It didn’t happen often, but last night it had: Dupin, undeterred by the events of the day, had slept wonderfully. Deeply and soundly, peacefully and without a single interruption. The rum had worked miracles.
The world was full of water this morning; it must have been raining heavily for hours. And it still was. The puddles in the garden had long become small lakes, watery landscapes with the occasional grass island dotted here and there. But even the weather couldn’t mar Dupin’s surprisingly good mood. Nor could the thought of the seminar and his decision to stay out of the investigation. The only sad thing was that he’d missed Claire’s call, a drawback of the sound sleep. For differing reasons, this had already happened a few times since Claire had left the previous week for her fortnight of cardiological training in Boston. Now she was the one sleeping deeply and soundly—the window of time in which they could speak was small. Claire had left him a message, with loud music and animated voices in the background. She was with colleagues—Dupin had heard predominantly male names—in a bar. He had sent her a few text messages during the first few days, but she had only answered once. Claire didn’t like text messages.
Dupin had got up at seven on the dot and drank a large café au lait in the cozy breakfast room. He had also eaten a generous piece of the homemade breakfast cake; today, it was a version with berries. Then, on the way to the police call, he’d made an impromptu stop at the Café du Théâtre—a parking spot had been free right before the door, a clear sign. He’d enjoyed a swift petit café at the bar, where the television was on, and naturally, like everywhere else, they were still reporting on the previous day’s drama.
Only marginally late, Dupin had arrived in the École de Police.
The morning’s task was to select, from the impressive plethora of “exciting points” they had discussed at length yesterday—like turf wars, personnel shortages, and fund distribution—the most important in each subject area. They would then focus on these intensively for the rest of the seminar.
“Let’s get down to work!” Locmariaquer spurred on the small group after the coach had explained the program for the morning.
The seminar had been going for two hours already; it was shortly after ten. The rain was still pouring down. The room was hopelessly overheated, the air stuffy.
Dupin’s good mood had expired. As one of the regularly interposed “learning interventions,” the coach had just explained the systematic difference between efficiency and effectiveness. An avid discussion was underway.
“It’s possible to be extremely efficient, yet also extremely ineffective. Just look at the world!” commented the prefect from Morbihan aptly. Very true, thought Dupin.
“I would say the opposite.” Locmariaquer spoke up. “There’s no effectiveness without efficiency.”
“But look, my dear colleague,” the prefect objected, now in quite a curt tone, “you—”
The door to the seminar room was flung open.
With a brusque “Good morning,” the host prefect stormed in with a grim expression, Commissaire Louane Huppert a step behind her.
“How lovely to see you, mesdames,” began Locmariaquer, “it’s—”
“There’s been another death,” she said, cutting him off, “and it’s clearly murder.”
For a moment, there was complete silence. Everyone had paused mid-movement, as though they were frozen.
“That can’t be!” Locmariaquer was the first to break the silence.
The prefect and commissaire made no move to sit down.
“I’m not surprised,” murmured Commissaire Nedellec in a low voice. “This story isn’t over yet, far from it.”
“Well, I never.” The brow of the stocky prefect from Côtes d’Armor gathered into deep folds. “This is really escalating.”
“It’s awful.” The face of her red-haired colleague from Morbihan mirrored her shock.
“Who is it?” Dupin wanted to know.
“Kilian Morel, Blanche Trouin’s husband,” answered Commissaire Huppert.
“Where did it happen?” asked Commissaire Nedellec.
“Not far from the couple’s house. At La Moinerie. Blanche Trouin’s restaurant is in Dinard, not far from there. Morel looked after the staff and bookkeeping in his wife’s restaurant. A rambler found him.”
“His brother”—Dupin thought out loud, not sure himself how he came to the point—“is a friend and confidant of Blanche Trouin, isn’t he?” It wasn’t easy to remember who everyone was.
Commissaire Huppert’s only response was: “Exactly.”
“This means”—the host prefect’s expression had darkened even further—“that there’s a second perpetrator. Someone who murdered with intent.” She took a deep breath in and out. “I’d like to speak with my fellow prefects for a few minutes. If the commissaires could be so kind as to excuse us for a moment.”
Questioning glances rested on the prefect.
“We won’t need long.” A renewed request.
Nedellec and Dupin stood up and left the room together with Commissaire Huppert.
“What’s going on?” Nedellec turned to the commissaire as soon as he had closed the door behind him. They stood in the long corridor: white walls, wooden floor; it smelled of wax.
“I have to make a call.” Huppert’s tone was friendly, but no less firm.
“Come on, tell us what this is about,” persisted Nedellec.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
With these words, the commissaire turned around and walked along the corridor to the stairs.
“Perhaps,” said Dupin hopefully, “they’re calling off the rest of the seminar.”
It wasn’t impossible; the case was clearly getting out of hand.
Nedellec raised his eyebrows.
“Excuse me, Dupin, I have to make a quick call too.” Before Dupin had time to respond, Nedellec had also darted off.
Dupin went to stand by the window. The downpour had relented. It must have happened in the last few minutes; suddenly there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun shone confidently, as though it had never done anything different. It shone down onto a thoroughly wet world—the glistening reflections in the soaked courtyard were blinding.
Now Blanche Trouin’s husband was dead too. It was terrible, and utter madness. Yesterday, they had likely had breakfast together, everything still as normal, and now they were both dead.
This case was already a dramatic one, and before long it would be the talk of all of Brittany.
“We’ve finished our conversation.” The host prefect was standing in the corridor, peering first in one direction, then the other. Commissaire Nedellec approached from one end; Dupin from the other. Nedellec was followed by Commissaire Huppert.
“We’ve conferred with one another,” the prefect began again, once they’d all come back into the seminar room. Commissaire Huppert was staring at the ceiling, expressionless, and Locmariaquer had a kind of contented grin on his face; a disconcerting sight. “Commissaire Dupin, Commissaire Nedellec.” Based on the tone, a clear instruction was about to follow. “From now on you’ll be investigating this case together with Commissaire Huppert. You three are now a team. You’ll report to the four of us.” A stern look. “What better way to strengthen cooperation between the départements than with a genuine collaborative investigation. Especially with a complicated case like this.”
“What?” Dupin had been prepared for all manner of things—but not this.
“I’ll be happy to.” Nedellec was swift to express how pleased he was.
The counsel to the prefects nodded pathetically. Of course, Locmariaquer had to add his two cents: “An unprecedented occurrence! Historic!”
Dupin’s feelings, carefully formulated, were incredibly conflicted. It was certainly better than the seminar. And it fit with how eager he was to investigate this himself. But the idea of a “team investigation” with three commissaires and four prefects went totally against the grain for him. It had taken Dupin a long time, as a dyed-in-the-wool loner by nature, to be capable of working with Nolwenn, Kadeg, and Riwal. How was he supposed to manage this off the cuff? With entirely new colleagues? And on command?
“There won’t be an official lead among the three of you. In discussion with Commissaire Huppert, who, by the way, has given this her seal of approval”—all gazes moved from the prefect to the commissaire, whose expression betrayed nothing—“we’ve decided to leave it to you how to organize yourselves.”
Well. That sounded better already. At least it implied more autonomy.
“You’ll report back to us at dinner each night, so that we’re kept in the loop,” the prefect added. “The four of us have decided to continue with the seminar for now, with a slight shift in focus. We’ll tend to a few of the main administrative pitfalls that hamper Brittany-wide police collaboration day-to-day. Formal things.”
“I’m sure we’ll produce historic results here too.” Locmariaquer leaned back and beamed all over his eternally reddened face.
“You don’t look too happy, Commissaire Dupin.” The host prefect had addressed him directly. “Are you uncomfortable with our decision?”
Before Dupin could respond, Locmariaquer boomed in a threatening timbre: “I’m sure that even Finistère is delighted with our decision.”
Dupin managed to force out a tormented “Absolutely.”
“Okay, so that’s decided. Now—solve the case! Show us your extraordinary Breton team spirit!”
Once again, Locmariaquer had to have the last word: “All of Brittany is watching you. Don’t forget that. It’s a blessing and a curse. And don’t disappoint us.”
He was a master of subtle motivation.
“Let’s make a start.” Commissaire Huppert sprang to her feet. “I’ll bring you up to speed while we drive to the crime scene.”
Before she reached the door, she clarified: “We’ll take my car.”
Nedellec and Dupin followed her.
It felt completely unreal. He’d just been sitting in a stuffy seminar room, and now Dupin was standing on a breathtaking beach, looking out to sea.
Blindingly white, fine sand in dunes that shielded the land behind, covered with thick grass. The sky was a triumphant blue—apart from a single, self-assured white cloud above the sea, strangely triangular, like a puzzling sign. A gentle wind wafted the tufts of dune grass into yellow-green-brown smudges. Close to the shore: a wild and romantic-looking island, almost circular, with a steeply ascending, craggy rockface, and boulders coated in neon-yellow lichen here and there. On one of the rocks stood a solitary chapel of glistening granite, just a few meters in length and breadth but unusually tall, with a pointed roof, elaborately decorated. Between the island and the beach, protected from the sea’s harshest raging, lay a dozen boats on colorful buoys. To the east, a stony headland jutted out into the sea, from which there was a wonderful view of the nearby Sables-d’Or-les-Pins.
It was enchanting. A landscape dreamed and painted by the deft summer light.
The journey here had been nerve-racking, and had taken them a good fifty minutes. They’d had to go across the Rance, as there was no other route, across the only bridge that led there and which strictly speaking wasn’t a bridge at all, but rather the dam of the famous tidal power station. Extensive building work at the dam had led to a traffic jam—along with the laid-back convoy from the Dol-de-Bretagne classic car club: ancient Peugeots, Renaults, Citroëns. Likeable older people. Genuine pensioners, not rich snobs. Unmissable car stickers clarified the purpose of the gathering: Journées Nationales des Véhicules d’Époque. The national classic car convention. On the last car was a flag with the motto “Enjoying Life in the Slow Lane,” and beneath it, “Speed Isn’t Everything.” Dupin felt his blood pressure rising. But the commissaires could only do one thing: be patient. During the journey, Commissaire Huppert filled Nedellec and Dupin in on the latest developments. Nedellec, and Dupin too—he couldn’t help but laugh at himself, but there was no other way—had zealously made notes. Five pages he had by now, crammed full.
Dupin took a few deep breaths in and out. The beach, the ocean, the dunes, the sky, the colors—the landscape was overpowering. What’s more, summer had arrived yesterday, and not even the nightly downpours could change that. Each year, you could clearly define the days when it arrived. Summer by the ocean gave Dupin an almost euphoric feeling, a sensation of great freedom.
Dupin pulled his attention back to the case.
The body lay about twenty meters away. A yellow tent with two open sides was stretched over it. Nedellec stood alongside—with the three gendarmes from Sables-d’Or-les-Pins, who had arrived just minutes after the rambler’s call to the emergency services—and was making notes.
Commissaire Huppert had had the entire area of the shore sectioned off. The forensics team was already at work, and the astoundingly straightforward medical examiner had concluded his initial investigation, estimating the time of death at eight thirty that morning, give or take an hour.
Kilian Morel lay at the edge of the dunes, next to a small green dinghy with plastic pulleys at the stern. Both his arms were outstretched, and his right hand was buried in the sand. It looked as though he had been trying to crawl up the dune.
He had been stabbed, just like his wife the day before, except this time the weapon was missing. Four stab wounds, one of which, according to the medical examiner, had been straight to the heart. “Probably a pericardial tamponade.” The blood had stained his beige shirt—which was tattered around the chest area—a deep red from the collar down to his dark blue linen shorts. A large quantity of blood had seeped into the sand. It was a brutal sight.
Blanche Trouin’s husband was a few pounds overweight, but he wasn’t fat; of average build, with longish, full, dark blond hair and a slightly plump face. Youthful, despite his forty-seven years.
He and his wife owned one of the sailboats, which were kept in the shelter of the small island during the summer. As the crow flies, it was less than two hundred meters to their house, the gendarmes had said. Presumably he had been heading out to his boat. Yesterday evening, his brother Joe had called and suggested he come by to keep him company. Huppert knew this from Joe Morel himself, whom she had spoken to during the drive, to deliver the terrible news. Kilian Morel had turned down his brother’s offer and said he wanted to be alone, but that he’d be glad of his company over the next few days. Joe Morel—who according to Huppert had initially seemed devastated, but then relatively composed—had thought it likely his brother had wanted to do exactly that after the tragedy with his wife: sail out in the boat and look for solitude.
Some undefined footprints had been discovered in the sand near the body, misshapen troughs that could potentially be from the perpetrator. Or the victim. A beach rarely provided useful evidence. No cell phone had been found near the corpse.
“So?” Louane Huppert appeared behind Dupin as though out of nowhere. “What are you thinking?”
“Either,” Dupin improvised, “the murderer knew Morel’s boat was here. Or they followed the victim from the house. In any case, they knew where Kilian Morel and Blanche Trouin lived.”
“That applies to everyone we have in our sights right now.” Huppert positioned herself directly in front of Dupin. Her ponytail fell forward over her shoulder. “I meant more generally: Do you have any ideas about the case? You barely said a word during the drive.”
“But he made no shortage of notes.” Nedellec, who seemed not to want to miss anything, had joined them.
“No. No idea.”
“Are you still thinking about the thing with the sous-chef?” asked Huppert in her typically prosaic tone. “Lucille Trouin would’ve had to know about it for that to come to a head. And even then, there wouldn’t necessarily be anything more behind it.”
That was exactly right.
“By the way, the sous-chef didn’t volunteer the information when I spoke with him this afternoon. I called him back after your tip. But then he was really open and unfazed in talking about it.”
“Well,” muttered Dupin, “he should really have volunteered the information himself.”
“Blanche Trouin first got in touch with Colomb Clément a month ago. Then she met with him in a bar late in the evening. Outside of Dinard. Clément asked for time to think it over. He called Blanche Trouin last Thursday to accept the offer. She quickly sent him a contract, and he had already signed it. Blanche Trouin wanted to tell her younger sister herself, Clément said, which was fine by him because he was nervous about having the conversation. Lucille Trouin, and I’m quoting here, could be ‘very quick-tempered.’ Whether Blanche had already done it by yesterday lunchtime, we don’t know. Her sister is the only one who could tell us. I asked her outright. But in vain, as you know.”
“Was there anything conspicuous in Blanche Trouin’s cell phone records?” Nedellec changed the subject.
Dupin had wanted to ask the question in the car.
“It’s hard to say at the moment. There were no phone calls to her sister, some with her friend Walig Richard, the antiques dealer, especially over the last two weeks—but according to what Monsieur Richard said yesterday, they weren’t about anything special. Some with her husband, but none yesterday. One last week with Joe Morel”—Huppert seemed to have an extraordinary memory—“two calls with her aunt’s housekeeper, about visiting, according to the housekeeper. Four calls with the sous-chef,” she looked at Dupin, “which timewise fit in with when she was wooing him across, and Clément has confirmed them all. And, of course, dozens of other calls with suppliers, retailers, and so on; she was always very busy.”
Dupin had noted it all down. At first glance, none of it seemed unusual.
“We’ve also filed a request to access her husband’s phone records.”
“We need the alibis of everyone on our list.” Nedellec came to the next fundamental point. “Where they were this morning at the time in question.”
“I’ve already assigned a colleague to each person.”
That sounded good.
“And we’ll also speak with each of them ourselves.” Dupin’s iron principle.
He realized that he was still unsure how investigating as a team would pan out. For him, the worst possible approach would be doing everything together. There were some essential questions to clarify on their modus operandi. The annoying thing was, if he asked explicitly, he would get an explicit answer, and lose the possible leeway that existed while everything remained vague.
“We should make sure people aren’t having to speak with three commissaires at once.”
He was relieved Huppert had formulated it herself.
“We’ll have to figure out how to go about it.”
It remained vague; Dupin was content.
Huppert started to make a move: “I think we should take a look at the couple’s house. Two police officers from Sables-d’Or-les-Pins are waiting there for us.”
She trudged through the heavy sand and the two commissaires followed.
“This recipe collection of the father’s that you were talking about in the car,” Nedellec asked, “do you reckon it’s in Blanche Trouin’s house?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“It wasn’t in Blanche Trouin’s restaurant in Dinard, in any case. Forensics have already searched it. I asked her husband about the recipes yesterday, and he mentioned a notebook that Blanche kept in a pale blue box. But he didn’t know where it might be.”
Huppert hadn’t mentioned these details during the drive.
“Did Kilian Morel say anything else about this?” Dupin asked, just to be sure.
“He merely confirmed that his wife often spoke about the recipes and saw them as a source of inspiration. He estimated that there were around eighty to a hundred.”
“Do we know”—Nedellec was suddenly favoring the formal “we”—“all the business activities of the two sisters and their partners? Beyond the restaurants, I mean?”
“I think so. We’ve had a list drawn up. You can get a copy anytime you want.”
“I’d like to pay Blanche Trouin’s two friends a visit.” Clearly Nedellec already had a plan. “First Joe Morel. He could play a decisive role in this. As Blanche’s confidant and the brother of the latest victim. And then this antiques dealer, Walig Richard. As close friends, they must know something about recent conflicts between the sisters.”
They had left the beach now and were following a sandy path through the tall dunes. From a distance, it must look like a cheerful summer stroll. The officials from the forensics team followed a short distance behind them.
“Joe Morel and Richard claim they don’t know anything. As I said, I spoke to both of them yesterday.”
“You spoke with them on the phone.” Nedellec summarized what the commissaire had told them. “The only ones you saw in person yesterday were Blanche Trouin’s husband and Lucille Trouin’s partner. And Lucille Trouin herself.”
“It seems you’ve already solved this aspect of the case, my dear colleague,” said Huppert, unruffled. “Whom I’ve spoken with on the phone and whom I’ve seen personally.”
“And the aunt,” Dupin suddenly remembered. “Did you speak with her on the phone or visit her?”
“I went to see her.” Dupin’s question didn’t seem to bother the commissaire either. “Her niece was murdered, after all. It was a short visit. The aunt has dementia. I’m unsure whether she really understood what I told her.”
Huppert came to an abrupt halt; Nedellec and Dupin did the same.
“That’s it. The home of the two victims.”
They were looking across at a modern bungalow made of pale granite, which, due to the natural shade of the stone and flat architecture, blended with astonishing harmony into the surroundings. Disheveled sea pines stood liberally distributed around the house, with stretches of grass in between. At the far end of the property, which was surrounded by bamboo fencing, lay a vegetable garden. There wasn’t another house in sight far and wide, just trees and fallow fields.
The most noticeable thing about the building was its layout: it formed an elongated rectangle, with square structures to the left and right, each a little offset into the garden.
Two police officers stood in front of the light gray entrance door.
The path they were walking along, which fell away steeply within just a few meters, forked; one path ran parallel to the dunes, the other directly toward the house. From the west, a narrow, unsurfaced road led to the property. In front of the bamboo fence was a parking space, just large enough for one car, a dark gray Citroën DS 5.
“So,” began Dupin, “I’ll speak to Lucille’s partner later—”
He was interrupted by his cell phone.
Nolwenn. A highly inconvenient time.
“Just a moment.” Dupin turned on his heel and walked back along the dune path.
“Yes?”
“The almighty gods have spoken, and this is their wish. Then so it must be. It’s clearly your fate: no sensational case without you.” Her tone was combative; Nolwenn was obviously herself again. “The Commissariat de Police Concarneau is at your command, Monsieur le Commissaire! United, whenever you need us.”
“Wonderful.”
The forensics team were coming toward Dupin along the path.
“There’s already a lot of talk online about the Breton ‘Dream Team,’ the ‘Furious Three.’ The ‘Britt Team.’”
It sounded as though Locmariaquer had spoken to the press.
“They’ve forced us to work as a team.”
“You’ll survive. Think of Finistère! We represent Finistère!”
It was uncanny; for a moment, Nolwenn had sounded just like the prefect.
“And as I said: we’re here when you need us, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
“Thank you, Nolwenn.” He spoke from the heart.
“Speak later.”
She had already ended the call.
A smile darted across Dupin’s face. Then he hurried back to join the other two commissaires. This was for Finistère. Their home département! The battle of the Breton tribes had begun.
The two police officers nodded in a friendly manner as the small group reached them.
“I’ll take a look around outside,” said Nedellec, marching off around the house. Without comment, Huppert headed for the front door. It was unlocked, which was quite normal in the Breton countryside. The commissaire stepped in cautiously—and came to such an abrupt halt that Dupin almost walked into her.
“Well, would you look at that,” said Huppert drily.
The house was in a terrible state. In the open-plan kitchen, cupboards had been flung open, drawers pulled out and emptied, their contents now in a chaotic mess on the parquet floor. The expansive living area that the kitchen led into looked no better. The cushions of the two elegant, pastel-blue sofas were scattered across the floor, along with everything else that must have previously been on the natural-wood dining table, now empty. One of the floor lamps lay on its side.
“Someone’s really done a number in here.” The commissaire strode toward the center of the room.
“Huppert! Dupin! Over here! Come and look!”
Nedellec’s command echoed through the whole house. His voice was coming from inside the building, even though just a moment ago he had been outside.
To the right, a door stood ajar.
“You have to see this!” His voice was coming from there. “Someone was in the house! They were clearly searching for something.”
Commissaire Huppert made no move to follow Nedellec’s command. She went to the left, where, at the end of the kitchen unit, a further door led to the other square annex.
Dupin had moved toward the right-hand door, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and stepped in. The bedroom. From here, a sliding door led onto a small wooden terrace. Nedellec must have come into the house through here. From the bedroom, just like on the other side, you could also access the second annex.
“Look!” Nedellec pointed toward the opened closet. He was standing among mounds of clothing that had been yanked out. The chic wooden nightstands, too, were wide open. It was a complete and utter mess.
“It’s the same in the living room,” Dupin told him.
“Whoever it was, they seem to have searched randomly, with no idea of where to look.”
Nedellec went toward the door to the annex, followed by Dupin. They would leave the bedroom to the forensics team.
“Not bad.”
Nedellec had paused in the doorway. It was a separate, massive kitchen. A high-tech kitchen. Stainless steel, light gray stone floor. A colossal gas cooker, professional extractor hoods, an extra-large sink, two dishwashers, matte stainless steel cupboards, two open shelving units filled to the ceiling with dozens of small glass containers, various kitchen tools and utensils on stainless steel work surfaces. Above hung spatulas, spoons, scoops. Next to the door was a tall refrigerator.
The person who had searched the house had been here too, although the chaos seemed a little less pronounced. The cupboards were open, most of them full of foodstuffs, and the fridge too. But very little seemed to have been taken out.
“Anything, gentlemen?” Commissaire Huppert came in. “Ah, Blanche Trouin’s kitchen lab.” She looked around in awe. “So this is where the creativity happened. Her husband’s office is in the other annex, by the way. Everything’s been ransacked there too.”
Nedellec peered into the fridge. “So the perpetrator was looking for something that could have been in either of their domains. We just don’t know what.”
Huppert stood in front of one of the cupboards. “I’ve asked forensics to keep an eye out for the recipe collection.”
Dupin was by the shelves with the glass containers. They were spices. All kinds of spices, with the most beautiful poetic names. Garam Masala, Dragonfire Curry, Harissa, Blanche’s Provence, Curry Corsaire. Spices from all over the world, and evidently Blanche’s own creations too. “Le monde des épices” was written on the neat, visually appealing labels.
“If the recipes are even here in the house at all,” murmured Nedellec.
“And of significance for our case,” added Huppert. She frowned and went over to one of the other cupboards. “Doesn’t it look a little too ransacked here? Maybe someone’s trying to fool us? Send us off down the wrong path?”
“Or they didn’t have much time, but still wanted to find what they were looking for no matter what,” countered Nedellec.
Both were plausible.
“I’ll take a look at Kilian Morel’s office.” Dupin made his way back through the bedroom and living area.
Morel’s office seemed to also be a storage place of sorts. Along one entire wall, industrial shelving had been fitted right to the ceiling. Dupin saw all kinds of blé noir products—it reminded him of the store specializing in buckwheat in Rue de l’Orme. The shelf next to it was full of wine; the next, rum. Dupin glanced at the labels: Opthimus, Diplomatico, Elements Eight. Even the heavenly rum from the Bistro de Solidor was there: Rhum J.M.
“Yep, Saint-Malo and its rum.”
Once again, Commissaire Huppert had appeared beside him as though out of nowhere. Her expression was serious; her tone, matter-of-fact as ever.
“I’ve just spoken on the phone with an employee from Blanche Trouin’s restaurant. Apparently, Kilian Morel was in the process of developing an online shop for rum and other Saint-Malo specialties, including Blanche’s spice blends. The wines seemed to be for the restaurant.”
“That would’ve put him in competition with Charles Braz, Lucille Trouin’s partner.”
“Rum is big business in these parts, a lot of people trade in it. He wouldn’t have been targeting his brother-in-law in particular. But then again, who knows.” Huppert paused. “Perhaps it does play a role. Maybe the rivalry between the sisters took hold of the two men too.”
Nedellec came in. “We should discuss our plan of action. I’m going to—”
“Does Lucille Trouin know about her brother-in-law’s murder?” It had only just occurred to Dupin; they hadn’t yet discussed it, strangely, which was also the case for several other topics and routines—a result of the investigation’s unstructured beginning.
“I drove straight to see her when I got the news. Her attorney was there the whole time. Once again, she didn’t say a word. She’s sticking by her silence. The investigative detainment, by the way, will be here at the station in Saint-Malo for the time being, not in Rennes, as it would usually be. Meaning that we can question Lucille Trouin at any time. Even if it’s a little makeshift here.”
It was an absurd idea that accompanied the investigation like an incessant dark bass in the background: Lucille Trouin was in police custody for having unequivocally murdered her sister. She knew why she had killed her sister. And possibly also knew why her brother-in-law had been murdered. Quite probably, even. And who had done it. The case could already be solved. But she was remaining stubbornly silent. Presumably one and the same motive lay behind both crimes—or, at least, there was some connection.
“So”—Nedellec was becoming impatient—“how do we want to proceed? I’m going to pay Morel’s brother and then the antiques dealer a visit. I suggest we split up.”
He had voiced Dupin’s most fervent wish.
“In which case it’s imperative”—Commissaire Huppert raised her voice—“that we confer with one another about everything. Each of us has to know whom the other is meeting and when, and what comes out of it.”
Dupin very much doubted that this was possible.
“Let’s say we’ll inform one another as quickly as possible as soon as there’s any news,” he swiftly reinforced nonetheless.
“And we’ll meet regularly,” Huppert declared. “The entire Dream Team,” she said without any trace of humor on her face, but Nedellec grinned. “Plus text messages and, if necessary, phone calls—we can do group ones between the three of us.”
Dupin nodded. It was all going in the right direction, and he was slowly starting to have a clearer idea of the collaborative investigation approach.
“Everyone keeps to the rules, and if we take any, let’s say ‘unusual’ actions, then we’ll agree on it together beforehand.” Dupin thought he saw Huppert glance in his direction. “And by that, I mean anything that goes beyond regular investigative inquiries. Dupin, whom do you plan to speak with first?”
He had already given this considerable thought. “Lucille Trouin’s partner, Charles Braz.”
“I’ll call you both a car to take you to the station, so you can pick up your own vehicles.”
Damn, Dupin had completely forgotten. He hadn’t even come here with his car.
“I’ll send a copy of the list of alibis for this morning to each of you, as soon as I have it. Then you can double-check them. My assistant will also send you the info on everyone who’s relevant to the investigation so far. We’ll talk later.”
With these words, she turned and left them standing there.
“And whom are you going to speak to, Commissaire Huppert?” Nedellec called after her.
She glanced briefly over her shoulder.
“No one, for the time being.”
She was already out of the door.
What was she planning? At least one thing was clear: the Département Ille-et-Vilaine had a massive home advantage.
A few minutes later, Dupin was walking along the narrow road in front of the house, his cell phone pressed to his ear. The list promised by Commissaire Huppert had already arrived in his inbox.
“Hello?” Charles Braz picked up straightaway.
“Monsieur Braz, this is Commissaire Dupin, I’m leading … I’m one of the commissaires leading the investigation”—he was still struggling a little—“and I’d like to speak to you. In three-quarters of an hour?”
“Certainly, monsieur. Is Commissaire Huppert no longer involved?” asked Braz in a friendly tone.
“No, no, she is. We’ve just—expanded the team.”
“Okay. Where shall we meet? I’m at home.”
Dupin saw a police car turn into the narrow street.
“I’ll come to you. I have the address.”
“Then I’ll see you here.”
“See you shortly.”
Dupin pressed the Call End button, then immediately dialed the next number.
“Nolwenn?”
“Monsieur le Commissaire! We’re just talking about the case. I’m here with the whole team: Le Menn, Nevou, and Kadeg.”
Dupin almost felt emotional, thinking of them all sitting there together.
“I’m sending you a list of all the people involved so far. I’d be interested in anything you can find.”
“We’ll start right away.”
“Just a moment.” Dupin tapped around on his cell phone. “Here it is … and it’s on its way to you. I’ll be speaking with all of them personally. First Lucille Trouin’s partner, his name is—”
“Charles Braz. I’ve already read about him online. I’ve already got a little tableau on my screen of the people, I’m just about to complete it. This Braz guy specialized in rum. He may also be involved in his girlfriend’s cheese business and restaurant, but I’ve not been able to find out for sure yet.”
Nolwenn’s uncanny speed—like with Lucky Luke, whom Dupin had worshiped in his youth. Lucky Luke drew his gun faster than his own shadow.
“Try to find out about the business dealings of the murdered husband, Kilian Morel. He was building up an online shop of Breton specialties, including rum.”
“I’m on it. Oh, your list just arrived. Whom are you seeing after that? Do you already have the order planned?”
Dupin looked at the list. “Flore Briard, Lucille Trouin’s close friend. Then Clément, the sous-chef. There’s something I need to clarify with him.”
Dupin explained briefly.
“Okay. What about the ninety-three-year-old aunt who’s noted down here? Perhaps it was about an inheritance?”
“At the moment, anything’s possible.”
Dupin realized that they hadn’t yet discussed this in their team of three. And yet it seemed an obvious point.
“Okay. Then Team Finistère will get on with the research. Riwal’s the only one who isn’t here; he’s battling the badger. Talk soon, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
Nolwenn hung up.
The badger! Dupin had completely forgotten about it. And yet it had been the red-hot topic in their office over the last few weeks. More, even: a veritable reality show with daily episodes. Riwal’s garden, his pride and joy, was under attack. In particular, his strawberries. And solely at night. Initially Riwal hadn’t been sure who the attacker was; only a high-tech Wi-Fi camera and a night shift had brought clarity. He had immediately launched into defensive action, without wanting to harm the animal in any way, of course. As badgers, according to the experts he consulted, didn’t like noise or light, Riwal had deployed exactly that in the “first phase”: a radio placed in the strawberry beds, blaring away at full volume for several nights on end, and a floodlight steered by a motion sensor. Neither had bothered the badger. Consequently, protective measures of increasing intensity had been employed, albeit still ineffectively, including a borrowed cat, which was supposed to patrol the garden for a few days and nights—it was questionable whether she did it—and human hair, scattered over the garden, which Riwal had procured from his hairdresser. Badgers couldn’t stand either, and both methods had been praised online as surefire fixes. As far as Dupin was concerned, it was all starting to get a bit strange.
Charles Braz’s house was almost precisely in the middle of the Solidor quay, directly on Plage de Solidor. The bay, lined by the pretty quay, formed an almost complete semicircle. When the tide was out it lay completely dry, and dozens of boats, leaning lethargically on their sides, seemed to be resting before the next incoming tide. A promenade ran along the beach. One end of the picture-postcard bay was marked by an imposing church; the other by an old watchtower, the Tour Solidor.
There was a relaxed, serene atmosphere. The secluded bay, right on the edge of Saint-Servan, had the charm of a hidden gem. And of real life, following the same rhythm here day in, day out. Les gens du coin, the people from the local neighborhood, came here. It was a tranquil world. Dupin could happily sit in one of the cozy-looking cafés all day long, letting the sun shine on his face and watching the cheerful hustle and bustle.
The house with the number twelve was painted white, three stories high, with stucco decoration around the windows. Beneath was a shop selling rum. Pale, bleached wood, vibrant Caribbean tones: turquoise blue, deep bright blue, sunny yellow, fresh green.
Dupin was just about to press the doorbell when his cell phone rang.
Riwal. His first inspector. Who was actually supposed to be on a badger hunt right now.
“Bonjour, boss!”
“What’s up?”
“I just got back to the office. I popped into the home improvement store to buy an electric fence. I got the tip off this special internet site, badger-in-garden-what-to-do.com.”
“I see.” That was all Dupin was prepared to say in response. “Was there anything else?”
“Well, this is a pretty great case, boss.”
“Excuse me?”
“The crème de la crème.” Riwal sounded really excited. “You’re investigating in the most distinguished of gastronomic spheres. And think about the incredible restaurants you’ll be visiting! My congratulations.”
Dupin was too baffled to answer.
“Of course, it’s a terrible tragedy.” Riwal suddenly became serious. “Bitter rivalries between siblings can be hellish. The hurts pile up over the years. They go deeper and deeper, one leading to the next, like a terrible, inescapable cascade. And then—well, anything is possible.”
They were bleak words. But sometimes, that was where you had to venture: into the darkest recesses of the human soul.
“Even murder?”
Dupin walked toward the watchtower.
“Put it this way: once things have gone so far, and the hate has burrowed its way deep down into the heart, sometimes all it takes is a catalyst that, to outsiders, might seem trivial.”
Dupin knew what he meant.
“Having said that, it’s looking completely different since the murder of Kilian Morel,” Riwal said, preempting Dupin’s interjection. “Is there anything else you’d like to know about rum before your visit to Charles Braz, boss? Nolwenn just brought me up to date.”
Dupin hesitated. It would be a mistake to say yes. But apparently it would also be a mistake to say nothing.
“Saint-Malo has been the number one transit center for rum for centuries. Most of it comes from the Caribbean, which Saint-Malo has a close relationship with—just think of the French Antilles. It’s no coincidence that the toughest sailing regatta in the world, the Route du Rhum, goes from Saint-Malo to Guadeloupe. In the discerning world of gastronomy, the main focus nowadays is on rhum agricole, rum from agricultural origins, which unlike industrial rum is extracted directly from freshly pressed sugarcane juice, not molasses, a preserved, nonperishable syrup. Definitely remember that detail. There’s even an AOC quality seal, bestowed on rum from Martinique, Guadeloupe, and Haiti, among others.”
“Thank you, Riwal, I think I’m now comprehensively informed.”
“Do you know what the word ‘rum’ means? It’s really funny—tumult. From the English word ‘rumbullion.’ Very fitting, don’t you think?”
A shrill beeping tone rang out right by Dupin’s ear. A text message.
“Riwal, I have to go.”
“And we’ll continue with the research.”
Dupin had turned on his heel once again and was walking back to Charles Braz’s house. He glanced at the message. It was from Nedellec.
News! Joe Morel was once romantically involved with Lucille Trouin. For a year. It ended nine years ago. She left him for Charles Braz.
Dupin came to an involuntary halt. That really was news!
The younger sister used to be involved with the brother of her older sister’s husband. Was Joe Morel already a good friend and confidant of Blanche Trouin back then? And simultaneously the lover of her estranged sister? It was hard to imagine. But—life was like that, it often spun peculiar threads. And that was all a long time ago now, admittedly. It would surely only be an issue if the feelings between the two of them had sparked up again. If they had gotten back together. But even then: How would that have led to Blanche Trouin’s death? And her husband’s? Still. In the first phase of an investigation, it was important to pursue anything that seemed interesting, without exception and without overhasty judgment. You can only understand how a puzzle fits together once you have more of the pieces, which, if you’re lucky, turn up suddenly and unexpectedly.
Charles Braz was a strikingly good-looking man. Lean, fine-boned but not lanky; instead, lithe and elegant. Tall, over six feet for sure, with tousled black hair, silvery gray at the temples. He was dressed in perfectly harmonizing colors; a polo shirt in petrol blue, dark blue linen pants. On Huppert’s list, it said he was forty-five years old.
Braz had greeted the commissaire in a very friendly manner, at the apartment door on the first floor, and led him into a large room.
“I’m sure you find it hard to imagine that, as Lucille’s long-term life partner, I have no explanation for the terrible drama that occurred yesterday. One would only assume I’d know what happened between the sisters.” He had paused in front of one of the two large windows, which had a view of the bay and picturesque Rance estuary, and looked earnestly at Dupin.
“You’re exactly right, Monsieur Braz. It does, of course, seem strange to the police.”
Dupin held his gaze.
“I can understand that.” Braz looked weighed down by grief.
The room was furnished in the same style as the store downstairs: bleached, pale wood, albeit with different colors, tasteful gray tones. A deep sofa, matching armchair, side table, a sideboard. Enlarged black-and-white photographs showing modern sailboats in an intense battle with the elements.
Braz had followed Dupin’s sweeping gaze.
“I sail. The pictures are from a regatta.”
“And you really have no idea what might’ve happened?” Dupin returned to the point.
“No. As hard as I try, I can’t imagine what could have driven Lucille to do something so awful.” Braz’s expression, his voice, his posture, now emanated intense horror. “It’s a nightmare.”
“Do you remember any conflict between the sisters over the past days or weeks, a particularly bad argument, perhaps?”
“I really don’t, no. I knew, of course, what everyone else did: they couldn’t stand each other, and that’s putting it mildly. They had entirely different ways of looking at things—people, the world, life in general. Even since their childhood. They—”
“They both devoted their lives to cooking, became famous chefs, stayed in the area they grew up in … Where exactly are the fundamental differences?”
“That’s only on the surface. The differences lie in their fundamental attitudes, outlooks, and opinions. In their character. I know only differences. The fact they’re both in the restaurant industry—and in the same region—only made things worse.”
Braz spoke calmly now, analytically. Intelligently.
“Give me a few examples.”
“Well, Lucille is incredibly ambitious. She wants to accomplish great things. And she’s hungry for it. She’s a workaholic. Blanche, on the other hand, hated ambition. She said she did things because she loved them, out of passion. She was blessed with incredible talents and simply wanted to enjoy discovering them. She didn’t plan to become famous, or a Michelin-starred chef, it just happened along the way, and none of that interested her. That’s what she said, in any case”—Braz recounted it without judgment—“and that’s also how it seemed. Lucille, on the other hand…” He hesitated, then began again: “Look, it’s incredibly difficult for me. I love Lucille, more than anything.”
He moved away from the window and sat down on the armchair, but only perching on the edge, an awkward posture.
“The two of them have—had—their gridlocked way of seeing things. If I explain it to you like this,” he looked concerned, “then, of course, I’m telling you how Lucille saw things. For the most part, at least. I’m giving you Lucille’s perspective.” He had gotten back to his feet and began to walk up and down in the room. “Naturally I have my own too. But I don’t want to seem disloyal. Lucille has my support.”
Dupin understood what he meant.
“In order to help us solve this, you should say everything that’s on your mind, Monsieur Braz. In the end, it will help your partner too.”
Whether this was true, of course, depended on Lucille Trouin’s motivations, which so far remained obscure.
“I think Lucille sees everything relating to Blanche in an extreme way. She immediately interprets everything in a drastic way. Above all, in a very personal way. That applied to them both: whatever one of them said or did, the other would take it personally. Like when Blanche began to specialize in spices. Up until then, they’d both had the same supplier, a small company near Dinard. But then Blanche bought it, and Lucille immediately sought out a different supplier. She saw it as a personal aggression. She thought Blanche only did it for one reason: to hurt her. Which certainly wasn’t the case, not in such an exaggerated way, I’m sure of it.” A noble defense of his partner’s fiercest opponent. “And I told Lucille that too. But her pattern of perception was too stubborn. And that’s just one example.”
It was a good one.
“It’s really complicated. The difficult thing is that there are always multiple and often conflicting motivations for all human behavior.” This was very similar to how Dupin saw it. “When Blanche bought the spice company, I’m sure her main aim wasn’t to hurt Lucille. But she knew it might, and did it regardless. Who knows, maybe even with a little schadenfreude. People are rarely entirely without blame.”
“Do you have other examples of the differences?”
“Lucille loves expensive, chic clothing, whereas Blanche always dressed very simply. Lucille always drives exquisite cars; Blanche drove a battered old Renault. She always seemed very humble, never made a big fuss, seemed at peace with herself, even-tempered, treated her employees like friends. Lucille is the opposite in all respects. She’s, let’s take the last point, very authoritarian with her employees. Albeit fair and dependable.” He had returned to the armchair, and sat down once more, again on the edge. “I could continue the list of differences as long as you want.”
So far, Dupin hadn’t moved away from the window; he couldn’t stand it when other people walked up and down in a room. That was his thing.
“And the jealousy, the deep envy, the distrust, this incredibly bitter rivalry—do you think it was equally pronounced in both of them?”
“Absolutely. They begrudged each other everything. Both of them felt constantly disadvantaged, inadequate, ignored—the other one always had more … more beautiful things, better things.” Dupin felt he kept noticing in Charles Braz a kind of distance to his life partner, either feigned or genuine. “There are so many stories. Even going back to their childhood. Each of them always thought their parents loved the other one more. That their achievements got more praise, more attention. They were constantly slighting the other.” Now Braz sounded like an experienced psychologist. “In any case, it began an endless chain of hurt. A vicious circle.”
“Would you say they hated each other? Did it go that far, Monsieur Braz?”
“Hate” wasn’t an easily definable word, but it meant something that no other word could capture, something that went far beyond other negative, aggressive emotions. It marked something unbounded, blind, obsessive, violent.
“Yes,” he confirmed in a subdued voice, “I think so.”
Dupin glanced up at the sky. The wind seemed to have turned; thick-bellied, pitch-black clouds were gathering from inland. For now they were still isolated monstrosities, chased across the sky by gusts of wind, but it already looked threatening.
He turned away from the window. “Lucille called you yesterday evening from the police station after her arrest. Did you ask her why she did it?”
“Yes. But…” He paused; the question seemed to have hit a nerve. He seemed conflicted. “She wouldn’t say a word. She said very little in general. Only that I should call her attorney. And come by to bring her a few things. She’s allowed to receive visitors in investigative detainment.”
“Did she call you while she was trying to escape the police?”
“No.”
“When do you plan to visit her?”
“Straight after our conversation. I’ve already cleared it with Commissaire Huppert.”
Huppert hadn’t mentioned it.
“I’d like you to call me straight afterward, Monsieur Braz.”
“Sure.”
“Another thing.” Dupin was now walking up and down the room. “Where were you this morning? Between seven thirty and nine thirty?”
“Here. At home. The whole morning. I just went out once to buy a baguette. I spoke to two friends on the phone, on my cell, and with Lucille’s attorney. Twice, at around seven and then again around eleven.”
“So we’ll be able to see all these calls on the itemized telephone records.”
“Yes. I maybe spoke with one friend at around ten thirty, with the attorney around eleven, and then with another friend.”
Dupin sighed softly. With regards to Charles Braz’s alibi, that meant only one thing: it was vague, very vague. They’d be very lucky if—apart from the phone calls and the baker—they managed to verify what he said. He could have easily made it to La Moinerie and back. Precisely between seven thirty and nine thirty. It would have been enough time. For both the murder and the ransacking of the house.
“Do you have any thoughts on the murder of Kilian Morel, Monsieur Braz?”
“None at all. That only makes everything much more mysterious. You’d have to presume a connection with what happened yesterday—but what? It’s all incomprehensible. As I said, I can’t even imagine that Lucille…” His voice broke. Braz ran his hand through his hair.
Dupin paused in front of a picture that showed a small sailboat tilted at an alarming angle in a trough of waves.
“How was your relationship with Kilian Morel, with your—as it were—brother-in-law?”
Charles Braz raised his eyebrows. “Good. We didn’t see each other often, due to the circumstances. Usually only at official events. And even then, we would just exchange a few friendly words.”
“When did you last see him?”
“About three or four months ago.”
“And did you talk about your shared passion for rum?”
“About all kinds of things, really. He was a laid-back guy, and always seemed very likable. Interested in all kinds of topics. Including rum.”
“Weren’t you taken aback when he set up in competition with you?”
“No, not at all. There are so many rum traders on the Emerald Coast.”
He seemed generally relaxed about it.
“He mainly worked in the restaurant,” commented Braz. “He looked after the business side, and the wine list too. He really knew his stuff.”
“Where is your car, Monsieur Braz?”
Dupin had meant to ask sooner.
“My car? Almost directly in front of the house. A little to the right. Toward the watchtower. A Volvo XC60.”
“And it was there all morning? You haven’t yet driven it today?”
“No. It’s been parked there since yesterday.”
That would also be hard for them to verify.
“You just mentioned,” Dupin changed the subject again, “that you spoke to two friends on the phone this morning. Who were they, exactly?”
“I spoke with—”
Dupin’s cell phone interrupted Braz’s response.
“I’m sorry.” Dupin glanced at the display. Nolwenn. “Just a moment, please.”
Before Braz had time to reply, Dupin left the room and went along the hallway to the stairs.
“Yes, Nolwenn?”
“So, a few bits of info from us, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Nolwenn had clearly gotten straight to work; she didn’t waste any time.
Dupin clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder and pulled out his notebook and pen.
“There’s almost nothing on the internet about Kilian Morel, Blanche Trouin’s husband—our new victim—except a few mentions in a report about his wife, that’s it. He seems to have kept a low profile. His shop went online on January 7 and was registered in his name. It looks quite professional. Charles Braz, the boyfriend of—”
“I’m just at his place now.”
“I know. We found a few interviews, about rum and sailing, irrelevant for us. In one of them he says he wasn’t very involved with his life partner’s ‘business.’ Apart from the rum company, I can’t find any others in his name. On to the antiques dealer, Walig Richard, the victim’s friend. He has two shops, one in Saint-Suliac and one in Saint-Malo. He is also a hobbyist vintner, evidently a real passion of his.”
“There’s wine cultivation here? In Brittany?”
“But of course, Monsieur le Commissaire.” A peeved tone. “There’s one single, but very large vineyard hill on the Rance, right by Saint-Suliac. Don’t you remember the big lead story in the Télégramme last week—about all the specialties that are now being grown here?”
A rhetorical question. How could he have forgotten? Riwal had spent the entire lunch break enthusiastically discussing the scientific details in the article. Due to the influence of the Gulf Stream and climate change of recent years, practically everything now grew in Brittany. Pineapple, white tea, rice, aloe vera, bananas, Szechuan pepper, even saffron and ginger, pepper, lemongrass, vanilla. And there were sixty-four buffalo on a Breton meadow—for Breton buffalo mozzarella, mozza breizh.
“Should I put you through to Riwal, Monsieur le Commissaire? He’ll explain the wine element very precisely.”
“Maybe later.”
“Then let’s get back to the antiques dealer: in the few articles there are on him, there’s unfortunately nothing noteworthy. They’re about the antiques industry and wine growing, things like that. There’s quite a lot on the sous-chef, Colomb Clément, though, including a few interviews. He sounds promising, a rising star in gastronomy. There isn’t much on Lucille Trouin’s friend, Flore Briard, the one with the culinary boat trips. Just one longer interview. She’s from a wealthy background, parents are dead, very pretty, early forties, expensive taste. She owns one of the most magnificent villas on the entire coast. And that’s saying something, there are masses of them up there.”
“I’m meeting with her this afternoon.”
Dupin had called Madame Briard on the drive here from La Moinerie. And had arranged to visit her at home at four o’clock.
“Last of all, the aunt: at some point there’ll be a sizable inheritance, for whomever it’s going to. The property, at least, because the woman also lives in an extraordinary villa. There’s nothing online about the aunt herself.”
“What about the victim’s brother, Joe Morel? He was in a relationship with Lucille Trouin ten years ago.”
“Aha, there’s a story there … He owns a popular oyster bar in Cancale. Riwal knows it.”
Cancale clearly wasn’t subject to the same excommunication as Saint-Malo for Nolwenn and Riwal.
“Obviously we’ve checked all these people to see if they’ve ever been in conflict with the law. Nothing. Law-abiding citizens, according to what we’ve found so far.”
None of it was particularly new, and certainly there was nothing eye-opening, but for Dupin it was still useful to find out more about the circle of people in the investigation.
“Thanks, Nolwenn.”
“It’s not easy when we’re so far away. I mean, Saint-Malo is foreign to us.”
Saint-Malo wasn’t actually any farther away than the other places where Dupin—with Nolwenn’s energetic assistance—had investigated over the years. It had never been an issue before.
“We’ll continue the research, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
One minute later, Dupin was back in Charles Braz’s living room.
“We were just talking about the friends you spoke with this morning.” Dupin picked up the thread. He had noted the questions he wanted to ask Braz in his Clairefontaine.
“You’re right.” Charles Braz was now leaning against the wall between the two windows. He looked tired.
“First I spoke with Eric for a long while, an old friend who lives in Cancale. We grew up in Dinan, a little below the Rance.”
Dupin knew where Dinan was, and not to confuse it with Dinard. He made a note regardless.
“Then with Flore Briard, Lucille’s best friend. She and I are also friends.”
“The rich heiress. The two women also work together, is that right? The culinary boat trips along the Emerald Coast?”
“Yes, Lucille and her sous-chef create the menus for the trips. Well, he does predominantly. There’s also a cook, an employee of Flore’s, on the boat itself. But naturally Lucille is paid for providing the recipes, and Flore emphasizes that in her marketing.”
In this respect, too, the loss of the sous-chef to the elder sister was sure to be a blow.
“Did Lucille know that Blanche was planning to steal away her sous-chef?” Huppert hadn’t been able to ask Charles Braz about this yesterday; she had only received the information afterward.
“Really? Blanche was planning that?” He seemed genuinely amazed. “Lucille didn’t say anything about it. But that would be really awful. It would cause Lucille major problems. Colomb isn’t easy to replace.” He moved away from the wall, walked over to the armchair, and sat down. “Is that really true? When?”
“She didn’t mention it?”
“No.”
He really seemed not to know.
“We’ve seen very little of each other recently, I have to admit. I’ve been away a lot, just recently in Paris. At a gastronomy fair. And Lucille doesn’t talk that much about what’s going on with her. Sometimes it takes weeks until she shares what’s bothering her. She’s the same with Flore, her best friend.”
With this claim, Charles Braz was putting himself in a strategically comfortable situation. But perhaps it was simply the truth.
“By luring Clément away”—Braz seemed to feel personally impacted—“Blanche would have done considerable damage to Lucille’s business. That really would have been a personal attack. How else should Lucille have seen it?”
This time he was clearly taking a side.
They were silent for a while.
Dupin changed the subject again: “Are you in any way involved in your partner’s business affairs? Or is she in yours?”
Dupin’s cell phone beeped.
A text message from Commissaire Huppert.
Telephone conference, urgent. 3 o’clock.
Dupin glanced at the clock: 2:25. At three he would be in the car, on his way to see Flore Briard. So that was easy—and there’d be time for a petit café on the quay, too.
He gestured for Braz to continue.
“No, not at all. Lucille would never want that. And neither would I.” In a quieter voice, he added: “Five years ago, she lent me some money. One hundred and fifty thousand euros. To expand my business. I paid it back to her in full at the end of last year. I was earning two hundred and fifty thousand myself, I used to be an interior designer—an architect, strictly speaking. It was going well. And”—for the first time, there was a hint of a smile—“it’s going well now too. The rum business, I mean.”
“And each of you has their own house?”
“Yes. This one belongs to me. Lucille lives around two hundred meters away in her own. We—we’re both very independent people.” This was clearly important to him. “I designed Lucille’s cheese shop in Rue de l’Orme. And her restaurant after the renovations three years ago. She paid me, of course.”
Braz seemed to value transparency.
“Madame Trouin’s cheese business—how big is it intended to be? Does she want to expand?”
“She wants to gradually open shops all across Brittany, eight or nine. Including another around here, bigger than the one in Rue de l’Orme.”
The plan was proof of Lucille Trouin’s ambitious nature.
“How far along are the plans?”
He hesitated. “I think she wanted to start next year.”
“We know there was a dispute over the father’s recipes.” Dupin needed to escalate the conversation a little.
“You can say that again.” Braz took a deep breath in; it was clearly an emotional topic. “I don’t think Lucille will ever get over it. She wrote Blanche a letter at the start of the year, demanding that she share the recipe collection with her at long last.”
“How would you explain its enormous significance?”
“Purely emotional. Psychological. There’s no miracle recipe in there. They’re the father’s legacy, his craft. The symbolic passing of the baton, in a way. Whichever of the two sisters has them, also holds his approval. The grotesque thing is: Lucille wouldn’t even have been able to get them, because their father had already passed when she properly started cooking. I think”—he stood up from the armchair—“the recipes also played a significant role in the start-up phase of Blanche’s restaurant, which was initially in Saint-Malo: they helped her swiftly establish herself with the locals, because her father and his cooking were so popular. I mean, it was a heartwarming story, for the press too.”
“So the recipes were still a source of inspiration to Blanche Trouin?”
“I couldn’t say. I think the significance of the recipes lies elsewhere.”
Dupin walked up to Charles Braz and paused right in front of him. He locked his eyes on his. “It must have been strange for you that your partner and the brother of Blanche’s husband were once together, given how complicated things were between the sisters?”
Braz showed no particular reaction. “That’s all a long time ago now. They went to school together. I personally never had contact with Joe Morel.” His tone made it clear that for him, there was nothing more to say.
“Were Blanche and Joe close even back then?”
“They were, yes.”
“Then it must’ve been very difficult for Blanche.”
Braz’s gaze darkened. “Yes. I think it must’ve been quite intense for her back then. She can only have seen it as Lucille intentionally interfering in her life. A perfidious attempt to take something away from her. Blanche wanted her husband to exercise influence on his brother, which he tried to. But in vain.”
Braz and Dupin were still standing opposite each other.
“Are your partner and Joe Morel still in contact?”
“No.”
If that was the truth, the story really might be of no significance. But either way: Dupin needed to bring the conversation to a close, especially if he wanted to grab a quick coffee before the next appointment.
“I … I think, Monsieur le Commissaire, that…” Braz seemed uneasy all of a sudden, speaking hesitantly. “There’s something else I should tell you.” For a moment, even he himself seemed a little shocked. “Lucille wouldn’t agree, I’m sure, but I think I’m obligated to share it with you.”
He took a deep breath.
“I should have told your colleague yesterday, but I was so overwhelmed at the time. And I didn’t see any connection—I still don’t, for that matter, but…”
“Just tell me.”
“Last week, Lucille told me over dinner that she might have a problem. A financial one.”
“In what sense?”
“She didn’t explain.”
“She didn’t tell you anything else? Just that?”
It was hard to believe.
“That’s how it sometimes is with her. As I said, she doesn’t find it easy to open up. She wants to solve her problems by herself, that’s important to her. And I can understand that.”
“She didn’t say another word about it?”
“No.”
“When was this?”
“Wednesday evening.”
Five days before she murdered her sister.
Dupin turned away. He began to pace up and down the room again.
As interesting as this piece of information was, it wouldn’t get them any further right now.
“What about their aunt?” The last point Dupin had noted down. “Do you know her?”
“Lucille took me with her on a visit once, the year before last. She was already very confused back then. And eccentric. If it weren’t for her housekeeper, she would have been in a home long before now.”
“The property in Rothéneuf must be worth several million. Will Lucille inherit it?”
“She won’t inherit anything. Blanche wouldn’t have either. It will all go to the aunt’s younger sister, who lives in Canada with her three children and numerous grandchildren, in Québec. Until a few years ago, the aunt visited her there every summer. Lucille and Blanche have never met her. Commissaire Huppert already asked me about a possible inheritance yesterday.”
Which, of course, explained why the commissaire hadn’t even mentioned that point to them; the potential motive had evaporated.
“Okay, Monsieur Braz. That’s it for now. Thank you. That was all incredibly useful information.” Dupin had spoken with a strange emphasis, as though Braz had said more than he’d wanted to.
“Gladly, Monsieur le Commissaire. I really hope you”—Braz seemed unsure what words he should choose—“can solve the case soon.”
Dupin left the room. Braz accompanied him.
They reached the apartment door.
“We’ll be in touch again soon. And call if something else comes to mind. No matter what it is.”
Dupin was en route south, toward the tidal power plant whose dam connected Saint-Malo and Dinard, and which he had already driven across twice today.
It was exactly 3:02 when he dialed in to the telephone conference from his car. He had drunk two petit cafés standing—they were bitterly necessary. Despite the absurd circumstances in which this investigation had come about, Dupin felt that special feverish mood taking hold of him, the one he always went into during a case.
“Finally.” Huppert picked up at once. “Commissaire Nedellec has already dialed in. I’m in a hurry. Lucille Trouin is almost bankrupt.”
“What?” Dupin blurted out.
“I’ve spoken with her bank, the mayor, the municipal property office, and a real estate agent. Lucille Trouin has bought a huge plot of land near Rothéneuf. From the city council. Around two hundred and fifty by two hundred meters. Right on the ocean, near Le Bénétin—a restaurant on the shore. She was planning to set up a kind of flagship store for Breton cheese there. As well as a restaurant. All strictly ecological, sustainable, powered solely by regenerative energy. A project only very few people knew about. She had the initial, confidential conversations in the middle of last year. The plot wasn’t actually intended for construction purposes, but the mayor was still very interested, because the city’s really keen on environmentally aware projects. And sustainable tourism. At the start of the year, she was given the green light during a discreet preliminary survey, that’s when she bought the land.” Huppert raced through her report. “One point one million euros. She put up five hundred thousand euros of capital herself, by borrowing against her house. And she took out two large loans totaling over six hundred thousand. For the construction, she took out another five hundred thousand euros. She already had a renowned architect in mind. Her restaurant is only rented, by the way.”
Huppert paused briefly.
“But then, four weeks ago, a report by the environmental agency arrived at the municipal property office. Apparently, an extremely rare roseate tern is nesting on the land. That makes the entire project obsolete. She’s got no chance. But the land is already hers. A piece of land in the most beautiful of locations, and she can’t do a thing with it. It’s essentially worthless. And it gets worse: the bank is now pushing for a swift repayment, because the conditions of the loan haven’t been fulfilled. The city had expressly drawn Lucille Trouin’s attention to the outstanding ecological report beforehand, but it seemed she ignored it.”
“Interesting,” Nedellec commented drily.
“The first breakthrough.” Dupin meant it in earnest. This was more than interesting.
And the new information fit perfectly with what Charles Braz had just told him. Above all, it gave them—possibly—something very important: the urgent, acute element that had until now been missing. A potential reason for the sudden drama. In summary, it meant that Lucille’s livelihood was under threat; for her, as things looked, everything was on the line. Which brought another possible motive into play—beyond only the competition between the sisters.
“I’ve just come from Charles Braz’s place. Lucille told him about a financial problem last week, but left it vague. That’s what he says, at least. It’s likely she could have been talking about this.”
“Is that really believable, Dupin?” Nedellec muttered. “His long-term life partner goes bankrupt and doesn’t say a word? Did he know about the land and the project?”
“Apparently not. He only mentioned her idea of opening a second, large cheese shop in the area and several additional shops in other cities around Brittany. But he didn’t seem to know the details.”
“Seems to me like he’s lying through his teeth,” remarked Nedellec.
“Only Lucille could tell us for sure,” Huppert said.
“I’ll speak to him again.” Both were conceivable: that Braz really didn’t know anything—and that he had lied.
“How do you know the loss is bankrupting Lucille?” Nedellec pressed deeper. “Maybe she has savings?”
“As I said, I spoke with her bank. I know the manager there. The situation will most likely ruin her. A situation like this can push people to do almost anything.”
“But how could murdering her own sister solve the problem? How could that have given Lucille access to a large sum of money?” Dupin pondered out loud.
Huppert was still calm. “We’ll see. I also have some intel on the financial circumstances of Blanche Trouin and her husband. Everything looks very stable there. Significant assets, amounting to over half a million. The house and restaurant are already paid off.”
“Dupin’s right,” Nedellec agreed. “As her murderer, she wouldn’t be able to get the inheritance anyway.”
“She wouldn’t have inherited from her sister in any case. That’s crystal clear from the paperwork. Everything went to Blanche’s husband,” said Huppert. “And the aunt’s leaving everything to her younger sister in Canada.”
The latter piece of information corresponded with what Dupin had heard from Charles Braz.
“Then that finally brings us to my point.” Nedellec had become impatient. “The former relationship between Joe Morel and Lucille Trouin.”
Dupin had now driven up onto the road that crossed the dam.
“What kind of scenario could make something from so long ago an issue again?” asked Huppert coolly.
“Blanche Trouin must have seen it as an immense betrayal back then. As a provocation, an intentional attack. Just think about their dynamic of jealousy and rivalry.”
“I can believe that,” persisted Huppert, “but it would only be relevant today if they’d gotten back together again. I mean, it’s clear Lucille didn’t manage to destroy the friendship between Blanche and Morel, if that was even her intention. Dupin, you were just with Braz, what did he have to say on that?”
“It was dramatic, he said. But he doesn’t see any significance for the here and now. According to him, Lucille and Joe Morel aren’t even in touch anymore.”
“See, Nedellec, there you have it.”
“And since when do we believe a suspect’s statement without questioning it?”
A good point. There was a brief combative pause.
“You’re right,” Huppert conceded. “It’s good we know about it. I’ve got another call with the mayor now, so let’s talk more later. I suggest we meet at six o’clock. Our report to the prefects is scheduled for seven-thirty, so that’ll give us time to synchronize our thoughts.”
“And where are we meeting?” Nedellec didn’t seem reconciled yet.
“I have some things to do in Dinard after this. How about we meet in the Restaurant du Petit Port,” Huppert suggested. “You’ll find the address online.”
“Sounds good.” This fit perfectly with Dupin’s plans.
“By the way,” groused Nedellec, “I haven’t been able to reach Blanche Trouin’s friend, the antiques dealer.”
His announcement didn’t receive a response.
“In Petit Port then, at six o’clock,” repeated Huppert. “Then we’ll discuss all the other things too.” She ended the call.
Dupin had almost reached the other side of the dam; to his right was the sea, the bay between the two cities, and to the left, an unhurried riverscape. Dupin estimated the width of the Rance here at one kilometer.
Just a few weeks ago he had read an article—in connection with the climate debate—about the pioneering tidal power plant and its revolutionary use of the Atlantic energetic forces. Built in 1966, it was the first of its kind in the world and capable of supplying up to 350,000 inhabitants with green energy. Thanks to the immense tidal differences, gigantic masses of water flowed through the dam’s turbines twice daily, an awe-inspiring idea.
The black cloud behemoths in the sky had disappeared as swiftly as they’d appeared. There wasn’t a single cloud in sight now, just brilliant blue—and it was an azure that seemed to intensify more and more. The erratic shifts in the weather seemed even more extreme up here than down in southern Finistère.
Dupin pulled out his phone and placed a call.
“Monsieur Braz?”
“Yes?”
Dupin could hear engine sounds, indicating that Charles Braz was also in his car.
“Commissaire Dupin here. I find it hard to believe”—he came straight to the point—“that you had no knowledge about the purchase of the land in Rothéneuf at the beginning of this year.”
“The what?”
“I think you know what I’m talking about.”
“No, absolutely not.”
“I don’t believe you, Monsieur Braz.”
“But that’s how it is, Monsieur le Commissaire.” A despairing insistence.
“Your—”
Dupin braked sharply. A traffic jam had appeared on the last few meters of the dam. He couldn’t believe it—it was the same stretch they had driven just this morning, and again he saw the convoy of classic cars in front of him. He came to a standstill just a few centimeters behind a Citroën Traction Avant Cabriolet. The passengers in the back seat, two elderly ladies, turned and gave him a cheerful wave. A sticker on the protruding tailgate declared: “Ninety years of automobile history.”
Dupin pulled himself together and returned to the matter at hand: “Your partner spent one point one million euros on a plot of land where she intended to set up a large cheese store and a second restaurant. A massive project—and she told you nothing about it?”
“I swear she didn’t.”
Braz sounded heavyhearted; Dupin could hear it. It was sad.
“And she also didn’t tell you that she’s learned it can’t be built on and that she now owns practically worthless land, for which she had taken out two loans?”
For a while, only muffled engine and traffic noise could be heard.
“I told you that Lucille was planning to expand the cheese business. The—”
“Your partner is facing bankruptcy. That’s what this is about, not the cheese business.”
Dupin had turned right beyond the dam and was already in Dinard, recognizable by the quantity of villas and parks.
“We—Lucille and I…” Braz spoke in a deflated tone; it was difficult to even hear what he was saying. “We’ve had a few difficulties over the past year. In our relationship. And recently, we—took a break. Perhaps there are a lot of things I don’t know. Even—important things.”
“Was this break Madame Trouin’s idea? Was she the one who wasn’t … content with the relationship?” Dupin spoke more gently now.
“Yes.” Again he sounded miserable. “But she couldn’t tell me why. Or—she didn’t want to.”
“Had you properly separated?”
“No. We hadn’t. But since then, we’ve seen each other only very occasionally. Everything is up in the air. She said she needs time.”
Those fatal words.
Evidently a lot had been happening in Lucille Trouin’s life recently. And it was vital to get a clear picture of it. It always was—for the sake of what a famous commissaire had once called the “atmosphere of the crime.” Dupin was convinced that feeling this out was the most important work during an investigation. You had to develop a sense of the key figures in the drama.
“Okay, Monsieur Braz. We’ll be in touch. Are you on your way to see Lucille?”
“I’m nearly there.”
“Call me straight after the visit, okay?”
“Of course.”
Dupin drove slowly; everything here was a thirty-kilometer-per-hour limit. He followed the GPS, according to which he should be there in three minutes. Just after he had turned off onto Avenue George V, the row of houses opened up, revealing a view of the sea. You could see the gorgeous bay between Saint-Malo and Dinard. Less than two kilometers divided the two cities; now it was Saint-Servan that lay directly across. Dupin spotted the quay, the tower, the harbor where he had just been, the imposing church on the right.
A little farther toward the open sea was the impressive Ville Close of Saint-Malo, defiantly enthroned on the island with her mighty ramparts. He saw the pier where the tourists had been caught out by the Atlantic breakers the day before. To the right of the large harbor, you could see the ferries that took people to Guernsey and Jersey—it was only around fifty kilometers to British territory. The most exquisite view of Saint-Malo was said to be from Dinard, more impressive than from anywhere else. Dupin now knew that this was true.
The perfectly sheltered, placid bay stretched out toward Saint-Malo, and its shore was the location of the most magnificent, well-known villas of Dinard. The wind had disappeared along with the clouds, and the sea was now nothing but a gentle ripple. The shallow depth and sandy seabed gave the water a bright, particularly beautiful emerald tone. There were easily a hundred boats moored in the bay. A sea of boats, wildly scattered dabs of white all the way across to Saint-Malo. Lots of green, copses and meadows directly bordering on the bay. Majestic sea pines. Dupin had rolled down the window: he could hear the lapping of the sea, boats shunting lethargically against jetties from time to time, the tinkling of the bells on the masts of the sailboats. A comforting tapestry of sounds, ideal for languorous days. Dinard possessed a legendary beauty and elegance.
Dupin turned off, the steeply ascending streets becoming increasingly narrow and winding, the ambience even more atmospheric and grand. He drove across a daringly small bridge. The Rue Coppinger led up to the Pointe du Moulinet, the last part of a rocky spit of land, which Dupin estimated as being a hundred meters above sea level—as though nature had thought to create a lookout point at this already perfect spot.
Flore Briard’s villa had to be somewhere around here. La Garde. All the villas here were named. Dupin drove at a walking pace, and a small park with an unostentatious, half-height wooden gate appeared on the left. “Privé.”
Dupin came to a halt, turned off the engine, and got out.
On the other side of the road there was a dizzying drop, a phenomenal view of Dinard and the famous Plage de l’Écluse, a far-reaching city beach with a picture-postcard promenade. Opposite, at the other end of the bay, was another craggy spit, and again: magnificent villas on beautiful plots of land. Rich families from everywhere around—particularly from the capital—spent their summers here. Even in Dupin’s bourgeois Parisian family there had once been a villa in Dinard, belonging to his mother’s brother. But because the two siblings didn’t particularly get on, the Dupins had, out of principle, spent their holidays not in Dinard, but in Normandy’s Honfleur, another glamorous holiday destination for Parisians.
Dupin was just striding toward the gate when his cell phone rang.
A local number.
“Yes?”
“Good afternoon, Monsieur le Commissaire, I’m an employee of Flore Briard. I’m to tell you that unfortunately she won’t be available until five o’clock. She sends her sincere apologies.”
“Oh, okay.”
There was little point in getting annoyed.
“Thank you. Au revoir, monsieur.”
She had already hung up, evidently just as busy as her boss.
Dupin had paused in his tracks.
An idea had just occurred to him. An idea of what he could do with his sudden free time. He searched for something on his cell phone. Le Désir. Blanche Trouin’s restaurant in Dinard. Dupin would take a look at it. Just to see how it looked. It had certainly been a key location in both the victims’ lives.
There it was: Rue du Maréchal Leclerc. Perhaps ten minutes on foot; probably it was easier to leave the car here than look for a parking place by the restaurant. And the walk would do him good. As would another café. During an investigation—this was of vital importance—you had to make use of every opportunity that presented itself. On the way here, Dupin had seen a café that seemed just to his taste.
It was a good idea. And it would give him the opportunity to think. He set off, smiling.
The renewed ringing of his cell phone brought the smile to an abrupt end.
Riwal. He was clearly planning to be in touch regularly.
“Boss!”
“Yes, Riwal, what is it?”
Dupin made his way down a few incredibly steep steps. He wanted to take the path directly by the sea.
“Trouin—do you know where the name comes from?” A rhetorical question, for the inspector continued immediately. “From one of the most famous Malouin corsairs: René Duguay-Trouin. A naval officer, son of a wealthy shipowner. His heroic deeds played out in the late 1600s and early 1700s. He was most famous for conquering Rio de Janeiro, where he captured sixty trade ships, three liners, two frigates, over six hundred thousand cruzados, and other treasures.”
Nedellec had commented on the name connection, too, but Dupin had immediately forgotten again. The historian had mentioned it during the city tour.
“Are you saying the two sisters are descendants of this pirate?”
“Corsair, boss! But yes: I read in an old article about the sisters that the lineage of their father, Georges Trouin, probably does go back to the legendary corsair. It’s not all that long ago, really.”
There it was again: the unusual Breton time reckoning. The past was always very close, regardless of how far back it lay. More precisely: the past was always present.
“And even if that’s the case—how would it help us?”
“I just thought you should know, boss.”
“Good. Okay.” Dupin’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“Where are you at the moment?”
“In Dinard.”
“Oh, wonderful. The pearl of the Emerald Coast, the Nice of the North, the Queen of the Beaches … Dinard was the first genuine beach resort in Brittany, France—and the world. It all happened there first—Dinard was the epitome of chic vacationing as early as the mid-nineteenth century. Although one has to admit that the English played an important role there in the beginning … You can tell from the style of the villas, around five hundred of them, mostly neo-Gothic, with English verandas and sash windows. Rich and prominent people rendezvoused there, numerous artists. Victor Hugo, and Edmond Rostand, who wrote Cyrano de Bergerac there. Picasso painted his lovers on the beach. You must remember to walk across one of the most famous promenades in the world, the Promenade du Clair de Lune, the moonlight promenade. You feel like you’re in a botanical garden full of exotic plants. It has the perfect Mediterranean atmosphere, boss. Palms, Atlas cedars, eucalyptus and weeping willows, flowerbeds in all their fantastic, vibrant glory. Agapanthus everywhere you look, with white, blue, and lilac blossoms.”
If Dupin wasn’t mistaken, he was walking along the promenade in question as they spoke. Right on the sea, four or five meters wide, lined by a strip of bountiful flora. He had to agree with Riwal: it was an exotic paradise. But this wasn’t the moment for a lighthearted stroll.
“Riwal, I have to go.”
“Get in touch if we can help, boss.”
“Will do.”
Dupin had no problems finding the café again. Le Mouillage.
Everything in it was just to his taste—simple and genuine. He could happily sit here every morning and every evening. Against the wall behind the entrance lay typical boating equipment, alongside piled-up bright green Heineken pallets, an entire phalanx. An old wooden surfboard, a panoramic sketch of the Côte d’Émeraude. A few standing tables with bar stools. Everything had a maritime feel.
There were tables on one side, and on the other, the bar with a counter, where two customers stood. A shelf with well-thumbed books, and affixed to the wall were miniature boats, old posters, large shells, an oar. Behind the bar, bottles in all colors, drinks from all over the world. The most extraordinary element, though, was the glass-roofed terrace at the far end of the space. And its phenomenal view of the bay.
Dupin had sat down in the corner and ordered a café, which was brought to him in next to no time. By the chef himself, to whom Dupin took an instant liking; three-day stubble, blue T-shirt, blue cap. Dupin had pulled out his Clairefontaine and was making notes.
“Hey, you’re the commissaire from Finistère—one of the ‘furious three.’” Two women who were sitting next to him, one younger and one older, smiled at him warmly.
“Investigating in Dinard, you got lucky there! You must be here to meet with Flore Briard,” said the older of the two.
Dupin was impressed that she’d guessed correctly on the first attempt.
The younger woman joined in.
“Blanche’s death, and her husband’s—it’s a great loss for the city. They contributed so much to its allure. Gastronomy’s very important here, along the entire coast. Even our chief of police used to be a chef.”
Dupin noted a similarity in the women’s features; presumably they were mother and daughter.
“Blanche moved her restaurant from Saint-Malo to Dinard fifteen years ago. After her younger sister opened hers in Saint-Malo.” The message behind the feisty older woman’s words was clear: Blanche Trouin had made the right decision—of course a person should go to Dinard if they could. “Blanche lived here in the beginning too. They moved out just four years ago.”
It was an interesting acquaintance for Dupin to make; well-informed locals were always invaluable for an investigation.
The younger woman took over: “Saint-Malo and the east are more Lucille’s territory—Dinard and the west, Blanche’s.”
“The rivalry between the two cities isn’t anywhere near as bad as the sisters’,” the older woman remarked. “But it does exist. It always has. The two places are very different.”
“In what way?” Dupin drank his café.
“People from Dinard, like us, are warmhearted and cosmopolitan. Cheerful, easygoing, and high-spirited, perhaps even a bit lazy at times. La joie de vivre: that’s us. Elegant, but never snobby or arrogant.”
That matched the ambience of the city, Dupin felt: despite its noble old façade and grandeur, thanks to all its patina it never seemed pretentious or brash. He hadn’t realized, though, the enormous role that rivalries and differences seemed to play in this small space, the Côte d’Émeraude was no more than forty kilometers long. But really, he should have known better: the closer together people were physically, the more significant their differences became.
“Blanche Trouin fit in well here,” emphasized the older woman, “anyone can become a Dinardais if they share our values and ideas—but not a Malouin, you have to be born there. And your ancestors too.”
“Maman, it’s not like that anymore.” Dupin had guessed right, she was her daughter.
“Did you also know Blanche Trouin’s husband, Kilian Morel, personally?”
“Of course.” The mother seemed almost indignant. “Almost everyone here knew Kilian Morel, there’re only ten thousand inhabitants. An incredibly friendly, good-natured man. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly. It’s incomprehensible that he was the victim of a violent crime.”
“He was a very dedicated man,” continued the daughter. “Just like Bertrand Larcher, he was a real advocate for Breton buckwheat, which is massively under threat from industrial wheat. And Kilian was also hugely knowledgeable about wine.”
“So you would find it unlikely that he was in conflict with someone?”
Perhaps they shouldn’t entirely dismiss the scenario of two unrelated motives. But Dupin’s instinct was telling him otherwise.
“He wasn’t even capable of conflict. I’d say, that was his problem.” The mother was resolute.
“Could someone stand to profit from Kilian Morel’s death?”
“I can’t even imagine—who would that be? No one here, certainly.”
“Perhaps Charles Braz, Lucille’s partner? By setting up his own rum business, Morel had become his competitor.”
Dupin suddenly felt frustrated. Weren’t they thinking too small with all these scenarios? The rum element, in any case. At the moment it wasn’t much more than an unworthy prophecy.
“We can’t help you there. Other than to say the murderer would have his hands full around here, there are so many rum traders.”
“What about his brother? Joe Morel? Do you know anything about the relationship between the two of them?”
The daughter answered: “We don’t know the brother. He moved from Saint-Malo to Cancale. That’s—again—a completely different world. But I know he’s very well-liked there. His oyster bar is popular with the locals.”
“Objectively…” Dupin trailed off.
He had wanted to say: “Objectively, he stands to profit most from the two murders.” He hadn’t even spoken about this with Huppert and Nedellec yet; their conversation on Joe Morel had revolved almost entirely around the romance with Lucille. And yet this was far more relevant. Joe Morel was the one who was highly likely to inherit everything; the entire fortune of Blanche Trouin and Kilian Morel, his brother.
The older woman keenly spun an interesting end to the sibling story. “You mean, the sister kills the sister and then the brother’s brother?”
Dupin glanced at the time.
“It was lovely talking to you, mesdames. Thank you for the information.”
He got up and placed some change on the table.
“You’ve picked the right place, by the way. The fishermen come to this café to eat when they get in from the sea. That’s Dinard too! It’s not just villas. By the way, when you go to see Flore Briard, the incredible villa on the other side of the cape is up for sale. Sixteen million. You should factor in an additional ten million for the renovations, though.” The mother laughed; it sounded like a direct invitation to buy. “La Garde, Flore Briard’s villa, was built by Jean Hennessy, the Cognac King.”
“One more thing.” Dupin paused alongside their table. “Do you happen to know whether Flore Briard and Blanche Trouin were personally acquainted?”
“Definitely. They weren’t friends, of course, but they were always polite with each other. There’s not really any other way, we all get together quite regularly here. At openings, parties, gatherings. The two of them are engaged in lots of initiatives. I’m sure you’re aware that Flore Briard is an important person here in Dinard. Even though she’s—how should I put it—a little crazy, like her captivating late mother. Once Flore gets something in her head, it becomes an obsession. If you know what I mean.”
“Is she married? In a relationship?” Dupin knew practically nothing about Madame Briard so far.
“Oh no. Her father left her mother just after Flore was born, for a younger woman, the classic tale. It had a lasting impact on her. There are lovers, of course, but not serious relationships.”
Dupin began to make a move.
“Many thanks again.”
“We hope you solve the case soon, Monsieur le Commissaire. None of this is particularly pleasant for Dinard.”
“All the best, Monsieur le Commissaire,” said the daughter.
Dupin stepped out on the street.
He generally had an excellent sense of direction, and would have no problems finding Blanche’s restaurant.
Less than five minutes later, he had to admit that he’d taken a wrong turn. He had walked along the Rue Jacques Cartier, which was actually very simple, because it intersected with the Rue du Maréchal Leclerc. But he must have missed it. The smartest thing would be to check the map on his cell phone, which, as a rule, he strictly refrained from.
The town center, with its boutiques and shops, had a completely different atmosphere than that of the villa region. Here, little houses lined the streets—sweet, pretty houses, mostly with just one floor, occasionally with two, and predominantly made of wood, a style he hadn’t seen before in Brittany. It reminded him a little of America’s East Coast, of Maine, Vermont, Connecticut.
Surely he would find it soon. And he did.
Le Désir. Blanche Trouin’s restaurant was also a beautiful old house, built around a corner; upstairs, a roof terrace with a brick balustrade. Next to the restaurant was a garden with an enchanting wooden veranda. Behind it, an annex that seemed to belong to the restaurant. The restaurant’s wooden façade was painted dark blue. The windows were large. From inside, the customers could watch the hustle and bustle out on the street.
On the entrance door hung a somber-sounding handwritten note, fastened from the inside with sticky tape: “Closed. Reopening unforeseeable. Thank you for your loyalty. Your Le Désir team.” Above that, the restaurant’s pride and joy, and its most effective advertising: the red Michelin star with the white border on a red background. In actual fact, it was shaped more like a small flower.
Dupin went up to the veranda. Here, as suspected, there was a second entrance to the restaurant. And one to the annex.
Dupin knocked loudly on both doors.
“Commissaire Dupin here. Is anyone there?”
No reaction.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
Dupin was just turning around when he heard movement inside.
“Coming!” called a voice.
The door to the restaurant opened. A young, decisively sad-looking man stood in front of him.
“How can I help you?”
“Commissaire Georges Dupin. And you are?”
“François Belfort. Chef de service. I just wanted to check on things. Take away any perishable food.”
“I’d like to take a look in the restaurant.”
“Of course.” The man stepped to the side. “Come in, I’ll show you the place.”
They were standing in a small stairwell. To the right, wooden stairs led up to the first floor.
“What’s upstairs?”
“A staff room and staff toilet, as well as a private space for the Trouins. The door’s locked; the police took the key.”
The forensic team had been here yesterday.
They crossed a large, impressive kitchen and reached the dining room. The blue of the wooden façade and shutters was echoed in the tablecloths. The walls were painted white, the chairs and tables natural wood. On the walls were white sideboards at hip height. Blue and white, the classic maritime color scheme. Potted plants stood on narrow wooden benches between the tables. The chef de service followed Dupin’s gaze.
“Those are fresh herbs. Blanche’s world. Local varieties, but lots of exotic ones too, from the most far-flung corners of the Earth. We alternate them according to the season and focus of the menu. The guests are free to help themselves.”
The big, beautiful room looked sad, empty like this; restaurants needed life, people, lively conversation, a buoyant mayhem. Standing here, the brutality of what had occurred felt particularly stark: an entire world had been erased, the two people who had filled this place with life and love, who had given other people a moment of happiness. In times like these, you could feel the tragedy more intensely than in objectively more dramatic contexts like the crime scene itself. There, it was often abstract. Here one felt the unfathomable emptiness.
Dupin looked around for a while, then glanced at the clock. It was 4:51. He had to go. He didn’t have much time for his conversation with Flore Briard as it was. And he could come back here later, if he needed. But actually, he had already seen everything.
The gate opened as though by an invisible hand, soundlessly, smoothly. The commissaire was greeted by a large garden, a discreet gravel path, shrubbery, yellow flowers. Everything was well tended, but not fastidiously arranged.
At the end of the trees, the magnificent villa came into view: La Garde. Majestic, neo-gothic like most of the others here on the coast, but a lighter, friendlier variation. Pale gray granite at the corners of the building and around the generous windows, individual red-hued bricks giving lively accents here and there. Six pointed gables above the main entrance, and beneath it a dark wooden veranda.
Dupin was impressed. He’d seen dozens of villas in passing from the car, but this one put all the others in the shade. It looked more like an enchanted castle, with the promise of endless nooks and crannies.
He rang the bell.
A bright “Just a moment!” came out of the intercom system.
He waited awhile, then the immense door opened.
Flore Briard stood before him. Pretty. Very pretty. Blond, her hair loosely pinned up with a black stick, a few strands falling into her face. A loose, short dress in a reddish-violet shade. For Dupin’s taste, she was a little too heavily made up.
“Here I am! How much time do you have, Commissaire?”
“It’s just a few questions, Madame Briard.”
“Good. Then we’ve got time for a short tour.” She spoke at roughly the same speed as Commissaire Huppert, albeit without her matter-of-factness; Briard’s voice was full of melody and emotion, but not affected.
Dupin wasn’t really in the mood for a house tour, but he was keen to find out what kind of person she was.
“Et voilà: my reception hall.”
Dupin stepped in. He had never seen anything like it, not even in the houses of his upper-class Parisian mother’s aristocratic friends. The space was reminiscent of a church. It was enormous. Around twenty meters long, certainly fifteen meters high, the open ceiling decorated with wooden beams and greenish-blue patterns. Parquet flooring. On the walls, a bright wallpaper with subtle silvery-white ornamentation. Wooden columns with golden light fixtures gleaming from them.
The building’s former owner, Hennessy, as Dupin now knew, must have given the architect one sole instruction: maximum grandeur, maximum expense. And yet the space itself was almost empty: a few classical-modern leather armchairs, a matching side table, black like the leather. In a corner was a historic elevator with a half-height wrought-iron cage, inside which was a masterfully made wooden cabin, a priceless ornament.
“It’s dreadful.”
All at once, Flore Briard seemed deeply shaken and upset.
“It still hasn’t sunk in. She’s my best friend. And she stabbed her sister. Why isn’t she talking? What’s happened to Lucille, do you think? Have you discovered anything that could somehow explain it? I just can’t believe it.”
“But it did happen. As did the murder of Kilian Morel.”
Flore Briard led Dupin through a small lobby, then along a hallway into a living room, which once again took his breath away. At least ninety square meters, Persian rugs on an old parquet floor, sparsely distributed antique furniture. Stucco ceiling, a stately chandelier. In the middle of the space was a gigantic wooden table, with a gray cat sitting on it, cleaning itself meticulously, surrounded by eight throne-like upholstered chairs.
Flore Briard paused in the middle of the room. “This is where I live during the warmer months. Here, on the terrace, and in the garden.” She went over to the terrace door. Dupin followed her.
One entire side of the room consisted of panoramic windows. Seldom was the expression as fitting as here: it gave the feeling of living outdoors in the open air. Strangely, the room felt quite understated despite its splendor; it possessed a striking elegance, the opposite of gaudy.
“I knew Blanche’s husband too, of course.” Flore Briard picked back up on Dupin’s statement. “Even though he belonged to the other camp. Yes, there was the Lucille camp and the Blanche camp. Naturally there were people who socialized with both, because they weren’t close friends with them. I’m in Lucille’s camp, of course. We’re very close, and she means a lot to me. Even now, nothing will ever change that. Something very extreme must have been going on for her.”
“And you don’t have the slightest idea what that might be, madame?”
She stepped out onto the covered terrace. “Et voilà! The legendary bay between Dinard and Saint-Malo.”
Simple furniture made of wood and cast iron stood on the gorgeous mosaic floor. Steps led down into the garden, which on this side consisted only of a few meters of grass, before, beyond a balustrade, it descended steeply toward the sea. The view was spectacular, even more captivating than the one from the moonlight promenade. And you didn’t just see the bay, but far out onto the open sea. An endless, emerald expanse that seemed to push the horizon farther and farther away. A blue-and-white passenger ship was sailing through the bay, ferrying people between the two cities.
“No, I don’t have the slightest idea.” Flore Briard had stepped over to the railing, and came back to Dupin’s question. “It’s devastating. And completely unreal.”
Dupin steered the conversation toward the most pressing subject. “What about your friend’s financial ruin, the fatal land purchase—could it be related to that?”
“How would killing her sister in broad daylight solve her money problems?” asked Briard thoughtfully. “And why would someone kill Blanche’s husband over that?”
A disarming counter-question, Dupin had to admit. But now it was clear: she knew about the financial debacle.
“Lucille was completely done in by the land thing, even though she tried not to let it show.”
“And when I asked you just now if you knew what might be behind this—you didn’t think to mention it?”
Dupin had come to stand next to her at the railing.
“Where do you see the possible connection?” she asked.
“When did she tell you about it?”
“On—”
Dupin’s cell phone beeped, yet another text message.
“Sorry.”
He pulled it out of his back pocket.
Nedellec. More news! I’ll report back later.
Why didn’t he just say what it was? Frowning, Dupin put his phone away again.
“She told me last Tuesday,” Flore Briard continued. “We went for dinner in the evening. She’d found out about the nesting place on the property a good while before.”
“She didn’t tell her partner about it.”
Flore smiled.
“He’s no longer her partner. It’s over. That whole story is done.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Even if Lucille maybe hasn’t formulated it conclusively to herself and to him. Things haven’t been right between them for a long time.”
“How long?”
“A year for sure.”
Dupin made a note.
“What was wrong?”
“He’s a weak person.” Her tone sounded more regretful than disdainful. “And that constantly annoyed Lucille, it always had. It couldn’t work long-term, even though he has lots of great qualities. She just didn’t love him anymore. Then there’s the fact that he wanted a family and she didn’t. Do you need more reasons? I offered to lend Lucille money, by the way. To get her out of the whole mess.”
A surprising piece of information.
Dupin could feel the blazing sun on his head. And up here, there was no breeze. It had gotten really hot. He wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead.
“And?”
“She doesn’t want money from me. Under any circumstances, she said. We’ll see. This annoyance won’t be her downfall. Anyway, she has other concerns right now.”
Of course, the sums that were pushing her friend into financial ruin wouldn’t even cause a rich heiress like Flore Briard to break a sweat. And you could see that just by looking at her.
“Come with me, Commissaire.” Flore walked a little way into the garden behind the villa. “There, look.”
There were two pretty, small stone houses attached to the main villa.
“I live in the front one during the winter. There’s zero chance of getting the villa even moderately heated—impossible! Some of the staff used to live in these little houses. There used to be another villa over there, which blocked the view of the bay. Hennessy bought it back then just so he could have it torn down.”
Dupin nodded vaguely. He was lost in thought.
“But he had a villa built closer to the street for his lover. Who later became his wife.”
Slowly she made her way toward the stone steps that led back to the terrace. White, lush rhododendrons grew to the left and right.
“Where were you this morning, Madame Briard? Between seven thirty and nine thirty?”
Without intending to, Dupin had sounded brusque.
“I was on my boat, from seven. The Épée du Roy. She’s moored here in Dinard. We had the celebratory sail to open the summer season last night. I presume you know about my enterprise.”
“The trip happened despite the—events?”
“It was important.” Her tone made it clear she had never even considered canceling. “It’s my business, even though the menus are by Lucille’s sous-chef.”
“Was anyone else with you on the boat this morning?”
“I was alone until shortly after eleven. Then two of my employees joined me.”
Which meant that Flore Briard, too, had no alibi for this morning.
“Speaking of the sous-chef, Madame Briard, what’s your take on that? I mean, it affects you too.”
Did she know about it?
She threw him a questioning glance, then went toward the living room.
“I have no idea what you mean,” she responded curtly.
“Blanche Trouin had lured her sister’s sous-chef away. Clément had already signed the contract.”
“Excuse me?”
She seemed shocked. Or was acting it well.
“Yes, he would soon have been working for Blanche. And, as a result, no longer creating menus for you.” That was what Dupin assumed, at least. Clément would have become part of the Blanche camp.
Briard seemed really wrought-up now. “When did Lucille find out about this?”
By now they had almost crossed the living room.
“We don’t know for sure whether she had. Would she have told you, do you think?”
“Absolutely. Like you say: it involves me too. Look, Commissaire,” she made no attempt to hide her outrage, “that’s malicious. Really malicious. Of course, Clément is a sensational talent—but there are others out there. Blanche could have gotten anyone for her restaurant. And whom does she pick? Lucille’s chef. It could only have been intended to hurt her.”
They had turned in to the hallway.
“How long have you known Lucille Trouin, by the way?”
“Since primary school. We were always close friends, almost all our lives.”
“So did you, Joe Morel, and Lucille Trouin all go to the same school?”
“Yes, and so did Kilian—albeit in different classes. Only Blanche was at a different school.”
Gradually, the image of all their interconnections was becoming clearer.
“And here you have my winter refuge.” Flore’s mood had shifted within a fraction of a second, her anger seemingly forgotten. She had led Dupin into a bright, moderately sized room, in which there was a bed, and next to it an ornate iron fireplace.
“On the colder winter days, I rarely leave this room. Luckily, there aren’t many of them.”
Dupin realized that they must be in one of the annexes. She had probably had a wall knocked through to interlink the spaces. It was odd: Flore Briard’s winter refuge amounted to a mere fraction of her “summer world.” Old framed maps hung on the walls, along with paintings and a large frame containing historic postcards, aerial photographs of the cape and villa, its unbelievably privileged position easily recognizable. Several small cabinets stood against the walls, their surfaces holding quaint knickknacks. Plates and figurines made of old porcelain, little dolls, shells, candlesticks, jewelry. Rings, a long chain.
“If you’ve known each other so long, you would have been around when Lucille Trouin got together with Joe Morel.”
Flore Briard led Dupin back out of her winter quarters.
“That was complicated, yes. Very, at times. Blanche was already married to Kilian and close friends with Joe. But it’s a long time ago. An entire decade.”
“Have Joe Morel and Lucille Trouin been in contact again recently?”
Flore blinked. She clearly knew what Dupin was getting at.
“Yes. To be honest, on several occasions I thought they might get back together. I teased Lucille about it. But no.” She seemed resolute now. “There’s nothing there.”
“So they were meeting up again? Since when? How often?”
“They ran into each other at the start of the year. Then they met up maybe two or three times after that, but just for dinner.”
This meant that either Charles Braz hadn’t been telling the truth, or he simply hadn’t known. Just like he apparently didn’t know much about Lucille Trouin’s life in general anymore.
“I would rule out an affair, Commissaire.” An unmistakable clarification.
They had come back into the living room. The tour had come to an end.
“Shall we sit down?”
She pointed toward a sofa and two upholstered armchairs.
“Thank you, but I have to go in a moment.” Dupin paused. “What are your thoughts on the father’s recipe collection? It clearly held considerable symbolic importance for the sisters. It seems that only this year Lucille made another attempt to convince Blanche to share it with her.”
“You’re very well informed. For Lucille that’s a wound that simply won’t heal. But I’m not sure how that would have come to a head now.”
Dupin was getting the definite feeling that with some topics—thoroughly interesting ones—they just weren’t making any progress.
“One last question: What was your relationship to Kilian Morel?”
Dupin had intentionally left it vague.
For the first time, Briard seemed lost for words. Dupin sensed she didn’t really want to talk about it.
“We’ve always had pleasant conversations when we saw each other.” She quickly got a grip of herself again. “He was a nice man. A little lethargic, but dependable, I think. Amiable.”
“Did you see him a lot?”
“No. And only ever by chance, at the market, in a café. Or at events. The usual chitchat.”
“When did you last see him?”
She thought for a moment. “I think at the closing evening for the comedy film festival at the end of April.”
“Not since then?”
“No.”
“Thank you again, Madame Briard. That was very interesting. I can see myself out.”
“Au revoir, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
Dupin crossed the living room, then the palatial reception hall. He paced swiftly out into the open air.
“Very well then.” Commissaire Huppert sounded exasperated.
They had been sitting together for forty minutes now.
The initial report had been confined to the facts, in accordance with Huppert’s suggestion that they “discuss things later.” Each of them had set out the research they had done since midday, whom they’d spoken with and what they’d found out, all the new information. In the process, it became clear how the commissaire saw their teamwork going forward: Nedellec and Dupin giving central authority to Huppert, the frantic detective, the person who would bring everything together, analyze, and, what’s more, carry out the especially important research beyond interviews with suspects. This didn’t bother Dupin, because he had never seen his role as commissaire like Huppert did hers—though, strictly speaking, she was the living embodiment of a commissaire’s job description. Dupin couldn’t help it: he needed to be out and about, talking to people; this was the last thing he would delegate.
The facts had also included the alibis. The results of their inquiries were sobering. No one had a solid alibi. Joe Morel had stayed at the oyster bar unusually late yesterday evening, for a private function, and they hadn’t managed to finish the cleaning up; according to his statement, this was why he’d been back in the bar by half past eight this morning. Alone. He didn’t know whether anyone had seen him. One of Huppert’s inspectors had spoken with the sous-chef: Clément—La Noblesse having reopened—had been at the market between seven and eight o’clock, which the inspector had been able to confirm with a few of the stall holders. Clément was last seen there at 7:50 A.M. After that he was in the restaurant kitchen alone, as usual, until around 9:50 A.M., when the other kitchen staff arrived. Although it would have been tight, he could technically have managed the “expedition.” Nedellec still hadn’t managed to reach Walig Richard, the antiques dealer.
By now they had Kilian Morel’s itemized phone records, but nothing on them stood out. The only repeated calls were three conversations between him and Walig Richard on Monday afternoon and evening. But after Blanche Trouin’s tragic death, that was easy to explain—after all, Richard was one of her best friends … Nedellec would ask the antiques dealer about it—when he finally got hold of him.
Dupin was the only one who had ordered something to eat—even though they were having dinner with the prefects afterward. His stomach was rumbling uncontrollably. Nedellec and Huppert just had coffee and water.
The Restaurant du Petit Port—the lettering of the sign on the façade was charmingly crooked—was fabulous. The location, the atmosphere. It was on one of the small streets that led down to the Promenade du Clair de Lune and the pleasure harbor and looked out over the palms on the promenade and bay. Now, toward evening, the colors were intensifying again, even the emerald green of the sea. If he were sitting here with Claire, it would be a perfect summer’s evening.
“So, which of all this is really important?” Huppert pressed.
“The thing with the recipes, certainly,” said Nedellec. “I really think it could be the key. The motive. And perhaps not only for Lucille’s murder of Blanche.”
Even if Nedellec was taking it quite far, Dupin felt he was on the trail of something potentially explosive. Nedellec had also discussed the recipes in his conversation with Joe Morel. Morel had told him that Blanche had been in contact with a well-known Parisian publisher, with whom she’d talked about the possibility of publishing a book. In the afternoon, Nedellec had called around to publishing houses until he’d eventually found the right one. A renowned cookbook publisher who had already commissioned a book with the father’s recipes—edited by Blanche Trouin, including an afterword and some of her own additional recipes. The project was evidently quite advanced, a copy of the material was in Paris. Blanche and the publisher had reached agreement on the important details a good month ago via email, and she would have soon received the contract.
“I’m sure this would have made Lucille furious,” Huppert acknowledged, “but it’s like with the sous-chef: we have no idea whether she even knew about it. If not, it’s irrelevant to us. And even if she did know, is it really enough reason to kill her own sister? Perhaps, at the most, as a catalyst for a crime of passion, if Lucille only found out about it yesterday. The drop that made the cup spill over. But how would that be connected to the murder of Kilian Morel? At the moment I can’t see a link. It has to be about something else.” She presented her objections in her usual matter-of-fact way, remaining completely calm. “But we should still definitely ask the publishing house to give us their correspondence with Blanche. The experts haven’t been able to crack the two victims’ passwords yet, neither for their cell phones nor their computers.”
“I’ve already asked for the email exchange”—Nedellec waved her request aside—“it’ll be with us today. But the publisher says there’s nothing in there we don’t already know. I think you’re completely underestimating the emotional dynamics at play here.”
“But the cookbook is irrelevant for Blanche’s murder anyway,” replied Huppert, unperturbed.
“Why? Kilian Morel might have let the book publication go ahead regardless.”
“But why would someone kill him over it? Just so that Lucille could get the original recipes?”
It really did sound absurd.
A loud, deep honking sounded out. A ship’s horn. Dupin spotted the blue-and-white ferry from earlier. It was back in Dinard.
“You mean Lucille incited someone to kill Kilian Morel?” Huppert seemed utterly unconvinced. “Who? Her partner? And she orchestrated the whole thing from police custody? How?”
“To win Lucille back—if he’s desperately in love with her?”
Not a bad point, thought Dupin.
“Fine. The recipes, intensified by the book publication, stay on the list of possible motives,” Huppert conceded.
“There’s also the fact that Joe Morel is now a made man.” Dupin couldn’t stop ruminating on this. Commissaire Huppert had been informed that it was exactly as they’d thought: Joe Morel would inherit his brother’s property and fortune; the will was unequivocal.
“That’s on the list too.”
This list, thought Dupin suddenly, was purely imaginary; nobody was writing it down.
Now it was Nedellec who wasn’t in agreement: “You really think he’d brutally murder his brother for the money, even though they got on well, as far as I’ve heard? He’d have to be cold as ice.”
Dupin had to admit, it did sound incredibly ruthless. He felt a fretful sense of unease—they had reached a critical point in the investigation.
“I’d like to have a word with Joe Morel too,” Dupin suddenly declared. “Tomorrow morning.” For Nedellec’s sake, he added diplomatically: “It can’t hurt.”
“Nedellec, how did Joe Morel describe his relationship with his brother?” A neutral question from Huppert.
“He said they got on well, and always had. Not a particularly close relationship—but a good one. No conflicts or squabbles. They saw each other a few times a year. Kilian would mostly go to Cancale, to Joe’s bar. Joe told me the bar is his life. I spoke with one of his friends as well, and he also portrayed the brothers as having a good relationship.”
“Which doesn’t mean much, but right now it’s all we have.” Commissaire Huppert’s gaze swept across the sea. “And what’s the significance of Joe Morel and Lucille Trouin meeting up again?”
Joe Morel had obviously spoken openly with Nedellec, outlining everything just as Dupin had heard it from Flore Briard. Which meant that Morel had headed off any speculation that they could be having a relationship or an affair.
“But it’s also possible that neither of them is telling us the truth,” mused Nedellec.
“It’s on the list anyway,” Huppert declared, this time refraining from adding her own thoughts. “And so is Lucille Trouin’s impending bankruptcy, of course,” she continued.
“Et voilà.” A cheerful woman with long, dark hair put down a plate of delicious-looking red tuna in front of Dupin. Flash-roasted in the pan, still pink inside, with olive oil, lemon, and fleur de sel, the irresistible aroma of charcoal drifted up from the plate.
Dupin immediately began to eat, and thought he noticed an envious glance from Nedellec. He had just put the second forkful in his mouth when his phone rang. A highly inconvenient moment.
Dupin recognized the number. Charles Braz.
“Monsieur Braz?”
Dupin put the phone on speaker; Huppert and Nedellec had instantly shifted uncomfortably close to him.
“You asked me to call after I visited Lucille.”
Braz was trying to stay calm, and not really succeeding.
“I’ve just come from the police station. I only saw her briefly. We hugged once. Under supervision.” His voice was so strained it was almost unintelligible. “I asked her how she was doing, and all she said was ‘Okay.’ It was awful.”
“Did she say anything else? About what happened?”
“No. I gave her the things I’d brought with me, mostly clothes. I forgot a few of them.”
“Anything else?”
“She told me she’d barely slept. I mean, it wasn’t the kind of situation you can talk properly in. Most of the time we were just silent.”
Dupin knew what he meant.
“How did Madame Trouin seem to you? In general, I mean?”
“Calm. Composed is the right word.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Then bonsoir, Monsieur Braz.”
“Bonsoir, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
Dupin pressed the red symbol to end the call.
“Nothing new then.” Huppert leaned back in disappointment. “I’m a bit concerned that we can’t track down the antiques dealer.”
“Me too,” muttered Nedellec.
Dupin turned his attention back to his tuna.
“No one’s seen him today,” Nedellec expanded. “He hasn’t been in to either of his shops, nor telephoned in. But his employees say that happens sometimes. He’s often on the road, in the countryside, attending estate sales and the like.”
“Is there a partner or spouse?” asked Huppert.
“He’s single.”
“Perhaps we should put out a search for him. To make sure nothing’s happened.”
“Or”—Nedellec scratched his forehead; he seemed to be thinking out loud—“he murdered Kilian Morel, and he’s now on the run. Even if we don’t yet know what his motive was.”
He drank a sip of water.
“I’ll call the employee I spoke to in Saint-Suliac again. That’s the main store. I’ll ask him to think really hard about where Walig Richard might be. Perhaps he has a boat too.”
“And don’t forget the vineyard,” Dupin remembered. Nolwenn had told him about it.
“Vineyard?” Huppert was surprised. “Is he one of the Mont Garrot vintners?”
“Could one of you enlighten me?” Nedellec seemed to feel excluded.
“Mont Garrot is a hill on the banks of the Rance, near Saint-Suliac. A whole seventy-three meters high. Fifteen years ago, a group of enthusiasts began cultivating wine there again. There used to be winemaking there as far back as the Middle Ages. Now there are around a thousand vines, producing roughly five hundred bottles a year. Everything’s done by hand, no machines. Two grape varieties.” Huppert seemed well informed. “Rondo for the red, Chenin for the white. The whites are similar to the Anjou wines of the Loire Valley. Light, dry, but still fruity, with delicate citrus notes on the palate.”
Sometimes, Huppert could be quite astounding.
Dupin had sped up; the last bite of tuna was gone.
“In any case”—Nedellec seemed a little thrown by Huppert’s burst of enthusiasm—“we should…”
Dupin’s cell rang again. An unknown number this time.
Without pausing to think, he accepted the call and put it on speaker: “Yes?”
“Monsieur le Commissaire?” A woman’s voice, agitated and unsteady.
“Speaking.”
“This is Francine Lezu. I’m the housekeeper to Madame Hélène Allanic-Trouin, the aunt of Lucille and Blanche Trouin. I mean, Blanche’s when she was still alive. She’s their father’s sister and—”
“Yes, I know whom you’re talking about, madame.”
“Madame insisted I call the police. And repeat to you everything she told me. She’s also insisting you come here at once. She’s losing her mind, Monsieur le Commissaire, believe me. I need help with her. Madame has very bad attacks, even though she calms down again afterward. She’s ninety-three. She…”
The housekeeper didn’t seem any less agitated.
“Please take your time. What’s this about?”
“Madame is completely beside herself. Since yesterday, since the terrible news. She keeps talking about her husband, who’s been dead for fifteen years. She says she’s a genuine Trouin and that her husband is sailing the oceans as a corsair, but will be back soon. That she’s always taken good care of the gold and gemstones, and he’ll bring even more home with him. She talks about Blanche too. About how Blanche has the precious spices and Lucille wants to take them away from her.”
“I see.” Dupin was baffled.
“And that someone has to transport her villa to Canada, on a large boat. That she’s been robbed. They also took her sun hat, she says—she gets particularly worked up about that. Though I’m sure she’s just misplaced it.”
“Where is Madame Allanic right now?”
“I told her to lie down, and this time she didn’t argue, but I had to swear I’d call you and tell you everything. And that I’d ask you to come by.”
“Please tell her I’ll come first thing tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Deep relief echoed in her voice.
“You should call a doctor. Madame Allanic needs something to calm her nerves. Promise me that?”
“I … Okay, yes, I promise. I mean, I’ll try. But she’ll adamantly refuse.”
“Perhaps she’ll see it’s necessary.”
“You don’t know her.”
“Do your best. Right then, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“And you’ll definitely come?”
“Definitely.”
Dupin hung up, at a loss. What was all this about?
“Good luck with that tomorrow morning.” A light grin danced on Nedellec’s face.
Huppert stood up abruptly. “We have to get going. The prefects are expecting us in Otonali at half past seven.”
Nedellec followed, and Dupin too, still dazed from the confusing phone call.
The sun had sunk lower. The emerald green of the bay shimmered darker than before, but still gleamed.
“The concept of Bertrand Larcher’s Otonali is about bringing together the two extraordinary food cultures of Japan and Brittany—which are actually quite similar in many respects—and in such a way that they cross-pollinate each other.”
A promising concept, in Dupin’s opinion. He loved both cuisines, and if they cross-pollinated, all the better.
The Japanese restaurateur formulated her sentences with great pride.
They were sitting around a very large table—the only table—in Otonali. A solid oak surface; tall chairs, varnished black, which were surprisingly comfortable. The entire team was there: the prefects, the commissaires, as well as Commissaire Huppert’s assistant, who was responsible for the accompanying program.
Almost everything had been kept black and white; there was almost no color. The exposed pipes, ceiling lights, and simple frames around the large windows all conformed to the purist concept. And yet the space felt anything but cold and sterile; on the contrary, there was a warm, welcoming atmosphere.
“The sea and its delicacies are, of course, the focal point of both cuisines. Both cultures also prize high-quality meat and extraordinary vegetables. The principle is the same: it’s about simplicity, the fundamentals, and the conviction that this is the very best. That you don’t need a lot of ingredients, but a fantastic savoir faire. Brittany produces everything that Japanese cuisine celebrates, and our culinary skills elevate both to their very best.”
“Bravo!” This came, of course, from the prefect who always had to make his voice heard. Dupin was relieved he was sitting at the other end of the table.
“If I may briefly add something,” the commissaire’s assistant interjected, “Bertrand Larcher is one of Brittany’s international icons, just like Yves Bordier, or Olivier Roellinger, whose restaurant was the first in Brittany to be awarded three Michelin stars and who creates the most prestigious spice blends in the world.”
The Breton pride was in no way inferior to the Japanese.
“Bertrand Larcher is also a passionate advocate for Breton buckwheat, which, in comparison to other varieties of wheat, possesses a multitude of unique taste possibilities and health benefits. With buckwheat,” she elevated her emphasis once again, “he is defending our Breton identity.”
That was the crux of it. In Brittany, ventures like these were also major societal and cultural missions; the chefs, impassioned visionaries. And always it came down to one great mission: the Bretonization of the world.
“He and his Japanese wife,” the restaurateur continued, “also founded the Breizh Café, of which there are now nine in Japan.” So Bretonization was well under way there too. “There are four in Paris, and of course, one in Cancale and here in Saint-Malo, where the couple also run an international crêpe-cooking school, the Atelier de la Crêpe. In Cancale you can also find Otonali’s big-brother restaurant, which has been honored with a Michelin star.”
The number of stars glittering across the Emerald Coast was truly impressive.
Dupin knew the Breizh Café from Paris, back when, for him, Brittany had still been far away. But he’d liked the crêpes in their heavenly creations even back then.
“Otonali means ‘next door,’ by the way—our restaurant is inspired by the Japanese spirit of izakaya, the simple neighborhood restaurants. Informal and uncomplicated. So. Now we’ll prepare your dishes.”
With a small bow, the restaurateur stepped discreetly to the side.
The host prefect stood up and responded with an equally respectful bow. “Thank you so much, that was very impressive. We greatly appreciate your hospitality and look forward to your creations.”
The restaurateur nodded once more and retreated behind a counter that separated the open kitchen from the dining space. The small team of three had already set to work.
“Right then.” The prefect turned back to the team, her tone now brisk. “We’ll turn our attention to work for a short while too. What’s the latest?”
“I’ll summarize the current status of the investigation,” began Commissaire Huppert, this role being unarguably hers. The three commissaires were sitting next to one another, Huppert in the middle.
After just ten minutes, she had finished her report.
Dupin felt she had delivered it masterfully. She had mentioned all the salient points in her consistently levelheaded manner, and had even given an indication of the direction the investigations would take next. Nedellec had nodded emphatically at crucial moments.
This was followed by the inevitable: a detailed, protracted discussion, with Locmariaquer as the dominant voice. But Nedellec spoke up too. His sullen-looking boss didn’t say a single word, and nor did Dupin. In essence, it was a rerun of the conversation the three commissaires had already had in Dinard.
And the inevitable really dragged out.
For a solid forty minutes. Nothing new—nothing at all—came out of it. And to top it all off, Locmariaquer insisted on a brief résumé of all the suggestions that had been put forward in the prefects’ workgroup for improving collaboration. Dupin was so happy that he’d already eaten something.
“Right, we’re all up to date now. If I were to give an overview, I’d say”—the host prefect’s tone was serious—“that we’re still missing a solid lead.”
Her declaration held no judgment, she was merely stating a fact, and the three commissaires saw it no differently.
“I don’t think I need to tell you that we’re under immense pressure with this. There’s never been such a prominent, publicly exposed investigation in Brittany. And with every hour that passes without us coming up with results, the pressure grows. Luckily, we’ve been able to describe it to the media so far as a ‘familial incident.’ The commotion is intense enough as it is. Otherwise the mayor would be on at me about a drop in tourism.”
She reached for her wineglass and took a long drink.
“So. That’s enough work.”
She gave the signal to the restaurateur.
In the blink of an eye, the starters were on the table—the waiters seemed to have been waiting for the cue as urgently as Dupin.
“To start, maki sushi filled with Breton lobster, scallops, and herring, and a platter of Breton gourmet fish, smoked Japanese-style and served with a sea urchin mayonnaise,” the chef explained.
Dupin was already devouring everything with his gaze.
“For the main course, we’ll serve veal carpaccio and tataki-style mussels, ravioli stuffed with Wagyu beef and duck’s liver, and a tempura of freshly caught langoustines. To finish, a buckwheat ice cream sweetened with buckwheat honey. Bon appétit!”
For a while, a pleasurable silence reigned, with everyone enjoying what the generous platters on the table had to offer. Dupin was particularly taken with the maki sushi and the delicately smoked sea bream. Everything was sensational. That was the only word for it.
Locmariaquer engaged his three colleagues in conversation. Meanwhile, Commissaire Huppert turned to Nedellec and Dupin.
“A brief word about our plans for tomorrow.” Before either of the two commissaires had a chance to respond, she made her suggestions: “Nedellec, the antiques dealer is still yours. On the drive here I gave orders for two colleagues to look for him. They’re driving out to his house. As soon as there’s any news, I’ll be in touch. Dupin, you speak with the sous-chef—and, if you’d like, once more with Joe Morel.”
Nedellec murmured something inaudible.
“Perhaps, Nedellec, you could also speak once more with Charles Braz? Maybe we can detect inconsistencies in their statements.”
“I will.” In his own way, Nedellec seemed content with that.
Dupin, too, was completely in agreement. It was just as he’d planned. He’d already sent the sous-chef a text message earlier.
Huppert turned back to Dupin: “And you’re also,” a brief pause, “going to see the Trouin sisters’ aunt.”
He hadn’t forgotten.
“I’d also like to speak with Lucille Trouin myself.”
It had been on his mind the whole day.
“Do you have reason to believe she might open up to you? Despite the fact she won’t speak to anyone else?” Even now, Huppert’s tone was completely objective.
Nedellec muttered something again.
“I think that given the special circumstances and the new information, we should try one more time, she—”
“I’ll make arrangements tomorrow morning for you to visit her,” Huppert interrupted. “Officially I’m the only one authorized, but we’ll sort it out. The attorney also has to be present, as always. We’ll have to think carefully beforehand about what we plan to tell her, and what we don’t, regarding the status quo of the investigation.”
Commissaire Huppert was right.
“I think all three of us should be there for the conversation.” Nedellec spoke up.
The serving staff had begun to clear away the starter platters and plates.
“Of course,” confirmed Huppert.
Dupin was silent. He actually wanted to see Lucille Trouin alone. To have all three of them sit across from her would be completely wrong; they had to take a different approach. But it would be wiser to discuss this tomorrow.
“And what inquiries are you pursuing tomorrow, Commissaire Huppert?”
Nedellec looked at her with interest.
“That depends on how things are going.”
She was clearly playing her cards close to her chest.
Dupin felt a vague disquiet. There was nothing inherently wrong with their plans for tomorrow—but they were going into the day without a particular focus. Which was never a good sign.
“And now for the main course,” announced the restaurateur.
Within seconds, new platters were carried over, and once again a blissful silence set in.
After less than an hour—the main course and dessert had been just as fantastic, and, of course, the case had been discussed in more detail too—the group dispersed. By then, everyone looked exhausted, and Commissaire Huppert wanted to drop by the station. And Dupin was planning his nightly ritual.
He had left the car at his hotel and made his way on foot through the balmy summer night to the harbor of Saint-Servan.
He walked through the large archway next to the church and, in the next moment, found himself by the sea. The atmospheric orange-yellow light of the streetlamps was reflected on the water, which was completely smooth. The tide seemed to have reached its peak. Only the occasional soft gurgle could be heard against the quay wall.
The sun had set half an hour before—it was ten to eleven now—but the last vestiges of the spherical pale blue light still lingered in the west. Dupin followed the promenade to the end, turned right onto the peninsula, and just two minutes later was sitting in the Bistro de Solidor. His spot was even free.
Nonetheless, Dupin was unhappy. With the whole situation, with the status of the investigation, and not least with himself. He was at odds with himself. He wasn’t on form; he was lacking real inspiration. Which perhaps was due in part to the particular circumstances of this investigation; after all, he didn’t have his usual free rein. Nolwenn and the Concarneau team hadn’t been in touch again either, which could only mean one thing: they hadn’t discovered anything new.
“Bonsoir, I hope you’re well, Commissaire.”
The owner of the Solidor sounded sympathetic.
“They just said on the radio that the investigations haven’t uncovered anything.”
Dupin merely nodded.
“A J.M.—like yesterday?”
“A double.”
There was a lot of earthly suffering to forget. If Dupin was honest, he had already dreamed of this moment several times today. The rum—his new sleep aid. Tonight he would see whether it had been a coincidence, or whether the rum really did help.
The large windows in the bistro’s covered porch were opened wide, drawing Dupin’s gaze to the bay.
His thoughts returned to Lucille Trouin. It seemed that, due to the land fiasco, she was losing everything she had built up for herself. The accomplishments of years of hard work, to which, if he understood correctly, she had devoted her entire life. It was the field in which she’d wanted to defeat her sister, to finally be the victor in their terrible rivalry. A mighty coup had beckoned, and she’d bet everything—and lost. It must have pushed her to the extreme.
“Here you go, Commissaire.”
The owner placed a bulbous glass on the table in front of Dupin. He had done himself proud; it was a generous double.
In one gulp, Dupin drank the glass almost empty. He pulled out his notebook and filled page after page. Tried out big and small hypotheses and theories, then discarded them again. Added exclamation points to already written notes, only to strike through them.
As hard as he tried, the vital flash of inspiration failed to come. Instead, a leaden tiredness set in.
It was midnight by the time he got up from his seat.
Twenty minutes later, Dupin lay in bed. And after one minute more, he was asleep. The rum worked its magic.
On the walk back to Villa Saint Raphaël, he had tried once again to reach Claire. Only to get her voicemail once again. Probably she was still in her seminar. Or already in a bar. This time he’d left her a longer message, updating her—the last she’d heard, he was still in his seminar—on the events and unexpected investigation.