Murder on Brittany Shores (33 page)

‘It's all kicking off.'

Dupin turned around. Solenn Nuz was standing in the doorway to the bar.

She was looking around with utter indifference. Louann Nuz appeared behind her, then darted past her like a cat to take care of the tables.

‘I've been waiting for this all day. The storm really did take its time.'

Solenn Nuz delivered these sentences with perfect calmness.

Dupin was still standing as though rooted to the spot, as if the group of archaeologists was still sitting in front of him. Solenn Nuz looked at the sky:

‘This is going to be a big one.'

She went back into the bar.

The apocalyptic-looking bank of cloud was speeding over the islands. In the south and west it was already pitch-black – only far away in the east could you see a strip of light. Everything had happened so suddenly. Like an ambush. It was truly pouring with rain now and the temperature had dropped noticeably in the last few minutes.

Dupin shook himself out of his stupor. Louann Nuz was the last person still outside, everyone else had already fled inside the
Quatre Vents.
Dupin didn't hesitate and followed her into the bar. He closed the door firmly behind him.

*   *   *

‘There's a big
cotriade.
'

Dupin was standing at the bar. Solenn Nuz was on the other side of the counter, pouring various wines into a whole row of glasses in front of her with impressive speed. One of the underwater archaeologists was standing very close to him on his right hand side, the oldest one in Tanguy's group. He was waiting for their order. To his left were Riwal and Le Coz. Solenn's father-in-law was sitting at the end of the bar.

Dupin was still dazed, moments ago the atmosphere had been that of summer evening terraces, now he felt like he was in an isolated research station, cut off from the outside world. There was a fire burning in the large stone fireplace – on his previous visits Dupin hadn't even noticed it existed, although it took up a whole corner of the room. The raging storm and the pelting rain outside could clearly be heard, but amazingly only as a muffled background noise, that was almost pleasant. It felt very cosy – even though Dupin was in anything but a cosy mood – but at the same time he found it menacingly cramped here, an odd mixture.

‘There's traditionally a
cotriade
when storms come, Monsieur le Commissaire. It lifts the spirits. Would you like some?'

Dupin was focused on something else entirely – he urgently needed to make some calls. There were a number of things he definitely wanted to follow up. Besides, he couldn't conceal the fact that, in the back of his mind, he was bothered by the question of how Solenn Nuz could have been so sure that a storm was coming that she had got to work on the undoubtedly elaborate preparations for the
cotriade
hours ago – meanwhile he himself would have sworn he could make out the unmistakeable signs of a solid high pressure zone. But what was much worse was this: in a storm they'd need to call off the sea-search for Le Menn. And even worse: what about the forensics? And Reglas and his team? Even they wouldn't be able to work now. Dupin wondered where they'd got to – and also Goulch and his crew. Had they found a makeshift shelter on Brilimec? What about the helicopter? If Le Menn were on the run, he would be miles away by tomorrow – if he was in danger, everything would probably be too late now.

Solenn Nuz interpreted Dupin's silence incorrectly.

‘Ah yes. Of course.'

She smiled gently.

‘You're new of course –
cotriade
is our classic Breton fish stew.'

Dupin was familiar with
cotriade,
he had eaten it, at a rough estimate, once a month for the last four years. That made about thirty-five, forty
cotriades,
he guessed. It was among his favourite dishes. But he was too distracted to protest.

‘In the south they copied it as bouillabaisse! Some rouille in there and in an instant, they elevate it to the national dish!' said one of the underwater archaeologists. The thin little man, who Dupin estimated to be in his late fifties, had an almost comically screechy voice, which didn't match the outrage that his face was expressing as he chipped in.

‘The
cotriade
is the original! At least eight types of fish, plus shellfish
and
mussels! Leeks, Breton potatoes, Breton butter. Fresh herbs! Bay leaf!
Fleur de sel!
– In Marseille they only use six types of fish.'

It sounded like genuine contempt.

‘It was invented by the fishermen's wives – in the evenings they used the fish and the fish pieces that their husbands hadn't been able to sell in the market that morning for it. You put some pieces of baguette fried in butter in a flat bowl, pour the broth over, add the pieces of fish, shellfish and mussels – and then, the crucial part, you top the whole thing off with a strong sauce. A secret recipe in every house! You…'

Dupin interrupted him.

‘I urgently need to speak to my colleagues – excuse me.'

Solenn Nuz winked at Dupin and smiled knowingly.

Dupin made a signal to Riwal and Le Coz and they followed him. Dupin had taken a few steps towards the door when it occurred to him that it was not a good idea to go outside. They would have to stay indoors. But, although barely half of the tables were occupied, it was far too loud to talk on the phone, let alone be discreet. Even in the kitchen they wouldn't be alone.

‘Let's go into the annexe, I'm sure Madame Nuz won't have a problem with that,' said Riwal. ‘I'll ask her quickly.'

It was a good idea. Dupin headed for the passageway immediately, Riwal back to the counter, to Solenn Nuz.

Before he opened the door, Dupin looked around quickly to Riwal, who nodded. Dupin had to push down hard on the iron door handle before walking inside.

He almost shrank away in terror. The storm was making an ear-splitting din in the wooden annexe. Soon, Riwal and Le Coz were standing behind him. The room's lighting was much dimmer than next door.

‘Madame Nuz says we would be very welcome to use the room, but she can't recommend it. We wouldn't be able to hear ourselves.'

‘This is absolutely absurd. We will
need
to make a number of calls.'

Dupin's mood was darkening with every passing second. After all, they had no time to waste.

He headed for the furthest corner of the annexe, in the hope that it would be better there. He pressed himself against the massive stone wall of the old building. His hope was in vain. The raging storm and whipping rain could not only be heard throughout the annexe as though you were standing in the open air, but it seemed as though the wooden structure acted as a resonance box, increasing the sound even more. Stubbornly, Dupin got out his mobile. He dialled Nolwenn's number. No luck. And again. Again, no luck. He held the mobile up to his face. Nothing. No bars. Nothing at all. Not even the smallest one. There was no reception. Because of the storm.

Dupin hadn't thought of that. This was utterly unbearable.

‘We'll need to use Solenn Nuz's landline then,' he said.

Nobody said a word for a few seconds. Riwal stepped in.

‘There's no landline out here, Commissaire.'

‘What?'

This came out so meekly and softly that nobody heard Dupin's reaction. He was thunderstruck.

‘This cannot be happening. They've got to have a landline.'

‘There's never been one here, chief. It would be an enormous expense – for a handful of people.'

Dupin gave up. This was a catastrophe. For many reasons. What would happen if they found Le Menn, somewhere on land and he had something something crucial to say. Or if Kadeg found out something relevant during the interrogation of the mayor. Even more importantly: if there were new results from the examination of the confiscated hard drives. He was at a critical point in the investigation, he needed to be contactable and in turn be able to get through to anyone he wanted to get through to any time.

‘Then we'll need to go back to the mainland. There's no way round it.'

Riwal tried to calm the Commissaire down.

‘There's no way we can do that. In a storm like this, we cannot leave the island.'

‘What? This is not on.'

‘There's only one thing we can do, as difficult as it may be: wait. We need to wait. Everyone on their respective islands. Us here, Bellec on Cigogne, the others on Brilimec.'

‘How long for?'

Again, it was clear that Riwal was considering how to break the news to him as gently as possible.

‘It doesn't look like it will be over quickly.' He tried hard to infuse the next sentence with confidence, ‘but you never know. Breton weather is hard to predict.'

‘How long?'

‘Until we can set out from here without any danger – probably late at night. Or early in the morning.'

‘Tomorrow morning?'

Dupin had difficulty speaking.

He was only gradually grasping the situation. It was far worse than he had supposed in his initial shock.

They were stranded. Here on the archipelago. Trapped. Cut off from the world. No matter what happened, come what may. Even in a medical emergency, even if there were another murder. They would not make it to the mainland. And nobody from the mainland would make it here. Only now did Dupin realise what the words that he'd heard so often in the last two days really meant: ‘The Glénan are not a real place at all, they are a nothingness in the middle of the sea.' As though to underscore these thoughts, the annexe's wooden structure had begun to creak and groan alarmingly at the last strong gust of wind.

Dupin started to say something but then left it. They were losing crucial hours.

Riwal and Le Coz were clearly worried about the Commissaire's state. Dupin lowered his head and strode towards the door. He opened it very slowly and stood still in the doorway. In the last minutes, the number of customers had clearly grown, everyone was absolutely soaked through. He saw faces he didn't recognise, but also Madame Menez, Muriel Lefort and Marc Leussot. Everyone was looking for shelter. And was hungry. Leussot had probably come from his boat and Madame Menez would have just made it back from Penfret. None of the three had noticed him yet.

Solenn Nuz cast him a look from the bar that was not easy to interpret, but probably meant something like ‘don't worry about it'. Then she smiled. That calm smile, friendly at the same time. Dupin went over to her.

‘We're stranded,' he said.

‘I know. And there's nothing you can do. It may last a while.'

‘What do you think? How long will it last?'

‘Definitely a night. I don't think it will be longer than that.'

Dupin was too depressed to respond.

‘Madame Lefort will find a place for you and your colleagues to stay the night. She has a second house, right next to her own. There are two smaller apartments inside it. Madame Menez lives in one of them and she sometimes puts up guests in the other.'

Dupin wanted to decline. This was just too awful. He hadn't even thought of it. But, they would need to sleep somewhere, for a couple of hours at least.

Riwal and Le Coz had sat down at one of the last free tables.

‘Lo and behold, Monsieur le Commissaire is one of the stranded too.'

Marc Leussot had positioned himself next to him, without Dupin seeing him approach. He was still wearing the faded shorts from lunchtime today, the same T-shirt. The conversation on the boat seemed to Dupin as though it had been days ago.

Dupin was not in the mood to talk. But he had a few urgent questions just for the marine biologist. Leussot kept talking before Dupin could get himself ready.

‘Has Le Menn turned up again?'

Dupin started.

‘You know about his disappearance?'

‘You've had a large-scale manhunt for him running for a few hours, across all media. I listen to a lot of radio on the boat.'

Of course. Most of them would know. Even if Madame Lefort seemed not to have known anything about it just now. The same went for Tanguy.

‘Yes. We're searching for Docteur Le Menn.'

‘A bloody difficult case.'

‘You have no idea what might have happened to Le Menn?'

‘I would already have told you, believe me. This is serious.'

‘Speaking of seriousness. You never mentioned that you beat up Lefort not so long ago.'

‘That's not a secret. And I think I made it very clear what I think of him.'

‘What else did you not share because you didn't deem it necessary?'

Leussot laughed, a deep, confident laugh.

‘True. And that's me – as a suspect many times over.'

Suddenly there was the sound of a muffled bang. Someone had opened the door from outside and as they did so a sharp wind had caught the door and swung it open violently. Anjela Barrault burst into the room. It looked funny and dramatic at the same time. With some force, she shut the door behind her, stood still for a moment and smiled at everyone. Instead of the diving suit, she was now wearing jeans and a windcheater. And she was dripping wet.

‘That was close.'

It didn't sound at all tongue-in-cheek and so, based on what Dupin had just got to know about her, it meant without exaggeration: I only escaped certain death at sea by the skin of my teeth.

All of this was getting to be like a genuine scene from a novel. Dupin would have found it funny if it hadn't been so serious. An alarmingly small island, cut off from the outside world, in the midst of a raging storm, in a creaky old house that had become a prison, where they were keeping vigil by the light of the fire. During the course of which, more mysterious things might happen. Crime, even a murder, might happen. In fact, the majority of the suspects were now gathered here.

Leussot seemed less taken by Barrault's entrance, he seemed to be waiting for the continuation of his little rhetorical battle with Dupin instead. However, Dupin had lost his appetite for that conversation.