenn.”

He waited a moment before hanging up, not wanting to seem too abrupt.

“Talk later, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

Dupin put his cell phone back in his pocket.

Nolwenn was right, naturally. He could get himself into all kinds of trouble if he got involved. During the phone call, he’d been discreetly looking around for the light blue paper bag containing the cheese that he’d left lying around somewhere. But it was nowhere to be seen.

He went back over to Huppert, who had kept him in view the whole time.

“My colleague from Concarneau…”

“Nolwenn.”

A glimmer of pride appeared on Dupin’s face—evidently, Nolwenn’s fame extended all across Brittany.

“What were you saying just then? That everyone knows the sisters couldn’t stand each other?” asked Dupin.

“Let’s just say they were in constant competition. In public, too. It was an unconcealed rivalry.”

“But it must have been much more than just your average rivalry. Almost all siblings compete with one another. For things to come to such a dramatic conclusion, there must have been a huge catalyst.”

“Of course,” the commissaire stated dryly. She seemed to want to say: a banal realization.

“Do they have families? Partners, children?”

“Neither have children. The parents are no longer alive. The older sister was married, I’m just driving over to see the husband now. The younger one is in a long-term relationship. I’ll go to see her partner afterward. You will take the car you borrowed”—the commissaire seemed to want to continue her work alone now—“to the police school, just like you promised the owner. And then it’s back to the classroom.”

She didn’t seem to mean to provoke him; at least, there was no hint of sarcasm.

“Regrettably I’ll no longer be able to take part in the seminar,” she continued, turning away from Dupin. “Very regrettably.”

At the request he return to the “classroom,” a violent protest had twitched on Dupin’s tongue. But, as hard as it was to swallow, the investigation was the responsibility of the Saint-Malo commissaire—she was out of the seminar, and he was stuck with it.

---

At three fifteen, Dupin had reluctantly stepped back into seminar room B12 in the main building of the police school.

Without Commissaire Huppert and the host prefect from Rennes, there were now only five of them; the Morbihan commissaire had sent her apologies at the last minute due to a boating accident, and she was the person Dupin had been most curious about. She was the successor to Commissaire Sylvaine Rose, who had been promoted the previous year to prefect of the Département Loire-Atlantique, which, although historically part of Brittany, had been wrenched away by an administrative reform in the eighties.

No one had said a word about the incident when Dupin turned up, and group work had resumed almost immediately. Dupin had been partnered with the quite-likeable-seeming commissaire from Côtes d’Armor, and they were instructed to note on colorful little cards possible areas for improvement in the collaboration between the départements. As well as on the “optimization potential” in the collaboration between the commissaires and prefects. Dupin was torn between writing on dozens of the little cards, or none of them. His thoughts kept wandering to the terrible murder. To the two sisters.

Concealing his phone under his desk, he searched online for the Trouin sisters and their restaurants. All incredibly impressive; the older sister, Blanche, in particular—the victim—seemed to be a veritable celebrity. Partly due to the Michelin star bestowed upon her two years before, she had been on her way to becoming one of the really grand chefs, as esteemed and popular in France as great artists or rock stars—and among whom there still weren’t that many women. The number of features and interviews was astounding, in well-respected national and international newspapers and magazines. Articles about the younger sister were numerous too, and Lucille Trouin seemed only slightly behind the older sister. Both had clearly been inspired by their father, who had also been a chef, albeit in a simple yet highly beloved bistro. There were numerous quotes and comments—predominantly from Lucille—in which their sibling rivalry was an open topic of conversation. They seemed to make no secret of it. After the elder sister received the Michelin star, the younger one had boastfully announced that soon she would receive one too. In an interview, Lucille spoke about her older sister’s “unfair advantage” in being able to refer to their father’s recipe collection, which he had left to Blanche. Apparently, Blanche had discovered her passion for cooking as a teenager; Lucille, by contrast, not until her mid-twenties. Dupin hadn’t found much about the father himself. Apart from the evident competition between the sisters, Dupin hadn’t discovered anything that could explain such a brutal escalation. Naturally, he also looked for any update on the pursuit of Lucille Trouin, which was all over the news. The search still seemed to be ongoing.

With the “positive and motivational” words of the coach, the first seminar day had come to an end at a quarter after five.

“Come on, Dupin, tell us everything,” his seminar partner, Commissaire Gaston Nedellec, demanded once the coach left the room—everyone had stayed seated, clearly curious. Dupin willingly told his story once again, after which they all went their separate ways.

At six thirty, just a few minutes ago, the team—it seemed to be the buzzword, the “team”—was scheduled to meet at Porte Saint-Louis in the old town. The evening’s activities were to kick off with a guided tour. Naturally, Dupin had contemplated skipping it, but decided it wouldn’t be smart to be absent on the very first evening.

He arrived a few minutes late. With swift steps, he made his way toward the south gate, one of eight vast gates that led through the towering, house-high fortifications and into the old town.

Strong gusts of wind were coming in off the ocean, dense with salt and iodine; they were whipping up the Atlantic, driving massive waves. The sky was still a pristine blue. To the left, a large pier stretched in an elegant curve from the corner of the town walls far into the wide Rance estuary, toward Dinard.

High season hadn’t yet begun, but there were already visitors from all over; Saint-Malo was a popular destination the whole year round, especially for short stays. On the pier, you could easily spot who was a Breton and who was just a tourist. The same game could be played all across Brittany. The uninitiated would venture out to the very tip of the pier in order to get spectacular views of the tempestuous ocean. Then it would happen: driven by the tide and the lashing wind gusts, some waves broke so forcefully against the walls that they shot up in wild fountains over the pier, with mighty clouds of spray. A spectacle of nature that, for those strolling on the pier, equated to a bath in the ocean. Regardless of what they were wearing, they were immediately drenched, all the way to their underwear and tights. Dupin watched one couple scream loudly and run away in panic.

He reached the city gate. The team had gathered in a passageway that was relatively protected from the wind. Locmariaquer, who looked somewhat over-the-top in his richly decorated uniform, couldn’t resist a rebuke:

“And yet again we find ourselves waiting for you, Commissaire! This lovely monsieur here,” he gestured toward a stocky, narrow-shouldered man with little remaining hair and round glasses, wearing an old tweed jacket, “is about to give us a tour of the city walls. The famous tour des remparts. And en route he’ll tell us a little about Saint-Malo. Because—”

A wiry woman, who wasn’t part of the team and who Dupin noticed only now, loudly cleared her throat: “The gentleman is Étienne Monnier, the nationally renowned Saint-Malo historian”—the man nodded in confirmation—“and we have the privilege of being guided through the eras of our illustrious city’s history by him in person.”

“She’s one of Commissaire Huppert’s assistants,” Commissaire Nedellec whispered to Dupin. “She’s here representing our hosts. There’s nothing new on the Lucille Trouin pursuit, by the way, I just asked. I imagine this lady would know.”

Dupin gave him a friendly nod.

“So, if we’re all here now,” the assistant continued, “we can start this evening’s activities. The tour will be followed by a visit to the Maison du Beurre of Yves Bordier, the internationally renowned and multi-award-winning butter producer. We’ll look around its exhibition on the cultural history of butter, and then dine in his Bistro Autour du Beurre.”

Dupin suddenly felt incredibly hungry; the delicious homemade breakfast cake in Villa Saint Raphaël was the only thing he had eaten all day. He knew Bordier’s butter, of course. The manufacturer was legendary. And in Brittany, butter—beyond its status as one of the most important food products—was something of an emblem.

“I want to assure you all,” she made an assertive dramatic pause, “that we’ve put together a very fitting supporting agenda. Predominantly, and I want to emphasize this, thanks to our prefect. An agenda that will make you better acquainted with some of our extraordinary attractions and achievements, in particular the culinary ones. I’m referring to the culinary arts of some of the most prominent chefs of the region—well-known not only here, but all across Brittany, and even the entire nation. They will all open their gastronomic gates for us.” The assistant broke off self-consciously. “Well, not all of them, of course. Blanche Trouin’s restaurant will sadly now remain closed. And we’ve just made the decision to cancel the visit to La Noblesse, Lucille Trouin’s restaurant.” She looked uncomfortable. “But regardless, in addition to the restaurant visits, you’ll get to know some other Saint-Malo specialties. Many are located in the Rue de l’Orme, where we’re heading now. Including Bertrand Larcher’s Japanese-Breton restaurant, where we’ll eat tomorrow. This little street is kind of the culinary heart of the city.”

Regardless of what could be said about the usefulness of the seminar, Dupin had to admit the accompanying program sounded impressive—the food part, at least.

“The motto of our internationally renowned cuisine is: voyages et aventures. Travel and adventure. These are the words of the chef of Saint Placide, where we’ll dine on the last evening. The city’s history, too, has always revolved around travel, around dauntless adventure. Taking leaps of faith and living to tell the tale.”

Dupin liked the motto, in spite of the overstated pathos. Travel and adventure: that’s what life was about.

The commissaire’s assistant began to move.

“Let’s go. Along here. We’ll make our way along the ramparts. It’s time to start climbing!”

The steps were steep, and there were a lot of them. Dupin was the last to begin the ascent.

“Right, so.” The historian who was leading the group along with Commissaire Huppert’s assistant took over, in a deep voice and solemn academic tone. “One thing about the murder case that is currently on all our minds: I’m sure you’re aware that human history is teeming with sibling drama, even as far back as ancient times.”

He had stopped walking for a moment in order to make the random observation.

“And now to the subject at hand.” He began to move again. “Unlike the inner city, the fortifications were mostly spared the terrible devastation of the Second World War. Some sections of the wall go back to the twelfth century. The classic shipowners’ homes from the eighteenth century, which define the characteristic cityscape”—clearly well-versed, he pointed his right hand toward the church in the old city—“were all reconstructed after the war, true to their original style. Never, not once, has an enemy managed to conquer our walls in battle! Saint-Malo has always stood strong.”

Commissaire Nedellec had fallen back alongside Dupin; the two female prefects and Locmariaquer had caught up with the first small group.

“Chateaubriand, one of the city’s many illustrious sons, and one of the most admirable authors in the French language, wrote that the Ville Close of Saint-Malo, which in surface area is no bigger than the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris, has given the world more famous personalities than many far larger cities.”

It was remarkable how steady the historian’s voice remained despite all the steps.

“As well as the corsairs, who ruled the oceans for almost three centuries, many world-famous explorers, physicists, doctors, and writers were born here. Jacques Cartier, for example, who discovered Canada, a country we enjoy a close relationship with to this day. Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis explored the Arctic, René Duguay-Trouin conquered Rio de Janeiro. In Saint-Malo, you’re connected to the whole world!”

“Trouin. Like the two sisters,” mumbled Commissaire Nedellec.

They had now reached the top of the astonishingly wide wall. There was a steep descent on both sides, and a stone balustrade protecting them from the chasm. The wind was blowing twice as hard as down below. A clear, enlivening wind.

“But,” the historian followed the wall northward, “let’s start at the beginning. Everything began with a settlement in Saint-Servan, or more precisely: on the small peninsula of Alet, over there.” He pointed in the corresponding direction. “That’s where the Celts started a large gathering place in the first century BC. After the conquest of Gaul, it was developed into a small city by the Romans.”

He had really meant it when he said “start at the beginning.”

Dupin discreetly stepped a few paces to the side, enough to no longer hear anything with the wind, and to lose himself in the view for a moment. The enchanting light, the colors. He assumed, of course, that there was a good reason for the poetic name of the shoreline between Cap Fréhel and Cancale—“the Emerald Coast”—but he could never have imagined such a dramatic match. The sea genuinely was a sparkling emerald green, secretive and intense. Brighter in its tones toward the shore, with mysterious dark flecks on the horizon. It was turbulent, studded with bright white crowns of spray—sheep, or moutons, as the Bretons called them—which formed a rousing contrast. Beneath the powerful ramparts, a blindingly white beach stretched out, the waves crashing against it sweeping the sand repeatedly into a wild, watery chaos, creating a restless glinting and glistening; it looked as though myriads of tiny gemstones were swirling around. In front of the coast were numerous islets, whose brown and green shades of anthracite looked like Impressionist daubs of color. On a larger island, a defiant, buffeted fort towered up, a daring stronghold. Opposite he could see Dinard, some of its magnificent villas eminent. Past Dinard, his gaze was drawn westward to Cap Fréhel, which jutted wide and majestic into the ocean. The panorama, the beguiling colors, along with the strong wind gusts and the evening sun summoning all its strength, were enough to make one feel inebriated.

Dupin gave himself a jolt and followed the group.

At the top of a narrow, steep stairway they reached a higher plateau with angular expanses of grass and a bronze statue.

“This, by the way, is the statue of Jacques Cartier, the discoverer of Canada whom I just mentioned. But let’s continue on in history: in the sixth century, the monk and missionary Maclou, one of the seven founding holy men of Brittany, came here from Wales and landed on the aforementioned peninsula Alet…”

It was so bizarre. Only a narrow street lay below, between the mighty walls they were walking on and the astonishingly tall high-rise buildings—and if you turned away from the ocean, you could see directly into people’s apartments. Their living rooms, kitchens, and bedrooms.

A thought came to Dupin. The owner of the Villa Saint Raphaël, where he was staying, was from Saint-Malo and would certainly know about the two sisters. She knew her stuff about good food in Saint-Malo; just yesterday she had given Dupin a dozen culinary tips, one of which he had spontaneously followed, not ten minutes on foot, to the small bay of Saint-Servan.

Dupin paused and reached for his phone as the group walked on. He briefly caught the gaze of Commissaire Nedellec, and thought he saw a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. In the next moment, Nedellec too had distanced himself from the group.

---

“Villa Saint Raphaël, bonsoir!”

Dupin recognized the hotelier’s warm voice. Emmanuelle Delanoë, roughly the same age as Dupin himself, was a very attractive woman, with an element of the mysterious to her, a special aura.

“This is Georges Dupin, the commissaire from…”

“Of course. How lovely. What can I do for you, Monsieur Dupin?”

Exceptionally friendly and clear.

“The two Trouin sisters, between whom this terrible tragedy occurred today—do you know them?” Not having much time, he came straight to the point.

“I did. Both of them, personally. Not that we were friends, but we always had a chat when we ran into one another. And that was quite often. It’s not that big a city, as you know. We don’t have our own kitchen in the villa, so we often send our guests to their restaurants. And my husband and I really enjoyed eating there too.”

Dupin had guessed right.

“And you, monsieur, do you have any thoughts on it all?”

He paused. He couldn’t take any risks; she was sure to know the whole world and his wife. “I’m just curious, madame, that’s all. I’m not involved in the investigation itself, it’s in the very competent hands of Commissaire Huppert.”

“Commissaire Huppert, oh yes,” she said approvingly.

“Something quite serious must’ve happened between the sisters.”

“I only know one thing. But Lucille would hardly have killed her sister over it.”

Dupin came to an involuntary standstill.

“Tell me.”

“I heard from my friend that Blanche was planning to nab Lucille’s sous-chef. Colomb Clément. Some say he’s the even greater genius. Only thirty-two years old, sensationally gifted, ambitious. In any case, he plays a key role at La Noblesse; it’s been a while now since Lucille was there every night.”

It sounded like a lead worth pursuing.

“Does Lucille know her sister was planning this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does anyone else know about it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It would be a heavy blow for Lucille Trouin, wouldn’t it?”

“Certainly. But is it enough as a murder motive, Monsieur Dupin?”

“And how did your friend find out?”

“She’s the sous-chef’s sister. He told her. And swore her to secrecy.”

“When was this? And did your friend tell you anything else?”

“The week before last, I think. He was visiting her. She only mentioned it, we didn’t discuss it in detail.”

“So Blanche made him a serious offer. Do you know when this was?”

“Quite recent, I presume.”

“I see. Can you think of anything else worth mentioning?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dupin had seen that the group were already some distance ahead. “Okay, then thank you for the chat.”

“Gladly. Is there anything else I can help with?”

“No, thank you.”

In fact, he had a few research tasks to delegate. But she wasn’t Nolwenn—and this wasn’t his case.

“Until later, Monsieur Dupin. Bonne soirée!”

She had hung up.

Dupin stood there for a moment longer. What was the significance of this unexpected snippet of information? Did it even have any? It seemed highly implausible as a motive, but perhaps it had been the last straw. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sometimes things piled up, unexpectedly came to a head, and then suddenly …

Dupin swiftly made a few notes in his small red Clairefontaine notebook, then caught up with the group.

“Let’s finally turn to the topic you’ve all been waiting for,” the historian announced with visible relish. “The corsairs! Who, contrary to widespread misunderstanding, are not pirates, not in the slightest. Pirates unlawfully captured ships under the black skull-and-crossbones flag, in a high-handed and martial manner, for their own profit—the corsairs, on the other hand, were acting legally in service of the king and therefore all of France. We Malouins traveled with official letters of marque!”

“In practice it amounts to the same thing though, doesn’t it?” The somewhat heavyset, constantly rather sullen-looking woman, the prefect of Département Côtes d’Armor, seemed to think the correction was necessary. “I read recently that some pirates followed a stricter moral code than the corsairs, who exercised their mission with extreme brutality and religious zeal. And the entire corsair empire lay in the hands of highly cunning Malouin tradesmen, who even founded stock corporations for their plundering trips. Many of the rich shipowners had the cellars of their houses extended to below sea level and connected to one another, creating extensive cave systems where they hid considerable portions of their bounty from the French king. Vast quantities of gold, silver, and jewels.”

The historian raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think we should pay any attention to biased interpretations. This proud chapter in the city’s history…”

Dupin was only half listening. His mind was still processing the new information. And the question as to what he should do with it.

“As well as the supremely honorable task of capturing enemy merchant ships, seizing their cargo, kidnapping the crew and releasing them again in exchange for ransom money, the corsairs fulfilled a second important function: acting as convoys for their own trade vessels. The enemy ships were mostly English, of course; they were particularly fearful of the Malouin corsairs’ infamous flag, the white cross on a blue background. The oceans have never seen more daring seafarers.”

The English element was sure to have provoked sympathy all across Brittany back then. And probably still did. Dupin made a mental note of it for Nolwenn.

“I think you should also tell us about the lucrative commerce triangulaire”—the prefect felt compelled to interject once again—“about the awful triangular slave trade between Africa, America, and Saint-Malo.”

“A dark chapter, you’re right,” admitted the historian with surprising self-assurance. “With low-quality grain and cheap, colorful glitter, masses of slaves were acquired in Africa—the ‘black gold’—then sold on, with enormous profit, to the huge sugarcane plantations in the New World.

“Yes, a terrible history—but it certainly doesn’t represent the corsairs as a whole. The reality has many facets. Think of the many delicacies the corsairs brought to France and Europe. Rum, spices, and Arabian mocha—requisitioned by Malouin corsairs. You could smell the corsairs before you saw them!”

The part about “requisitioning” was, of course, a thorny affair, Dupin felt, who had pricked up his ears at the word “mocha,” yet he would chalk it up as a point for the corsairs, given it was about coffee.

“In closing, I’d like to name a few of the most famous corsairs. For example, Pierre Porcon de la Barbinais. A curious story: after a failed ransom negotiation with the pirate sheikh of Algiers, he was bound to the front of a heavy cannon and blown to pieces by the ball.”

An unusual understanding of the word “curious,” thought Dupin.

“Or also…”

A particularly unpleasant, shrill ringtone interrupted the historian.

The assistant from the commissaire’s office, who had remained astonishingly silent during the tour, reacted promptly.

“Yes?”

She stood still, her cell phone pressed to her ear.

“Oh! I see. Yes.” She listened for a while. “Of course, yes, I’ll do that. Yes. Au revoir.”

Everyone looked at her inquisitively.

“I…” She gave the group a bewildered look. “They’ve got her.” Another pause. “They’ve got Lucille Trouin.”

Dupin hadn’t expected it to be so quick.

“She was arrested in Loudéac. At the train station. Someone recognized her car.”

So Lucille had made it quite a bit farther.

“A judge has already ordered investigative detention,” the assistant continued. “She’ll now be briefly brought before the committing magistrate, but these are just formalities.”

“And—has she confessed?” Commissaire Nedellec asked.

“She was arrested just half an hour ago and is being brought back to Saint-Malo as we speak.”

“Commissaire Huppert hasn’t spoken to her yet? Trouin hasn’t said anything yet?” This time it was Dupin pressing for information.

“No.”

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Without further explanation, Dupin walked ahead a little. He turned—they had reached the northwestern end of the ramparts—to the right around a corner and pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket.

“Hello?”

“Commissaire Huppert, this is Commi—Georges Dupin.” He spoke quietly and, just to be sure, turned to look behind him. “I wanted to tell you something quickly.”

“Go ahead.”

“I just spoke with—” Dupin broke off. He racked his brain. He hadn’t thought about how he could have obtained this information so suddenly and “coincidentally.”

“I’m all ears,” the commissaire prompted him.

“I was just speaking with the owner of a maison d’hôtes in Saint-Malo. I’m thinking of vacationing here for a few days at the end of the summer with my girlfriend…”

“And?”

“She told me she’s friends with the sister of Lucille Trouin’s sous-chef. From this friend she found out that Blanche Trouin was trying to lure him away from her sister. It seems she’d already made him an offer. Just recently.”

Dupin waited.

“That was what you wanted to tell me?”

“I’m sure you’re already aware of it, I just wanted to make sure.”

“Thank you, Dupin. Talk soon.”

“Wait, what’s happened with Lucille Trouin, have you already…”

But she had hung up.

He wasn’t any the wiser. Had she known or not? Did she think it was relevant?

He sighed, drew up his shoulders, and looked out to sea. Along the fortifications, the gaze was drawn to the craggy cliffs and a narrow strip of beach covered with foaming waves. A brazen seagull swooped down and settled on the moss-covered wall within an arm’s length of Dupin. It stared at him challengingly.

Dupin turned, pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, and walked back the way he had come.

---

This time Dupin wasn’t the only one who was late; this time they all were, the entire team. By more than half an hour. The historian had, despite stressing the importance of their pace in his lectures, taken significantly longer.

By the time they reached their destination—Rue de l’Orme—it was almost eight o’clock.

It really was the heaven on earth they’d been promised. The houses stood so close together that no cars could fit down the small street, which was paved with red-tinged cobblestones. One culinary sensation after the other: the Café Breizh, an extraordinary crêperie run by the renowned gastronome Bertrand Larcher, and next door was his Japanese-Breton restaurant, where they would be eating the following evening. Opposite, the Maison du Sarrasin, a small store that sold everything made from blé noir: potato chips, honey, mustard, cookies, caramel. The hearty crêpes called galettes here in the northeast were made from buckwheat. Lucille Trouin’s restaurant La Noblesse was directly next to the Maison du Sarrasin. A handwritten sign hung on the door: “Aujourd’hui exceptionnellement fermé—désolé”—unexpectedly closed today. The restaurant was located in one of the beautiful old houses, no wider than ten meters, but with multiple floors. Next to the restaurant was a cheese shop specializing in Breton cheese, which, according to Commissaire Nedellec, also belonged to Lucille Trouin; this venture of the younger sister hadn’t yet been mentioned. Both sisters had clearly expanded their business activities beyond their restaurants.

The Rue de l’Orme continued with a phenomenal-looking oyster bar with lots of flair, offering Cancale oysters. And the chef who had coined the motto “voyages et aventures,” whose restaurant they would eat in on the final evening, presented one of his specialties in his own store: babas au rhum, a ring-shaped cake made of sweet dough and doused heavily in rum. Next door was a country-style butchery. Then a fine épicerie; a shop selling only rum; and a very promising-looking fish restaurant with an emerald-green awning.

“The rum store belongs to Lucille Trouin’s partner,” Commissaire Nedellec whispered to Dupin. “He specializes in rum and opened stores here in Saint-Servan, as well as in Dinard and Cancale. He also sells online. And he’s a partner in his girlfriend’s cheese shop too.”

All noteworthy pieces of information, not only because they demonstrated the gastronomic couple’s industriousness, but because they revealed Dupin wasn’t the only one interested in the case and who had suddenly come into the possession of revealing details.

“Et voilà, we’re here,” the woman from the commissaire’s office said, smiling contentedly.

The Maison du Beurre—clad externally in sky-blue wooden paneling, with the name Bordier in white letters—wasn’t particularly large either, so it was sure to be cozy. Inside was a cheese counter with an excellent selection, and opposite the entrance, its beating heart: the butter counter. A black marble surface held a tall mountain of butter, ready to be marveled at. Demi-sal, slightly salted, the Breton standard. Encircling the buttery summit was a display of small, pretty packets of all the different butter varieties. Including Roscoff onion, roasted seaweed, piment d’espelette, and Szechuan pepper.

Two staff members awaited them with friendly smiles.

“Bonsoir—and a warm welcome to the house of Yves Bordier. After a brief introduction to the history of butter and a glimpse into the production process”—the younger of the two women had taken on the introduction, and pointed toward the back room, which Dupin hadn’t yet noticed due to the countless delicacies—“you’ll have the opportunity to try some of our specialties in the bistro next door.”

“If you could all join me over here, please?” The second woman, with blond curly hair and round glasses, had already positioned herself toward the rear of the store.

The group squeezed into the darkened museum area of the Maison du Beurre. Lightboxes had been affixed to the walls, documenting the individual manufacturing stages. In the middle of the room stood wooden appliances that had been used for the production of butter in days gone by.

The curly-haired woman went over to the lightbox entitled The Genesis of Butter. “Around six thousand AD, the nomadic hunter-gatherers in Asia and the Middle East discovered that a special cream forms when milk is shaken—and that’s it, in a nutshell: the discovery of butter.” This swift conclusion was encouraging. “Almost everywhere in the world, butter became the universal fat for preparing meals—with the exception of the Mediterranean basin, where olive oil played this role.”

The infamous butter/olive oil border that divided Europe, and France itself, in two was one of the seemingly endless ways of defining the Breton identity.

From the looks on his colleagues’ faces, Dupin could tell he wasn’t the only one hoping dinner was imminent. He was queasy with hunger.

“In the course of a one-sided marketing campaign, olive oil was attributed with all the good qualities, and butter all the bad ones. In truth,” she spoke with passionate emphasis now, “that’s entirely untrue. Good butter is, as recent research has proven, incredibly healthy. And it became synonymous with fine dining. The general defamation of butter began with the Romans and Greeks”—her presentation seemed to be reaching further back now, after all—“who wrote it off as a ‘barbarian fat’—completely in contrast to many other advanced civilizations: the Egyptians, Phoenicians, and Carthaginians, as well as all the cultures of Central and Northern Europe who devoted themselves to butter…”

A loud ringtone interrupted her. The woman from the commissaire’s office pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket.

“Yes?”

She listened for a while. Then:

“Really? That was it? Nothing more? Not ever?”

A longer answer on the other end of the line.

“Okay. Yes, thanks. See you soon.”

She ended the call and immediately turned to the group.

“Commissaire Huppert has interrogated Lucille Trouin in the presence of her attorney. The investigative detention has been granted. It’s…” She paused. “It’s really strange, Lucille Trouin has declared she won’t be testifying. Not a single word, under any circumstances.”

Another pause; she seemed to be thinking.

“She told the police officers who brought her back to Saint-Malo. It doesn’t make any sense, of course; it could be incredibly detrimental to her case.”

“That’s what she said?” The question slipped across Dupin’s lips. “Not a single word, under any circumstances?”

“It seems so.”

“How strange.” Naturally, Locmariaquer felt the need to volunteer a comment too. “What does that mean? She doesn’t want to say why she did it? Not even admit to doing it?”

The woman shrugged her shoulders in resignation. “Evidently.”

“We’ll see,” protested the younger, red-haired prefect from Morbihan. “She’ll soon come to her senses.”

“Absolutely,” agreed the stocky prefect from Côtes d’Armor, Nedellec’s boss.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t sound too good to me.” Locmariaquer didn’t want to let them have the last word; his viewpoint sounded as vague as it did ominous.

A clueless silence spread through the group, which the guide swiftly seized to her advantage:

“In the Middle Ages”—it was a significant historical step forward, at least—“the consumption of butter was strictly forbidden by the Church during Lent. It was Anne de Bretagne, the last free reigning Duchess of Brittany, who won the right to eat butter all year round for her court and the whole of the region. That, of course, also contributed to the ascendance of Breton butter artistry—”

“Excuse me for a moment.” Commissaire Nedellec interrupted the presentation and headed swiftly for the exit. “A private call.”

“Of course it is,” Dupin mumbled to himself. He walked along the row of lightboxes, his mind occupied by the latest news.

“I also need to make a quick call—a work one,” Huppert’s assistant added.

“I’d like to draw your attention to another interesting detail.” The store guide seemed unflappable. “For a long time, well into the twentieth century, in fact, butter was also used as a miracle product in cosmetics.”

Dupin ran his hand through his hair. It was all very peculiar. What usually came at the end of an investigation, here marked the beginning: the perpetrator was already known and in custody. Except she didn’t plan to speak.

Through staying silent, Lucille Trouin really could compromise herself. In order to argue a crime of passion—and that would, after all, be the most favorable approach for her—she would have to make the passion element emotionally credible. Emotional, immediate, and personal. And this was the very thing she was refusing to do. Was she in shock? Her silence, of course, intensified the question that had been there from the beginning: Had it really been a crime of passion? And only that? Was it a crime of passion in the classical sense?

There was no doubt—Dupin’s thoughts went back and forth—that emotion must have played a major role in the situation at the market. If the murder had been premeditated, Lucille Trouin surely wouldn’t have chosen a public place. And it didn’t get more public than a busy market hall. She would, like all cold, calculating murderers, have attempted to commit a “perfect murder” in secret. In this sense, the crime had to indicate a moment of intense emotion. But perhaps there was more to it? A motive that extended beyond emotion? Something calculated? It could have been a combination of motive and passion, only: What had provoked each of them?

“Our manufacturing process,” the woman was still refusing to admit defeat, “incorporates the entire savoir faire of butter production. One of the many secrets is the old technique of a special kneading process, both intensive and gentle, which eliminates more water than other methods, therefore reducing the butter to its essence. Finally, the butter is vigorously beaten with special wooden instruments, giving it that silky-soft consistency.”

A single, high tone rang out. Dupin’s phone, a text message.

Nolwenn. It was just one sentence: Stay out of it.

She was really serious about this.

“The most important element, of course, is the choice of milk. Its exceptional quality and freshness. Which also means the butter looks and tastes different in winter than in autumn. According to the season, you’ll rediscover the aromas of the meadows where our organic cows graze. In the bistro, you’ll soon experience how butter from early summer tastes, with all the seasonal herbs.”

“Wouldn’t this,” the sullen-looking prefect—whom Dupin found eminently likable either in spite of, or precisely because of her grumpiness—cleared her throat, “be the perfect moment for a visit to the restaurant?”

Dupin felt eternally grateful to her.

“That’s exactly what I was about to suggest,” said the store employee with a smile.

---

Less than three minutes later, the team was sitting in the bistro next door.

It was a phenomenal space; a rustic, spacious vault. The rough, lightly rendered stone walls lent atmosphere and warmth. Anthracite-toned steel beams stretched from the floor to the high ceiling, while spotlights on a decorative molding artfully staged the setting. Multiple black two-seater tables had been pushed together into one big dining table. They were the only people down here; in the upstairs rooms of the bistro, all the tables were occupied.

Dupin was sitting between Commissaire Nedellec, who had ended his “private” phone call, and the prefect from Côtes d’Armor. Only Commissaire Huppert’s assistant was still absent.

Dupin was happy to see the bread and small granite platters with different varieties of butter already on the table.

“I’d like to extend a very warm welcome to you.” A petite woman in her mid-thirties with long, light brown hair had stepped over to the group. “My name is Elen Delacourt, I’m the head chef. It’s a great pleasure to cook for you this evening.”

“Then you must be part of the region’s inner epicurean circle, I imagine? You knew the Trouin sisters? What do you think happened between the two of them?” asked Commissaire Nedellec bluntly.

“Two phenomenal chefs.” Her voice held heartfelt admiration. “It’s an absolute tragedy. Incomprehensible. Of course, they were competitors, but no one would have expected it to go so far. It’s beyond belief.”

Dupin listened as he tried the butter with the Roscoff onions: a sensation. He turned his attention to the seaweed butter. No less delicious.

“Did you know the two of them well—were you friends?” Nedellec pressed.

“Not friends, no, but we held one another in great esteem.”

Nedellec strove for a more casual tone: “Lucille Trouin is practically your neighbor. I’m sure you hear things from time to time, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“About conflicts, perhaps? Particularly explosive arguments?”

“I didn’t hear anything, no.”

Even the buckwheat butter was a poem. With little roasted kernels of buckwheat.

“Something particularly serious must’ve happened between the two of them,” Locmariaquer joined in.

“The discovery of which,” Dupin’s neighbor resolutely intervened, “we can confidently leave to Commissaire Huppert. One thing’s for sure, we won’t be solving the case tonight here at this table.”

“I completely agree,” confirmed the red-haired prefect from Morbihan. She was small and wiry, and looked slightly lost in her magnificent uniform with golden epaulettes, but made up for it with her energetic assertiveness.

Dupin had arrived at the yuzu butter. Slightly bitter, a blend of lime and mandarin. He was gradually beginning to feel better.

“Here come the entrées.” Two waiters and a waitress had appeared.

“We’ll begin with langoustines rôties and white asparagus, and a carpaccio of pig’s feet with a mousse de lait fumée,” declared the chef, who seemed relieved to change the subject at last. “As the main course, we’ll be serving a magnificent line-caught monkfish from the inshore fishery, with a consommé of spider crab with lychee, accompanied by gargouillou des légumes d’été, a blend of herbs, blossoms, and summer vegetables, and we’ll conclude the menu with a sweet potato and carrot soufflé à l’orange as well as a cream cheese sorbet—and of course, with a cheese board. Which will include two Breton cheeses.”

A question spontaneously escaped Dupin’s lips:

“Do you—I mean, does the Maison du Beurre—also specialize in Breton cheese, like Lucille Trouin?”

“Not particularly. But we only include the best in our selection.” The chef smiled: “Mesdames, messieurs. We wish you a bon appétit.”

With these words, she turned and made a discreet exit. The waiters too moved away.

In no time, everyone turned their attention to the starters, and didn’t notice that the host prefect had entered the bistro.

“Bonsoir, my dear colleagues. I wanted to join you for a few minutes at least. I’ve just come from a meeting with Commissaire Huppert.”

She sat down on one of the empty chairs. Dupin guessed that she was around sixty years old. With her gray hair and impressive uniform, she radiated self-assurance and experience.

“How wonderful that you could make the time. It’s a real pleasure for us.” Locmariaquer playacted the statesman. In contrast to the prefect’s smooth appearance, his uniform with the golden epaulettes, golden buttons, and sleeve adornments made him look like a rooster puffing his chest out. But then, he always looked like that. He was very tall, perpetually somewhat flushed in his robust face, and had a noticeably oval, balding head. “And we’re curious, as I’m sure you can imagine. How’s the investigation going? We’ve just been discussing the case.”

“The investigation is in full swing, but there aren’t yet any clues on a really plausible motive or catalyst for a crime of passion. Even though Commissaire Huppert has already spoken with a number of people this afternoon. Including, as you know, finally with Lucille Trouin herself, but she’s refusing to make a statement.” She shook her head.

The waitress appeared with a plate for the prefect, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

“Please don’t let me stop you from eating, everyone!” With these words, she reached for her fork. “The food here is really delicious!”

“Who has Commissaire Huppert spoken to?” Dupin had already eaten the last bite of langoustines.

The prefect slowly and deliberately picked up a second fork, taking her time to answer. “First with Kilian Morel, of course, Blanche Trouin’s husband. He’s completely in shock. Entirely understandable, and he doesn’t seem to have a clue what could have happened. Nor does Lucille Trouin’s long-term partner, whom Commissaire Huppert went to see afterward. Charles Braz.”

“The guy has no idea what could’ve happened between the two sisters?” Nedellec was incredulous. “He has no idea what might have prompted his girlfriend to stab her own sister?”

“No. He seemed bewildered. Lucille Trouin called him from the station earlier. Her one phone call. But she didn’t say anything to Monsieur Braz about the murder either.”

“Who else has the commissaire spoken with?” Dupin returned to his question.

“Flore Briard, Lucille Trouin’s best friend,” the prefect continued. “She’s in the restaurant business too. In Dinard. She bought two faithful replicas of corsair ships, and opens them for fine dining in the evenings. She sometimes works with Lucille Trouin. But she’s also clueless as to what might have happened between the sisters.”

Dupin reached for his notebook, a reflex, but then stopped himself. It wouldn’t be advisable to make notes in front of everyone. Much better to continue in a conversational tone.

“Blanche Trouin had two close friends,” the prefect continued, “who theoretically might have known about any rising tensions: Walig Richard, an antiques dealer, and Joe Morel, her husband’s brother, who seems to be a close confidant. Commissaire Huppert has already spoken with them too, albeit on the phone. But nothing came of it.”

Huppert moved quickly. And the prefect was astonishingly open with sharing the updates, entirely in keeping with the desired team spirit.

“The commissaire also spoke with Colomb Clément, Lucille Trouin’s sous-chef. Naturally, they see a lot of each other.”

Dupin was all ears.

“It seems Blanche Trouin had made him a confidential offer to work for her instead. He was very open with the commissaire about it, and is relatively sure Lucille didn’t know about it. Blanche had told her husband about the offer, according to the sous-chef’s statement, which Huppert has already verified. Whether she also told her friends Richard and Morel, we’re not yet sure.”

“When exactly did the commissaire speak with the sous-chef?”

For the first time, a look of surprise appeared on the prefect’s face.

“I don’t know, Commissaire.”

“Perhaps the friends knew,” Dupin blurted out, “and didn’t keep it to themselves. I just mean,” he added, trying not to seem overzealous, “it’s entirely possible that Lucille Trouin could have found out about it.”

“We don’t know at this point,” the prefect declared. “We haven’t yet been able to locate other people in their close circle. The sisters didn’t have much by way of private lives, they were real workaholics. Oh, and Commissaire Huppert already has the itemized records for Blanche’s cell phone.”

“What about family?” asked Nedellec, without letting a pause arise.

“The parents are deceased. Apart from a ninety-three-year-old aunt, the sister of their father, there’s no one else left. She lives in Rothéneuf, in the east of Saint-Malo. She has advanced dementia, so is probably very confused. In any case, Commissaire Huppert said she didn’t seem to understand what had happened. She wasn’t able to help.”

Dupin made a few notes after all, as discreetly as he could, balancing the red Clairefontaine on his thigh. As he did so, he noticed Nedellec tapping on his cell phone under the table.

“We’re currently trying to find out whether anyone in the restaurant scene knew about a specific conflict between the sisters, beyond the usual competitiveness—but no results as of yet.”

All around the table, the plates were empty and as clean as a whistle—the appetizers had clearly met with everyone’s approval. As though summoned by some secret signal, the waiters appeared and cleared everything away.

“It all seems incredibly mysterious,” mused Locmariaquer in a portentous tone.

“If only the two sisters knew what it was about, and one’s dead, and the other won’t say a word—then it’s pretty complicated,” Nedellec’s boss summarized morosely.

“Did anyone who was there at the scene in the market”—it had been playing on Dupin’s mind the whole time—“catch anything about the argument between the sisters? Has anyone come forward?”

“The witnesses we’re aware of only heard something along the lines of ‘You’ve gone too far.’ An employee at Blanche Trouin’s spice stand said she heard ‘I hate you.’ That’s all there is, unfortunately; all very unspecific.”

It was evidence, at least, of very strong emotion.

“It all happened very quickly, within just a few minutes, according to Commissaire Huppert’s reconstruction. Blanche Trouin was standing in front of the spice stall when her younger sister turned up. They moved away to the side, by one of the columns, and that’s when it happened. The other traders didn’t know anything about a dispute coming to a head, Blanche had apparently seemed ‘completely normal’ that morning, in a good mood, in fact, which apparently she usually was.”

The prefect broke off. All at once, she looked exhausted.

Nedellec frowned. “Did Blanche Trouin regularly work at her spice stall herself? I mean, she must’ve had better things to do. Or did she just happen to be there yesterday morning?”

“She loved the selling side”—the prefect was exceptionally well informed—“and was at the market every Monday. Everyone knew that, her restaurant was closed on Mondays.”

“Is it possible”—Dupin wasn’t sure how to formulate the question that had been on his mind since the afternoon—“that there could have been some kind of conflict in the area of cooking itself?”

“What do you mean by that?”

He didn’t know how to phrase it more precisely. But cooking was the Trouin sisters’ passion, their obsession. Their calling and profession.

“Their cooking styles and philosophies were vastly different,” the prefect stated. “Blanche was known for her ingenious refinements of local aromas and products, at times she was even avant-gardist—her medlar concentrate comes to mind—but was incredibly strict in her regional constraints when selecting all her ingredients, likewise for terroir und merroir. That was her credo. Joined by imaginative, yet consistently calculated accents from her rich stock of spices. In essence, Blanche Trouin was an exceptional representative of the Nova Regio cuisine. She had her own garden, and harvested the majority of her vegetables from it.”

The prefect paused and drank a sip of water.

“Lucille Trouin’s governing principle, by contrast, is the development of the highest flavor finesse, differentiation and internal differentiation, often with diverse micro-elements. Regardless of the products’ origin. They can be from all over the world—she deliberately doesn’t focus on traditional Breton cuisine. She looks for completely innovative flavors and, in the process, masters the entire spectrum, from classic to purist to incredibly progressive.”

Dupin had only understood the prefect’s explanations in part, but they were interesting nonetheless. They presumably embodied something quite fundamental, because the opposing cooking styles would be linked with differences in their personalities.

“We’ll now serve the main course.” The waiters had returned. In the blink of an eye, a plate stood before Dupin.

“Bonne continuation.”

The monkfish with consommé of spider crab and lychee was a wonderful idea, and the gargouillou, the vegetables with the blossoms, looked particularly beautiful, almost too good to eat. But only almost.

“Let’s put this awful case aside for a while,” decided the host prefect, “and turn our attention to enjoying the food.”

---

At ten minutes after ten, the team had left the Bistro Autour du Beurre—the monkfish was the best thing Dupin had ever eaten. At around half past ten, Dupin had walked into the courtyard of the Villa Saint Raphaël. Only to leave it again a few moments later.

He had spontaneously decided to go for a nightcap in Bistro de Solidor, in Saint-Servan’s pleasant harbor, which he’d visited the previous evening on the hotelier’s recommendation. A splendid tip. And it was only a short stroll away.

Dupin sat by the window. With a view of the sea and the pier at the end of the harbor. The sun had only just set and the sky was a delicate pink, with a few blurred, more intensely colored streaks across the horizon.

Dupin liked Saint-Servan and its farthest coastal corner, the—apparently famous—peninsula Alet, already a candidate for his list of favorite places. The narrow lanes, the harbor, the small shops, the wonderful old houses: former fishermen’s homes as well as secluded villas. Gardens everywhere, small and large parks. Not to forget the market halls—in which, tomorrow, life would go on as normal—and the Café du Théâtre right by the market, where he’d had coffee that morning. Coffee that had been captured by the Malouins for the world and for him. Saint-Servan was already starting to feel like a familiar neighborhood.

The bistro’s thoroughly attentive owner had talked Dupin into a special rum—“the city’s signature drink, and a good while before it became fashionable everywhere else,” he had clarified—“an old J.M.,” neat, no ice. Created by a village priest in 1790 on Martinique, back in the corsair era. The bistro owner had told Dupin its whole history. Produced from nothing but freshly pressed sugarcane juice, “not cheap molasses.” Golden brown in the glass, with a glint of copper and bronze.

“Aromas of cinnamon, baked apple, and coriander, perfectly balanced with vanilla and baked tropical fruits,” enthused the bistro owner, “a silky-smooth bouquet, with hints of mocha, dried apricot, and flambéed banana. Long and harmonious in the finish, with a touch of mint.”

Dupin took a long drink. And was impressed. The bistro owner saw it in his face.

“It’s like nectar, am I right? From Elysian origins, it lets you forget all earthly suffering.”

Surely no more beautiful a promise existed.

And it was fitting for Dupin’s decision. There was no point in trying to secretly investigate this peculiar murder case. Unlike his case on the Pink Granite Coast, Dupin couldn’t have a “chance” conversation with anyone, especially not the people the commissaire was already speaking with. He couldn’t risk any collisions. What’s more, it would be completely disrespectful to his colleagues here. And the commissaire seemed very competent.

Dupin let another sip of rum trickle down his throat. His gaze swept around the quaint bistro. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The annoying thing was: not only was his déformation professionnelle nagging away at him, but he also felt personally called upon to investigate. Obligated, even. After all, the murder had occurred right before his nose. And he’d had to admit defeat in his pursuit of the perpetrator.

Dupin looked at the pink evening sky. He turned away. His gaze met the owner’s, who was standing at the bar. Dupin nodded. A subtle gesture in the direction of his empty glass, and the owner immediately understood.

Rum hadn’t previously been part of Dupin’s repertoire; unjustly so, he decided on this evening.

He felt a contented tiredness slowly descend over him.

Before long, he lay in bed.