Murder on Brittany Shores (15 page)

‘Quimper called. Muriel Lefort has confirmed the identity of her brother. Our colleagues are taking care of the formal identifications of the other two. They haven't said anything to Madame Lefort about the murder yet – as you instructed. If you don't want her to find out about it from someone after she lands, you should be there to meet her.'

Dupin reflected. He had completely forgotten about that. It was very inconvenient just now. But he had to do it. And he wanted to do it. For several reasons. He looked at his watch, having lost all sense of how late it must have been. Half past eight.

‘Fine, I'm already on my way.'

He stood up and said goodbye to Solenn Nuz.

She smiled in a very friendly way. Dupin took it to be a heartfelt gesture.

He left the room, Riwal at his side.

‘You and Kadeg finish the interrogations here and call over to the sailing school and the diving centre. Speak to Madame Barrault, the head of the diving centre and Madame Menez, Muriel Lefort's assistant. The sketch with all customers from last night is still the priority. Don't forget any of the questions.'

‘We won't, boss.'

‘A Monsieur Leussot was also one of the regular customers there last night.'

‘Got him already.'

‘Great.'

‘Will you be contactable, Monsieur le Commissaire?'

‘Of course. Yes.'

Dupin fished his phone out of his pocket. It was still on vibrate.

‘All right.'

If it rang, he would need to check the number. Which he had not done for a long time now: nine calls received. Riwal once, Nolwenn once, a number he didn't know, two withheld numbers – and the Prefect four times. Dupin growled quietly. Grimly.

*   *   *

The helicopter had just landed. The pilot had switched off the engine at the moment that Commissaire Dupin, a little out of breath, had reached the field behind the old farmhouse. Madame Lefort was about to climb out of the cabin, while Madame Menez had already disembarked and was helping her. Muriel Lefort looked absolutely worn out.

‘It's kind of you to meet me, Monsieur le Commissaire. It was – very difficult.'

‘In fact I should speak to you again, Madame Lefort.'

There was a vague yet intense fear in Muriel Lefort's gaze, her eyes narrowed. Dupin briefly considered whether he should tell her one on one.

He decided to do it in the presence of Madame Menez.

‘Your brother was murdered. It was not an accident. We can say this without any doubt. I'm sorry.'

Dupin knew he had expressed this kind of message with more empathy on previous occasions.

Muriel Lefort looked at him as though turned to stone. She didn't say a word. The fear in her gaze had subsided, her eyes now looked absolutely blank. Madame Menez was silent too. After a few moments Muriel Lefort looked away. She took a few steps, walking around aimlessly. Madame Menez was obviously undecided as to whether she should follow her, but left it.

Dupin was watching Madame Menez, who looked him directly in the eye a few times and who, despite her silence, made no effort to give the impression she was shocked.

‘I'm not really surprised,' Muriel Lefort said dully.

She had slowly come back over to Dupin and Madame Menez.

‘But it's still beyond me,' she added in a rather formal tone. As though she had felt duty-bound to add this.

‘Your brother had quite a number of enemies.'

‘Yes.'

‘How was he murdered?' asked Madame Menez.

Dupin had expected the question earlier. And not from her.

‘Somebody administered strong sedatives to him and to Yannig Konan. Combined with the alcohol, they had no chance…'

Muriel Lefort put her hands over her face. There was another long silence. Again, Madame Menez did not show the slightest emotion.

‘We've also found the boat they were on when they capsized. It belongs to a Grégoire Pajot. A Gran Turismo. A very expensive boat. They sailed onto rocks at the exit of the chamber. – – – Does the name Grégoire Pajot mean anything to you, Madame Lefort?'

Muriel Lefort did not answer straight away.

‘Yes. I've heard it before. One of my brother's “friends”. An investor, I think.'

‘The three of them were probably out in his boat over the weekend.'

Muriel Lefort closed her eyes, taking deep breaths in and out.

‘Would it be possible to continue our talk at my home? I would like to have a drink. And sit down.'

‘Of course. There are a few important questions.'

‘Naturally.'

Madame Menez walked ahead at a brisk pace. Madame Lefort followed, almost catching her up but not quite. Dupin let himself fall back a few paces. They took a lightly trodden path over the sparse green towards the ugly triangular houses standing about a hundred and fifty metres ahead of them. All three were silent. Dupin was glad of it.

The sun had already sunk far down to the sea, the play of colours had long since begun. A gentle kind of magic, without any garish effects. Imperceptibly at first, a fine, delicate orange had blended into the light, clear blue, with a little red that had now become a watery orange glow and took up the whole western sphere: the sky, the sea – even the sun itself. Another few minutes and the clearly delineated ball would calmly disappear into the sea, quietly, tranquilly – for tonight at least. It was, Dupin thought, as though the sun was sometimes completely content to set, but other times not content at all. On those occasions, the sun seemed to have an internal struggle, ending in dramatic cosmic battles, apocalyptic colours, scenes and atmospheres and in the end it drowned in the sea like in one final global catastrophe. Within the next half hour the delicate orange would gradually fade and ultimately be swallowed up seamlessly by a deep black. Dupin knew it well. An almost physical black, which was much more than a lack of light.

As they approached the first house, Muriel Lefort took the lead. She started rummaging in her handbag as she walked, drawing out a small bunch of keys with a flourish.

They climbed over the low wall and stood in front of the door briefly until Madame Lefort had unlocked it. Still nobody spoke. They went inside.

‘If you excuse me a moment, I'd like to freshen up. I'll be right back. Madame Menez will look after you.'

Muriel Lefort went upstairs. The house was absolutely identical in design and layout to her brother's – probably to all of these houses – but furnished more simply. Old wooden furniture, a beautiful, clearly well-worn oak parquet, an open-plan kitchen that you could tell was used. A small, neat table stood in it, a larger one by the east-facing panoramic window. Dupin walked over to the window. The sunset had already happened here. The difference between the hemispheres was profound at the End of the World when the sun was setting. Night was obviously here already, the last of the orange still glimmering in the west.

‘It doesn't surprise me at all that it was murder.'

In Maela Menez's sentence, more thrust out than spoken, there lay deep emotion, which she seemed to have been holding back at first, only for it to come pouring out now.

‘If I were capable of the murder and Madame Lefort wasn't his sister – I would have killed him too, under certain circumstances. He was a disgraceful character. It's disrespectful to say it, I know. But I don't care.'

Dupin turned around and scrutinised Madame Menez with interest. She was a peculiar mixture: the somewhat stilted, somehow old-fashioned way of speaking on the one hand and the rather lively, undeniably pretty looks on the other. Dupin would have put her in her early thirties. There was something extremely determined in her dark eyes – just a few forlorn bright spots blazed in the deep brown of the iris – and in her facial expression. In those eyes there was an impressive, alert intelligence.

‘I've already heard that Monsieur Lefort was clearly very unpopular.'

‘For which there was a multitude of reasons.'

‘And for which of these reasons would you have wanted to murder him? For example?'

She didn't flinch for a second, even at this pointed phrasing from Dupin.

‘I witnessed how he treated Madame Lefort. All these years. It was difficult to bear. I would gladly have intervened, but Madame Lefort didn't approve of that. The worst of it,' she paused for a moment and she seemed to be realising for the first time, what she was saying, ‘I mean, it was loathsome, that he corrupted everything that comprised the Glénan at their heart, the original idea, the spirit. He would have destroyed everything without thinking, he wouldn't have cared a jot about it. He was selfish and his only interest was said to be megabucks.'

After the brief pause, her voice reached an impressive climax again.

‘He wanted the jetset lifestyle. He had…'

‘Maela, you shouldn't speak like that. You know that. Especially now – he's dead. Murdered.'

Even though it sounded like an admonishment, Muriel Lefort had not been brusque at all. She was standing on one of the top steps.

‘I know. But it's the truth. And the police should know everything.'

‘But we don't have a clue whether the murder attempt was meant for my brother. It could just as easily have been meant for one of the other men. Maybe even two of them or all three – in fact that's how it must have been. Otherwise the murderer would have had to tolerate the death of innocent people.'

Muriel Lefort seemed to have composed herself again to some extent. And her interjection was justified. And important. Here on the islands everyone and everything was automatically fixated on Lucas Lefort. Everyone assumed that the motive for murder was to be found in his life. Which of course was only because almost nobody knew Yannig Konan or Grégoire Pajot. Lefort on the other hand was an important figure here, a real celebrity.

‘I'll leave you alone now, Muriel, Monsieur le Commissaire. You need to talk.'

Madame Lefort threw Dupin a questioning look and only replied when he nodded slightly in agreement.

‘Thank you. Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire and I have things to discuss. And I'll go to bed afterwards. Or take a little walk. There's a full moon. See you tomorrow, Maela.'

Muriel Lefort had come all the way downstairs by this point. It was clear to see that she still looked haggard, no matter how composed she sounded.

‘When the moon rises, it becomes almost as bright as day here on the archipelago, you've never seen the like, Monsieur le Commissaire. It's like a dream.'

Madame Menez glanced at her watch, gave Dupin a cursory nod and turned to leave.

‘I hope you get some sleep tonight, Muriel. You've got to recover, you're going to need a lot of strength.'

‘Thanks, Maela. Thank you for everything. You were a great support to me this evening.'

Maela Menez was almost at the door already.

‘Madame Menez – wait. We need to ask you some urgent questions too,' Dupin was speaking very matter-of-factly, ‘if you could please call in to one of the inspectors? They are in the
Quatre Vents.
'

She seemed confused for a moment. But she recovered immediately.

‘Oh yes, of course. The investigations.'

‘Thanks very much,' Dupin fixed his gaze on Madame Menez, ‘and I had a question of my own.'

‘Absolutely.'

Maela Menez was completely confident again now.

‘Yesterday evening in the
Quatre Vents,
you spoke to Lucas Lefort briefly. What was it about?'

She answered without hesitation.

‘I manage the boat park. He wanted to borrow the transport boat for a few days. This week.'

‘The transport boat?'

‘We have an old motor boat that we use for transporting other, smaller boats, bulky equipment or building materials.'

‘And why did he need it?'

‘I didn't ask him.'

‘And what did you say?'

‘That he didn't stand a chance this week because we needed the boat.'

‘How did he react?'

‘He said “We'll see about that”. That was it.'

Madame Menez's words made it clear that she considered her obligation to give information fulfilled and she turned to leave again. Dupin let her.

‘Thanks very much, Madame Menez. See you tomorrow.'

Still standing, he got out his notebook and wrote a few things down.

‘Oh, sorry, Monsieur le Commissaire. Let's sit down. Come, let's sit right here at the kitchen table.'

‘Thanks.'

‘I need something to drink. Will you join me? An old cognac?'

‘I … yes.'

That was a good idea.

‘And a coffee?'

That was even more vital. His caffeine levels were critically low.

‘I'd love one.'

*   *   *

In front of Dupin on the old wooden table there was an – already empty – antique-looking espresso cup and a bulbous, generously filled cognac glass. In between lay his notebook, his bic and, dangerously close to the edge of the table, his mobile. Muriel Lefort was sitting opposite him, glass in hand, having already drunk a few mouthfuls from it.

She had wanted to know everything in detail, the course of events the accident might have taken – everything the police could say at this point. Dupin had reported what he knew. But that was not much.

‘We actually don't know any more than what I've just told you. The boat belonged to a third man, Grégoire Pajot.'

‘Why were they on his boat?'

‘We're still taking stabs in the dark.'

Muriel Lefort's forehead creased.

‘Perhaps because they thought they wouldn't get far in my brother's speedboat with the high waves. If the sea is rough, a boat like that is no use. Perhaps that's why they were on Monsieur Pajot's boat.'

‘We found Monsieur Konan's boat in Bénodet. Your brother must have embarked here, on the Glénan. We have no knowledge of where the three kept the boat afterwards and for how long. I hoped you would perhaps know a little more.'